Blood Moon (The Mercy Carver Series Book 2)
Author: Petken, Jana
Date: 2014-12-11
Publisher: JCP Publishing

The Mercy Carver Series:

Blood Moon

Jana Petken

First Edition

First Published December 2014

Also available from Jana Petken:

The Guardian of Secrets

The Mercy Carver Series:

Dark Shadows

My thanks to Bob Martin, my proofreader.

Many thanks to Nick Wale, my publicist.

To Karen Osman and Darrell A Butler for their unwavering support and friendship
and

For my mother, Rena

Chapter One

Virginia

April 17, 1861

Mercy Carver watched the extraordinary scenes in Newport News unfold and was unable to rid herself of the dreary premonitions of doom that had plagued her for days. She stood by Jacob Stone’s side, clasping his hand between the folds of her gown, and every now and then she gave his fingers a comforting, gentle squeeze.

The news of the attack on Fort Sumter by Confederate forces led by Brigadier General P. G. T. Beauregard had been brought to the people of Newport News days earlier by couriers, who had instilled an atmosphere of great excitement and, for a few people, dismay. The crowd of Southerners had stood in deathly silence when the messengers described in detail South Carolina’s demands to the United States Army – to abandon its facility in Charleston Harbor.

The Yankees had stubbornly refused to surrender, the couriers had declared, forcing South Carolina to take an aggressive stance. The attack had begun in the early hours of April twelfth and had lasted thirty-four hours. No one had been killed, as far as the messengers knew, but crashing shots, bursting shells, and the roar of flames had brought the fort’s walls down, leading to the capitulation of the United States and Major Anderson.

Along with Jacob, Lina, and Charlie, Mercy had listened to long speeches and vicious rhetoric against the Northern states, and she had held the opinion that many would die, should the passions of men ignite a war, following the pandemonium at the fort. Heated words had been relentless in the past week, but the conflict of verbal insults and threats no longer mattered as far as Mercy was concerned. A spiral of violence was coming, and it would consume every person from the extreme north to the deepest south. It would be like an assiduous pestilence sweeping the country, leaving nothing and no one unscathed.

The population had high expectations today. Along with her companions, Mercy watched in silence as men threw hats in the air whilst shouting and whooping as though something wonderful were about to happen. Banjos, drums, and flutes were playing gay tunes that echoed through the port and down to the water’s edge. But at times, even the music was drowned out by the sheer volume of noise coming from the mouths of the local population as they screamed for war. She assumed that not all Virginians wanted war, but those who could have demonstrated against it were not here today to voice their opinions.

This morning tables and chairs had been brought onto the street, and men already dressed in grey uniforms were being bombarded by a civilian crowd queuing up to sign enlistment papers and pledging to lay down their lives for the cause, should Virginia’s secession be announced.

As she watched the men’s fervency, Mercy wondered why the thought of killing their northern neighbours seemed so appealing to them. Was it hatred for President Lincoln and his policies on slavery, the fact that the southern states had no power or clear voice in Washington over states’ rights, or had the growing tensions in the past months simply turned these civilised people into frenzied war mongrels?

Mercy studied Jacob’s unfathomable expression. His dark eyes and thick lashes looked even darker this morning against his pallid skin. He hadn’t slept a wink. She knew this because neither had she. He stood slightly hunched, his broad shoulders no doubt weighed down with worry. He was very deft at hiding his feelings, Mercy thought. She supposed this skill had been acquired after years of negotiating with toughened businessmen, bartering over the price of his cotton and tobacco, and running a large plantation. He possessed a calm demeanour, which she had noticed the very first time she met him. He complemented her fiery temper and impulsive nature, and his willingness to listen to her prattle on for hours never ceased to amaze her. In the Elephant and Castle, no one had ever listened to anything she had to say.

Jacob would leave her now. He had already volunteered with one of the Virginia militias, and should war come, he would enter the fray as a cavalry officer. Yet this morning he voiced neither sentiment nor opinion on this great matter; Jacob strongly believed, as did everyone else she saw and spoke to, that the Virginia convention being held at this very moment would finally obtain the necessary votes to secede from the Union. She guessed that his thoughts were directed towards honour, duty, and exigency, for waiting and wondering was all but over.

The last two conventions had decided against rebellion. Virginians had not wanted a war, but Lincoln was now asking their state to aid the federal government in quashing the growing rebellion by Southern states – slave states. Would Virginia choose love of state – of slavery, tobacco, and cotton – over love of country? she wondered.

Jacob had already made it clear to her that he would fight alongside any soldier, plantation owner, fork-yielding farmer, or Southerner with a mind to defend Virginia’s borders from states intent on punishing and halting Southern ambitions to expand both economically and geographically in agriculture and slavery. Mercy applauded his loyalty and honour, yet she could not give him her blessing, for war was abhorrent to her.

She stared at men and women who had left their farms and fishing cabins for Newport News, waiting expectantly now for the next courier to arrive waving his missives in the air and declaring Virginia’s loyalty to the Confederacy. Waiting for the convention’s decision was like waiting for a judge’s sentence, she thought. Would it be life or death for America, peace or war, the breaking up of an entire country, or the healing voices of wisdom declaring Virginia’s neutrality or loyalty to Lincoln’s government? She shook her head, already knowing the answer: there was going to be war.

As though sensing her thoughts, Jacob put his arm around Mercy’s shoulder. She smiled tenderly at him, and their eyes locked. For just a moment, everything and everyone around them faded into insignificance as they drank in their last drop of contentment.

Mercy reflected on the past six days spent with Jacob; they had been perfect. Their love for each other had grown and solidified despite a barrage of challenges that could quite easily have divided them. Jacob, the master of a vast plantation, owned more than a hundred slaves. She could not have fallen in love with such a man were it not for his pure and generous heart, his total commitment to her, and his fierce pledge of loyalty.

Tears glistened in her eyes. She was well aware that crying was a weakness she had grown far too fond of after a lifetime of being slapped by Grandpa Carver for shedding a single tear. Yet she had come to believe that tears were not a pitiful show of weakness at all but rather a demonstration of strength. Weeping allowed emotions to run freely. They washed away the darkest, deepest ails, which she felt should not be bottled up and left to overflow until a person drowned but instead set free in order to cleanse the soul.

She looked across the outdoor table at Lina and closed her eyes, unable to watch her friend’s pain. With her eyes shut, words around her became louder and clearer – nigger, slavery, Lincoln, Federals, whooping, and killing emanated repeatedly from egotistical tongues. “They ain’t taking our niggers – our niggers are staying put. Let’s whoop their behinds; Lincoln is a damn fool if he thinks we’ll give the niggers up on his say so!”

As she listened, she felt her own conflicting emotions rise to the surface. She adored the man standing beside her and wanted more than anything to ask him not to fight. She was not too proud to get on her knees and beg him to leave this madness behind and to retreat with her to Lina and Charlie’s cabin until it was over. But the man beside her was not going to shy away from a cause he so ardently believed in, so she would still her tongue.

She was much like Jacob, for she would not be swayed from her cause. She had not looked for it; it had found her. She was not an American, as he was, but she had spirited away a slave to freedom, and it was the greatest and most satisfying achievement in her eighteen years on earth.

She missed Nelson, the gentle soul, the slave who had been her companion for so long. He had carried her through some very difficult times, both spiritually and mentally, and he had displayed admirable qualities, which were sorely missing from some of the voices that deafened her ears now. His capacity to forgive his masters even though they had whipped and humiliated him surprised her. His unyielding faith in God, his humility, and his love for mankind no matter people’s colour or race had awakened in her the desire to follow his examples. Unfortunately, she had a long way to go before she could say she owned any of these qualities, for she had absolutely no desire to forgive Madam du Pont. Her greatest ambition was to one day see du Pont die and then spit on her grave. She knew she was evil to think such things, but as much as she tried to quash her relentless urges to rid the world of Madam du Pont, she failed miserably.

Her thoughts turned back to Nelson. She wondered if he had taken her advice to seek out Isaac in Boston. Nelson was unworldly and had never been alone. He had never made a single decision in this life, but he had character and was not, as Southerners so often stated, a mindless nigger. He would realise that in these grave times, a friend like Isaac would be necessary. She prayed that Nelson was with Isaac now or safely on his way to him. He had been gone from her for nine days – nine long days of hearing nothing from him.

She had given him a thick canvas knapsack containing food and water. She had left him with a good pair of shoes, a decent set of clothes, and the means to pay for transportation. Her only concern was his understandable lack of experience needed to manoeuvre streets and towns brimming with white people who might take advantage of him. She had warned him that his freedom papers were his life’s blood, for without them he could find himself sold once more as a slave by unscrupulous slave traders. She had not mentioned that even with the papers, some slavers would take him regardless.

Jacob leaned in close and whispered something in Mercy’s ear. She jumped, guilty of thoughts best hidden from him, and then nodded in agreement with his words.

“Lina, Charlie – Mercy and I have things to discuss before I leave. Please excuse us for a little while. We’ll be back down soon.”

Lina smiled. “You take your time. We ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Don’t you want to stick around for the big news? I suppose you’ll be riding home at a gallop to join up with these fools if the so-called Confederate government says yes,” Charlie grumbled.

“That’s enough, Charlie,” Lina said, throwing him daggers with her eyes. “Jacob is free to do what he feels is right for him, and it ain’t no concern of ours.”

Jacob smiled at Lina and then turned to Charlie, saying respectfully, “Charlie, I guess we’re all fools. Look around you. We don’t even know what the convention’s resolution is, yet I fear Virginians will fight no matter what the politicians decide, such is the madness in these men’s souls. No good will come of this, not for the North or the South, but if I’m to be marked a fool, I’ll be a loyal fool to my Southern brothers. I believe a bigger fool would be the man who sits back and allows his life’s work and earnings to be taken from him without a protestation. I’ll come find you both before I leave. I would like to thank you properly for bringing me to Mercy.”

The noise from the street emanated through the boarding house’s upstairs bedroom window. After making love, Mercy and Jacob lay spent in each other’s arms. Their passion was like an inferno which could not be doused by man or circumstance. Even so, at this moment, their ardour was heightened further with a palpable urgency and sadness. “When will you leave? Where will you go?” Mercy asked.

“I have to leave within the hour. I need to get to Portsmouth and then to Stone Plantation. I have to settle some affairs and say goodbye to my brother, Belle … and Elizabeth.”

“I hate you saying that name.”

“I hate that she’s my wife, but she’s not the guilty party. I am. I was a coward.”

“Shh, we’ve come to terms with this, my darling. Anyway, it doesn’t matter who you’re married to, not if you’re leaving to go off somewhere, for neither she nor I will have you.”

“You’re wrong. You have me. You have my whole heart. You are my wife in all but name, and as soon as I am free of her, I intend to rectify my mistake and make you Mrs Stone. Mercy, do not feel pity for Elizabeth. She has no love for me.”

“I don’t pity her. I just hate that you have to tend to divorce proceedings, especially now, when nothing in life is certain. You do know that I have never blamed you for marrying her? You kept your promise to her. You were honourable, and I would expect nothing less from you.”

“Where’s the honour in marrying a woman I didn’t love and will never have affection for? It’s ironic,” Jacob said scornfully. “Had I called off the wedding, I would not have broken her heart, only her ambitions.”

Mercy wondered if Elizabeth’s ambitions would outweigh Jacob’s desire to be free of her. She could refuse to divorce him, she thought.  “Jacob, will she give you what you want? Do you think she will agree to your demands?”

“I’ll make a grand gesture. I’m hoping that money might be more important to her than being mistress of my plantation. There’s nothing a woman round here likes more than to demonstrate wealth and self-importance. I’ll pay her what she wants to do just that. I’m praying she says yes.”

Mercy snuggled into his chest. She refused to speak any more about his wife. “May I ask you something?” she began hesitantly. “It’s got nothing to do with Elizabeth.”

“Of course, darling – anything.”

“Do you believe a war is coming or do you see any possibility of an agreement between Lincoln and the South?”

Jacob sighed and pulled her closer to him. He coiled her hair around his fingers, gave a thoughtful nod, and said. “My heart prayed that this talk of conflict would disappear with constructive dialogue and cool heads of men in office, but I reckon my head always believed that there was no turning back for the South. Virginia hoped for a political solution, one where conflict and bullets would play no part, but ever since the general election in December, I’ve been witnessing a change of heart in men who have waited patiently for federal agreements in order to expand their businesses. Those men now feel that the federal government does not even represent them. I guess you could say Southern ambitions have been thrown into a dirt pit and buried by the North, which renders a political solution useless.

“We will join the other states now. Our consistent no vote will become a yes, if not today, then tomorrow. We have to secede. Virginia stands between the North and the other slave states. We can’t have a Northern army traipsing through our lands or sailing in our waters in order to reach and fight the states we are naturally allied to. Nope, by this time tomorrow, I will be in uniform, Virginia will have declared for the Confederacy, and we will no longer answer to Lincoln or to his party.”

“Then who will you all answer to?”

“Jefferson Davis, the Confederate president, will be our leader now, and I will follow him,” he said truthfully.

“Jacob, President Lincoln was elected by the nation, so how can you replace him on a whim with another man – how can there be two presidents?”

“We didn’t elect him. I doubt anyone south of Pennsylvania wanted him. When Virginia leaves the Union, we will no longer have anything to do with Lincoln’s America. He has ignored our voices, so I reckon it’s only fair we return the favour.”

“War is stupid,” Mercy said in a rare display of petulance. “It destroys people’s lives and livelihoods. It takes fathers from children and leaves women without their men. Do you even know the man that you’re going to follow – this Davis man?”

“Shouldn’t we be kissing instead of talking?” Jacob teased.

“Not yet,” she said with a smile. “I want to know things, Jacob. I want to know what’s so special about this man and why you Southerners feel the need to follow him into a war, where many will bleed and die. It’s important to me. I don’t understand any of this, but I must, for you may be putting your life at risk … and leaving me for him.”

He stroked her hair and said, “I know enough about Jefferson Davis to be able to say without a doubt that he’s a man with integrity and honour. He fought against the idea of conflict, I’m sure of that, yet he’s a soldier and a good one. He’s been a loyal servant to the United States. He was a senator until he was forced to resign because of his conscience when his home state, Mississippi, seceded, and he has the military experience that’s needed now.

“God knows we’re all blind, wondering what war brings and not knowing how it can be possible to put together an army of civilians in what could be a matter of weeks or even days. I’ve never shot a man in my life. I’m not a soldier – I’m a planter – but Davis will lead us into battle with a great deal of military experience behind him. We go unsighted into this but will be praying to God that he will give us the vision we need and show us the way forward.”

Mercy was terrified of losing Jacob. The word war horrified her. She had never met anyone who had talked about running, shooting, killing, or dying on a battlefield. The concept was unimaginable and repugnant to her. “I feel as though I’m losing you all over again, and the worst of it is, I have no reason to be here - Jacob I’m lost and blind – like you. Life means nothing to me when I’m not by your side. If only we could settle ourselves like Lina and Charlie. They have barely spent a day apart in over thirty years, and they are determined not to take part in this conflict. I wish we could go with them to their cabin and forget that this is happening.”

Jacob laughed.  “My darling Mercy, if only life were so simple that we could forget its troubles. Would you have me hide in the woods only to return home to find it burnt to the ground by an invading army?”

“God’s truth, of course not! I said that I wish, not want. I know you could never hide from your responsibilities – it’s just that spending this time with you has made me realise how much I love you. I can’t bear to imagine now what it will feel like to suffer your absence again. I think I’m turning into a pitiful woman.”

“You pitiful? Never …”

He had volunteered with the Ninth Unit of the Virginia Cavalry. His Portsmouth neighbours and men volunteering with him had voted to give him the rank of captain, making him an early leader, yet he knew nothing of war, military strategy, orders, or battles where life or death could be decided by words spoken from his mouth. War would be as a sunrise expanding across the horizon, bursting like a fiery ball over the land and setting it ablaze. The Northern states would descend like a plague of locusts and eat into the soil nurtured by Southern farmers for more than two hundred years, and the arrogance of Northern politicians would be matched only by their desire to teach the disobedient South a lesson.

Jacob kissed her forehead and pulled her closer, wishing that he could shelter her from all harm. Mercy knew little of his country and its history, yet she was going to be involved in its war.

“Mercy, are you sorry you came to my country?” he asked.

“God, no – this country has saved me; you saved me. You’ve brought me more happiness than I could ever have imagined. I’m not sorry, not one little bit. I’m just mad at men for not being able to sort out their differences with reason. If you were to put women in charge of this country of yours, they would probably have a screaming match in the street and pull each other’s hair, but they wouldn’t bring out weapons to kill each other.”

“A country ruled by women? That is a peculiar notion.”

“It’s a wonderful notion, if you ask me.”

“While we are on the subject of killing, will you promise to stay away from Madame du Pont?” Jacob said. He found Mercy’s restraint admirable, but this self-control had been present only because she had been on a more important and pressing mission: to free the slave. He worried that with him gone, she would turn her mind to the revenge she craved. She’d killed Eddie and a slave, yet not once had he heard her say she regretted shooting them. She would have to live every day knowing that du Pont was just across the James River. Mercy was kind and sweet-natured, but she had demonstrated an impulsive and unrestrained character, which was apt to make wrong decisions. Yes, she was impulsive, and that’s what worried him the most.

Mercy looked into his eyes, which were filled with concern. She was surprised at this rapid turn in conversation, for the vile creature had not been mentioned in days.

“Please don’t worry, Jacob,” she told him. “Only you, Belle, and Hendry know of my whereabouts. I’m safe here with Lina and Charlie. I have no reason or desire to return to Portsmouth; therefore, I will be nowhere near the old cow.”

“I don’t blame you for hating her, my darling – you have more than enough cause – but we must allow time to work for us.”

“Time’s not a luxury we have … and why should we give her time? I would rather end her miserable life tomorrow, not next year.”

“We’ll destroy her together. Together, Mercy. Will you heed these words?”

Mercy sighed. Jacob was right; she could not murder du Pont on a whim. She would just have to hope that he’d find another way to get rid of the old whore. “I will … I promise. But you must know that I’m not scared of her anymore. I don’t feel like the same girl that left Liverpool with you. I’m stronger and wiser – I think. Some part of me wants to forgive her, and I do try, but I can’t. She’s the monster that haunts my dreams,” she added truthfully. “Nelson called her a devil woman, and he’s right. I swear she came to Earth straight from hell. How can she live day after day knowing what she’s done? How can she sleep soundly at night when she disturbs my peace? I fear she’ll destroy me unless I destroy her first. So whatever you plan to do to her, do it soon. I want her gone.”

“Mercy, it breaks my heart when I think of everything that has happened to you, but I have to ask you now to consider uprooting yourself again and return with me to Portsmouth. I cannot abide the thought of you remaining here.”

“But why can’t I stay here?” Mercy asked.

She was shocked at the very suggestion of leaving Newport News. He wanted her to be safe and to stay away from du Pont, yet he was now asking her to return to the city where she had been abducted.

“I like it here, and I’m very happy living with Lina and Charlie. God forgive me but I have more fondness for them than I ever had for my grandparents. I don’t want to go back to Portsmouth, and as much as I want to see Belle, it pains me to say that not even she will entice me to go there.”

“My sweet, believe me: I don’t say this out of any selfish desire to have you near me or because I want you to leave Lina and Charlie,” he said. “I am asking you to come back with me ’cause I don’t believe you will be safe here much longer should we become embroiled in a war.”

“What makes you think I will be any safer in Portsmouth, when that murdering old whore is there?” she asked pointedly.

“Do you know where Fort Monroe is?”

“No, should I?”

“Yes, now you should, because it stands only eight miles from here and belongs to the federal government. If we go to war with them, they might take this town and use it to bolster their grip on the area. God forbid, but if that happens, you may not have the opportunity to leave, and I won’t be able to cross enemy lines to see you. I want you to consider this before you give me your final answer.”

Mercy held her tongue and considered Jacob’s request. But no matter the purity of his motives, she saw no merit to his line of reasoning: Where would she live? When would she have the opportunity to spend time with Belle and the baby, who were still sharing the same house as his wife? How could she possibly consent to go to Portsmouth whilst Madame du Pont resided there? Her thoughts were tumbling one after the other …

She looked at the palm of her hand, a reminder of the Liverpool fire. The burn scars reminded her of du Pont every single day. She’d be looking over her shoulder ever time she walked down a bloody Portsmouth street, wondering if she was going to bump into the woman!

“No, I won’t go with you,” she said.

“I was afraid you would say that,” he said, clearly defeated and not surprised. “I guess there’s no point in debating this further.”

“No, there is not.”

“You are the most obstinate woman I have ever met, Mercy Carver, but will you grant me one favour?”

“Anything – if I can,” she told him.

“Assure me that you will get to Norfolk or Portsmouth at the first sign of trouble here.”

“I promise I’ll leave, and I will always tell you where I am and where I’m going to be.”

“Do you remember what we said?”

“About?” she asked him.

“About our spending the rest of our lives together. I love you so very much, my sweet Mercy. Without you, I have no direction. Some years back, I mocked Hendry and Belle. They once told me that that they had fallen in love with each other the first moment they met, and I found that to be a mighty fanciful notion – but I was wrong, for you, my little temptress, stole my heart at first glance. My darling, don’t forget our promise to each other. Nothing will divide us – nothing, not even war.”

Chapter Two

Jacob and his horse approached Stone Plantation at a slow walk. He breathed in his land’s untainted air and cast his eyes upon his cotton fields. He loved rural twilight, the way the flaming red sky hovered just above the horizon, colouring Virginia’s dark soil a deep crimson and turning the bright green pines into eerie black shadows against the soft pastel sky. Spring was a magical time at the plantation. Fresh greenery sprouted, and fields already furrowed in deep lines were being furnished with cotton seeds, soon to cover the land like a gathering of white fluffy clouds. He was swollen with pride, and never more so than at this moment. He would kill and risk death to keep it, for if the North came, they would leave a trail of ash and destroy the very fabric of his society.

As he dismounted in front of the porch, his tired eyes immediately noted the animosity between Belle and Elizabeth, both sitting on the porch with arms crossed defensively and each wearing scowls. The sight of them only intensified his dark mood for marring his homecoming.

He passed the reins to Gus, a young Negro, and ruffled the boy’s wiry hair. “Give her a good rub down now, you hear, Gus?” he said, walking up the porch steps.

He greeted Belle and Elizabeth, who responded with silent yet scornful rebukes from eyes which held no joy at the sight of him. A disdainful conversation with the latter would come soon enough, Jacob thought, but not until he was ready to receive it. “Where’s my brother?” he asked Belle.

“In Norfolk,” Belle mumbled back.

He declined tea and excused himself, wishing only to reach his bedroom without an onslaught of verbal conflict. Elizabeth made no move to follow him upstairs, and for that he was eternally grateful. Jacob was fatigued in body and in mind. He craved Mercy’s presence. He was perplexed by her stubbornness to remain behind, yet he understood her reluctance to accompany him back to the city. Portsmouth had not been kind to her, in so many ways.

He desired a hot bath and a moment of peaceful thought, but his mind was overflowing with the many troubles that had to be resolved here at home. Some of these issues would need tact and sensitivity, whilst others would require more direct and heavy-handed declarations. Either way, all of them would have to be tackled tonight, leaving no time for quiet contemplation.

Jacob lay in the bathtub, stretching his aching muscles and long legs. He closed his eyes and sighed. He felt like an unwelcome visitor in his own house. His wife and sister-in-law had declared open warfare on each other, he had heard from Handel, his long-time house slave, who was like a father to him and his brother. They were causing havoc amongst the house servants in their fight for supremacy, and Handel had wasted no time in voicing his displeasure. “You got to do somethin’, Massa Jacob, ’cause Mistress Belle’s just itchin’ to hit Mistress Elizabeth square in the face,” the old man had said. “Lord knows I ain’t got no clue what you gonna eat for your supper with all the changes going on, from menus to who sits where at the dinner table. My ole heart ain’t gonna survive this. No, sir, I’ll be dead and buried ’fore I ever see them two white women say a kind word to each other, and I ain’t thinkin’ on goin’ nowhere just yet.”

Jacob smiled affectionately. Handel was at his wit’s end, and this was not acceptable. Handel had also elaborated on Henry’s whereabouts. He had left at dawn to tend to ship business in Norfolk. Jacob was not surprised to hear this, for all eyes had been on Norfolk’s Navy Yard yesterday after Portsmouth secessionists from the United States Navy seized it. It was the most crucial development to affect Virginia and the South to date.

Jacob’s gut told him that Hendry would be deeply concerned about the Carrabelle and her future – he was not worried about his brother’s safety but was nonetheless impatient to hear the latest news from him.

Just before leaving Newport News four days ago, he had learned that Virginia had finally elected to secede from the Union. After hearing the news, he’d gone straight to the Portsmouth Militia’s headquarters, overflowing with men who had flocked to the city from surrounding farms and from as far inland as the small town of Smithfield. He’d remained there for three days, recognising the urgency of setting plans in motion concerning Elizabeth and his new army career. Virginia had cut itself off from Washington. President Lincoln had asked for loyalty, ordering all eight Virginia militias to defend the federal government. Instead, Virginia had disobeyed and, in doing so, had drawn a clear dividing line between the North and South.

He had received orders and a grey uniform, which was to be worn forthwith. He was still reeling at the speed at which ordinary country folks were being asked to arm themselves, for he had seen farmers and labourers who didn’t own a rifle or a decent horse between them. He also believed that he’d been somewhat naive to presume that he would simply be asked to defend Portsmouth when or if that necessity arose.

He scrubbed his hair with lavender soap and wished now that he’d had the gumption to decline the honour his comrades had bestowed upon him. He was a captain in charge of men who would follow his orders, ride behind him to God only knew where, and place their lives in his hands. Heaven help him and those who had chosen him for the task, he thought, still trying to digest everything he’d heard.

The majority of the men in the Portsmouth ranks were volunteers like him.  Those who had already joined up or had been thinking about enlisting had been involved with rudimentary training and an initiation into army life since the end of February, alongside regular state troops. All volunteers were signing enlistment papers which enforced their loyalty for a period of six months. That was a long time to be away from his land. He would miss the planting season and harvesting.

Decisions, decrees, and orders had taken effect immediately. The South, he suspected, would not want to be caught on the back foot by a Northern army. It would appear that they were to follow an offensive strategy from the outset, which made sense to him, for should an   invasion force be allowed the time to organise themselves, they in the South would be pushed back without proper defensive lines both on land and on the Chesapeake and southern waterways.

He lathered up the soap, scrubbed his body, and then took a moment to cast his eyes around his opulent bedroom. He was joining the army tomorrow, his mind repeated. He would be but a stone’s throw from Stone Plantation and only twenty-six miles south of Newport News and Mercy, across the James River. He would don the grey Confederate uniform, and he had no idea when he would be able to take it off and return to his life. The Confederacy owned him now, and all other allegiances would be pushed to the side, unattended to and neglected, until his country’s insanity was dissolved.

He ducked his head under the water, came up, and pushed back his wet hair as he surfaced. He said the words aloud repeatedly: “War, I’m going to war.” It was not a possibility now but an actuality, which would see him leave his home in uncertain hands.

As Jacob dressed, he turned his thoughts to personal matters. His departure from civilian life was now set in stone, and pressing business with his family would have to be concluded tonight. He was not prepared to give up his home for six months or more without tying up loose ends, and that included asking his wife for a divorce.

Loving Mercy so completely had taught him many things. Love was the downfall of duty and honour. It was a transition from being a single entity into an indissoluble unity of two in body and soul. It was the singular most important commitment in life, for without the fullness of Mercy’s love, his life would have no real purpose. He only wished he’d realised this earlier.

He watched a candle’s soft flame flicker and die in a small funnel of dark smoke. He had left his flame burning bright in Newport News, only to return to a household filled with hatred. Elizabeth was his biggest headache. Theirs was an untenable situation and one which he could not leave unresolved.

Since their wedding, he had not given Elizabeth cause to desire him or to fall in love with him, he thought with a measure of guilt, for he had neglected her from the very first moment. He had been the very worst kind of husband, but she had also been dishonest, marrying for power, money, and a plantation. He was not a bad man. If he thought for a moment that his decision to dissolve his marriage would cause his wife heartache, he would stoically remain bound to her. But she had given him more than enough evidence through word and deed that she cared nothing for him, and this was her undoing and his good fortune.

He smiled, wallowing in the information he’d come by in the past couple of days. Elizabeth had been talking a lot lately, according to the men he had met with. They’d regaled him with stories of Elizabeth’s quest to darken his good name. Her accusations, encouraged by Margaret Mallory, whom Elizabeth now called her dearest friend, had become the talk of the city, and his fidelity had come into question, as had his blatant love for another woman. In his absence, Elizabeth had declared herself unsullied by him.

She had openly affirmed that she would refuse all advances from a husband who had been with a prostitute. He was spitting mad at the insult to Mercy, but he allowed himself to smile again, for Elizabeth had miscalculated the reaction of most of Portsmouth’s male population, who had been frequenting brothels on a weekly basis since time immemorial. Not even Elizabeth’s father or brothers would go against him now, lest they be tarred with the same infidelity brush.

Chapter Three

Numerous lit candles brightened the formal dining room. The table was immaculately dressed with a crisp white lace tablecloth, flowers, silver cutlery, china, condiments, and crystal wine goblets. The house servants, dressed in their finest, scurried back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room in a last-minute flurry of activity to finish their chores, set by Handel, wearing his most surly expression.

Hendry had returned. Like Jacob, he was dressed in evening attire. Belle attempted to smile pleasantly but looked exhausted and fraught with worry. Elizabeth wore her most expensive gown, complimented by a diamond necklace and earrings, a wedding gift from Jacob. She had taken it upon herself to rearrange the table settings, flowers, and candlesticks after Handel and the servants had set the table under strict instructions from Belle. She had changed Belle’s choice of wines and had told Handel earlier that she was not above whipping a house slave who disobeyed her. This in itself had caused a ripple of fear amongst the house servants, who were now coming into line at each side of the table.

Elizabeth listened to Hendry, Belle, and Jacob talk with a cold and uninterested expression. When she heard the conversation turn towards baby Grace, she gleefully planned the moment she would disrupt the cosy family meal with her news about the woman Jacob believed he was in love with. She looked across at her husband and saw a handsome man. She couldn’t deny that he was, for he possessed strong features, perfectly aligned, and a chiselled jaw line that made ladies swoon. He was even more handsome with the beard that had grown on his face and chin, she thought, yet despite rugged good looks and a dazzling smile, he repulsed her.

She was not 100 per cent sure if the unspeakable dirty sow he had been involved with still lived, but she suspected that Mercy Carver was alive and well and that Jacob’s absence in this past week or so had nothing to do with all the silly talk of war and everything to do with that woman.

Margaret Mallory had informed Elizabeth that Mercy Carver had once been a well-known prostitute in Liverpool, and Elizabeth had no cause to doubt her friend’s accounts. Margaret had also told her of her own desolation upon finding out that even her dearly departed husband had used Mercy Carver. Pity for Margaret lay heavy on Elizabeth’s mind, for not only did dear Margaret have to live with the distasteful recollection of her dead husband’s association with a woman who opened her legs for money, but she also had the added misfortune of not knowing what had become of her dear sister, Myrtle, who had not yet sent word to her in all the months Margaret had been here.

Elizabeth’s anger grew as she caught Jacob’s mischievous smile and bright eyes as he talked with Belle about a stupid baby which contributed absolutely nothing to the household, bar its wailing! She was deeply disappointed in the Stone family. Jacob’s indiscretions were disgraceful, and Belle’s boyish mannerisms and coarseness were shameful.

Margaret had wept with mortification, and Elizabeth had wanted to weep for her friend. Hendry and Belle were mean, turning Margaret away twice after she had invited Margaret to tea. Margaret was kind and thoughtful. Why, had it not been for her generosity in imparting truths about Mercy Carver, she might have been sitting here desiring Jacob instead of detesting him. And had it not been for Margaret’s urgings, she might be satisfied with this loveless marriage, for it had always been loveless.

As Margaret so rightly said, men had bestial instincts that quite simply compelled them to stick their rods into any ill-reputed woman they happened upon. These men usually died of disease, Margaret had also told her, and the sickness that took the unfaithful dogs of husbands to the grave often took their poor innocent wives along with them.

“Jacob, have you no idea where you might be going eventually?” Belle asked.

“I heard talk today about encampments being set up close to Richmond and stretching all the way over to Yorktown, but that’s all I know. I reckon we’ll be told soon enough where we’re heading.”

“I wonder what they will do with y’all.” Belle sighed.

“God only knows, Belle. I find myself at a loss to comprehend the minds of politicians and generals. I ask myself questions that they can answer but sadly I cannot. Where are the small arms with which to defend ourselves? All I’ve seen in the last few days are men arriving from the country to volunteer, carrying old smooth-bore muskets and carbines that can’t hit shit from any decent range. Excuse my tongue, ladies,” Jacob added quickly. “There has been some secret mass production going on that we don’t know about. It’ll be a fight just to get a decent weapon in our hands.”

“Jacob, please – you’re scaring me,” Belle said.

“Don’t fret, honey,” Henry said. “Jacob’s just looking at this the way any soldier would. I do believe this will end in no time at all. No government wants to lose money on a damn war, especially when the South’s revenue is so highly valued in Washington. You’ll see soon enough that this is just a spat. Lincoln will back down.”

“Hendry, spat or no spat, I sure as hell won’t go into a fight without a decent rifle. I’ll end up blowing my own head off! Do you remember Pa’s old sixty-nine-calibre musket? I was sure he was going to kill himself with that thing. It’s still in the attic – he loved that gun.”

“Yes, he did,” Hendry laughed. “It stood right next to his father’s eighteen twelve silver medal. I remember being caught with it pinned on my shirt. I couldn’t sit on my behind for weeks after Pa had finished with me.” Hendry laughed and then grew serious. “Jacob, I know you have worries about weapons and supplies, but I believe the Confederacy has been planning for this eventuality for quite some time. I have faith in them, and I have no doubt they will give you a big new shiny gun.”

“Make fun all you want, Hendry,” Jacob said, his voice brimming with good humour, “but I maintain I still can’t figure out how the hell we’re supposed to go to war against the North when they have all the machinery and factories and we not much more than cotton buds. Dear God, just think about the logistics of putting together an army within days. There are horses, saddles, wagons, supplies, weapons, and victuals to think about – you don’t think we’ll be expected to eat cornbread and pork belly for six months, do you?”

Belle laughed. “You do love your cornbread, Jacob.”

“That I do, Belle.” Jacob turned his head and found Handel standing behind him. Handel’s bottom lip was pushed out in a disapproving pout, a sign that he had a powerful need to speak his mind about something. “Handel, go get Millie,” he said. “Tell her to make me cornbread right now. I do believe I will take some with me tomorrow.”

“Cornbread? Why you ain’t gonna git no strength from cornbread, Massa Jacob. No, sir, I figure you be needin’ a whole lot of cow meat to keep you goin’ on that hos’ of yours. Ain’t no goodness in cornbread,” he muttered as he left the room.

Jacob sipped his wine and looked at the faces around the table. He was much relieved. The conversation had lightened. Belle was smiling. Hendry was in the mood for reminiscing over old times. And as for Elizabeth, well, she was just as sullen as always in his company.

“Jacob, you’re going to look so handsome in uniform. I can’t wait to see it on you,” Belle said.

Jacob smiled. He had tried the new grey uniform on and had been handed fabric, rank insignia. He doubted Elizabeth would do him the favour of sewing them on his jacket. He would ask Belle to do it first thing in the morning. “Why, thank you kindly, Belle,” he said.

Jacob looked at Hendry and grinned. “Pa will climb out of his grave and whip my butt if I take Grandpa’s sabre with me, but it’s going, for good luck. You don’t mind, do you, Hendry?”

“I will if Pa’s ghost turns up here and takes its irritation out on me …”

Elizabeth threw her fork onto her dinner plate, causing enough noise to halt the good-natured banter in its tracks. “Don’t y’all think there’s been enough talk of silly war and guns at this table? Why, it’s bad enough there won’t be the usual summer balls and picnics this year on account of y’all leaving.  I’m just sick of hearing about it, and I won’t listen a moment longer. It’s ruining everything!”

“My apologies, dear,” Jacob said. “I promise there will be no more talk of war. Hendry and I will discuss this distasteful subject over brandies after you and Belle retire.”

“Well, seeing as how the subject of war has been dispensed with at last, I have some news of my own, and I can’t think of a better or more fitting time to speak to y’ all about it,” Elizabeth exclaimed dramatically. “Why, it’s been eating away at me for days and pressing on me till I can’t breathe.”

“Then pray tell us what’s got you so riled up. We’d hate you to stop breathing,” Jacob said mockingly.

“Well, if you must know, it’s about that Mercy Carver. Y’all seem to hold her in such high regard, but I’ve come by some interesting information about her, and even you will be shocked, Belle.”

“Not now, Elizabeth,” Belle warned.

“Yes, now, Belle. You and Hendry are wicked. Poor Margaret Mallory is a victim of Jacob’s whore, and it’s so unfair of you and Hendry to turn Margaret away from Stone Plantation whenever she comes to call on me. She was wronged by the Carver woman, yet you allowed her to come here, to this house, knowing that it was to be my new home. It’s high time y’all know how I feel. Why, anyone would think I don’t belong here … Well, I do, and I have every right to invite who I want onto my porch.”

Jacob wiped his mouth with his napkin and hid his anger. He had hoped to avoid all mention of Mercy during the meal by giving Belle and Hendry the letter she wrote to them, only after Elizabeth had retired. “I think we should discuss this in the privacy of our own room, dear. This is a special occasion, and I aim to keep it amiable,” he told her.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you? Why, all the folks in the county know you still have a hankering for that white trash!”

Belle and Hendry rose from the table. Belle crossed to Hendry’s side and held his hand. “As usual, Elizabeth, you have spoiled a perfectly lovely evening. I won’t sit here a minute longer listening to your prattle. Hendry, take me upstairs … please.”

“Belle, sit down. I’m in sore need of your company tonight. We have so much to talk about – don’t leave, please,” Jacob begged.

“We’ll have breakfast in the morning, dearest,” Belle told him. “I find myself yearning for bed. I don’t want to be in your wife’s company, and that’s a fact. Hendry will be back down. He’ll join you in the library. Good night, Jacob.”

Jacob watched Hendry and Belle leave, finding it difficult to control his rage and utter dislike for Elizabeth, who was scowling at him. War and the fear of death would bring out truths and honesty now. Elizabeth had ruined his last night at home, and any sympathy he may have felt for her had disintegrated into a desire for cold and determined declarations.

“Handel, you and the others go have some pie. I’ll call you when I need you, and tell Master Hendry I’ll be with him shortly.”

“Yes, sir, Massa Jacob,” Handel said. He ushered the servants from the room and then threw a disapproving look in Elizabeth’s direction before he closed the door behind him.

“Did you see the way that nigger looked at me? Why it’s shameful! Sometimes he looks at me like he’s white! You’re weak, Jacob. He needs to be given a good whupping.”

“You will not lay a hand on my slaves. Do you hear me?”

“That’s what they need. Why, anyone would think you liked them.”

Jacob banged his fist on the table and then breathed deeply. He would get nowhere if he didn’t calm himself. “My God, what is wrong with you? Why did you have to ruin my family’s last meal together? Couldn’t you have waited until we were alone?”

“How dare you ask me what’s wrong. You’ve been perfectly horrid to me, and you know it. I’m ashamed to call myself your wife. You’ve ruined my reputation. Why, I can hardly look at anyone in the street anymore.”

“I doubt that’s true,” Jacob said sarcastically.

“It is true! Folks I’ve known all my life pity me. I can hear them whispering about me behind my back, saying you know where that Carver bitch is – so tell me, is it true? Have you seen her?”

“Yes, it is true – I have seen her. I love her, Elizabeth, and I can say that to you without fear of causing injury because you, madam, have made it abundantly clear that you have no measure of affection for me. You don’t love me; you never have. You wanted to be mistress of Stone Plantation, but even this isn’t enough for you …”

“Of course it’s not enough! How can I be the rightful mistress when my husband is hankerin’ after another woman, and Belle, taking it upon herself to challenge my orders around here? It’s quite apparent that she’s favoured by the house niggers.” Elizabeth’s pale cheeks were flushed, her eyes flashed dangerously, and her shoulders were hunched forward. “So you finally admit, she’s still alive – and you dare to ask me why I don’t love you or lie with you.”

“That’s enough, Elizabeth. I don’t want to talk about Mercy,” Jacob warned.

“I’m not finished. Any fool knows that a well-used prostitute is filled with disease. Shame on you, Jacob Stone! You’ve broken every wedding vow the good Lord gave to man. I feel as if I’ve been stabbed in the back by your entire family. How dare you bring that English whore here. Margaret, that dear woman, is not even allowed to come to tea with me. She told me all about Mercy Carver.”

“I very much doubt that …”

“Carver was a prostitute in Liverpool – and don’t you go telling me that you didn’t know, Jacob Stone. Don’t you dare! I knew she was a bad influence on Belle the moment I saw her prance into your drawing room as if she owned the place. Dear Lord, to think I could have had any man in the county and I chose you. I don’t believe I could have lowered myself any further when I married into your family.”

Jacob struck the table with his fist again, vibrating the plates and condiments. “Enough. Enough! I’ve done all the listening I’m going to do. You obviously regret marrying me, so why don’t we dissolve the marriage, such as it is? I’ll have papers drawn up in the morning before I leave.” He now sat in a relaxed pose, breathing deeply and trying desperately not to display the depth of his rage. The conversation would lead him to a satisfactory conclusion, he thought, but only if he remained calm and respectful to the irate woman sitting across from him.

“Why, I do believe you would like that. Divorcing me would give you the freedom to marry that disease-ridden whore. Well, I would rather die!”

“Elizabeth, control your ill temper and listen carefully,” Jacob warned again. “I think we would both mutually benefit from divorce. I admit I have been a bad husband. I have shamefully neglected you, and I have loved another woman before and during our marriage. But I am willing to make amends so tell me what would satisfy you in the way of a settlement.”

“I don’t care about amends. I want to ruin you. I want to see you crawl on your knees in front of the entire county, begging for my forgiveness.”

“I have no doubt you do; however, I believe a better solution would come through a financial nature, which would prove to you that I am indeed regretful of my actions. So why don’t you begin this ruination by accepting an amount that even you will be happy with. I’m sure the sum will go a long way in securing my downfall. I can make you rich. You can go home to your family the scorned woman and blame me for everything – but I’m warning you, if you don’t take this offer now, you’ll get nothing. You will remain my wife in name only, but I will not grant you what you covet most.”

“And what might that be?” Elizabeth said with disdain.

“Why, your desire to be the city’s most prominent hostess, of course. Should you not accept my proposal of a fair and generous offer upon divorce, you will not be given the means to hold balls, parties, picnics on the lawn, or afternoon teas with the ladies – and anything else you love to do to get the attention of the whole damn county. I will give you the most tedious life you could ever imagine, and when this crisis is over and we’re both ruined, I’ll expect you to be out in those fields picking cotton alongside my niggers.”

“Don’t you dare say such a thing or threaten to cut me off from my social duties. I can’t bear being your wife, but I would prefer you die on the battlefield and I become your widow than suffer the humiliation of divorce!” she screamed.

“Elizabeth, having my money won’t bring you humiliation; it will bring you power. Now, I may or may not die on a battlefield, but I sure as hell won’t lie to you or to myself any longer. We’re done. This charade has gone on long enough, so accept my offer or suffer your own damnation at the hands of invaders who might just get here and take everything I own.”

Elizabeth sucked in her breath and grabbed her throat with trembling hands. A shocked expression sat on her face as she visibly fought to find a suitable answer.

Jacob put his hand up to stop her from speaking further, and then he softened his tone.

“I would never hurt you if I thought for one moment that you had any small affection for me. But I’m afraid your cold self-serving reasons for wanting this marriage are well documented from Portsmouth to Norfolk. You were aware of my affections towards Mercy before we married, as were your father and brother; therefore, my misguided honour and your ambitions are to be blamed equally.

“I’ll make you rich but make no mistake: I want you gone from here before I leave tomorrow. You will find everything in order with my lawyer. You will go quietly and will cause no more distress to Belle or my brother. You will be free to cavort with Margaret Mallory, listen to her lies, and eventually come to learn the truth about her. You and she, my dear, deserve one another.”

She surprised him, saying, “What settlement will you offer me?”

“Ten thousand dollars and a house in Portsmouth. Will that suit you?”

“Will you see to it in the morning, just in case you die in the war? And you’ll tell everyone I was the perfect wife and that you’re to blame for everything?”

“I will.” Jacob’s heart was pounding as he waited for her answer. He sat perfectly still, afraid of distracting her from an immediate decision.

“Then I believe I shall set myself free of you, Jacob Stone,” she said at length. “Tell me, who will ever respect you when you bring that woman here? Portsmouth will never accept her. You and she will never be received – never.”

Jacob laughed, shaking his head and pitying her. “Portsmouth society and most of its men are leaving soon. No one gives a damn anymore about our marriage, parties, or about whom I choose to love.”

Elizabeth wore a defeated, sullen scowl. Jacob watched her fighting for a word to hurt him with, but she could say nothing to cause him pain. He was elated. Her silence was the result of her inability to turn down his offer, for had she already decided to remain his wife under any circumstances, she would have declared that by now.

“What’s your answer?” he finally asked her.

“I hate you. If it weren’t for the money, I would stay just to spite you. But I believe you may be right; if the Yankees come down here, they will take everything. They will burn your house and your cotton. The Yankees will ruin you for sure. Oh my, how I would love to see that – I hope you get what’s coming to you, and I hope I never live to see the day you swagger around the city with her, because I will make your life hell – you just see if I don’t.”

Jacob stood and bowed sarcastically. His job was done, and he couldn’t be happier.

“I’ll finalise the divorce papers in the morning. You’ll be escorted home to your family with my solemn oath that our agreement stands. The money will be in your account tomorrow, before the end of the day. Good night, Elizabeth.”

Chapter Four

Jacob poured himself a brandy with hands that shook, not with anger but with emotion and relief. He sat facing Hendry, sitting in one of the twin leather armchairs in front of the fireplace, pensive and with a disapproving scowl.

“You managed to send her to bed, then,” said Hendry.

“I did. So tell me about the navy yard,” Jacob said.

“I will, but first you tell me what the hell that that was all about in there,” Hendry said angrily. “I didn’t finish my supper, and Belle’s disposition has worsened, if that’s at all possible. Jacob, this situation can’t go on. Belle’s just had a baby, God damn it. She has enough to think about without having to trade insults with your wife.”

“It’s done. It’s done, Hendry. I’m divorcing Elizabeth, with her consent. Either she’s changed her mind about the sanctity of marriage or someone else has, and I have a good idea who that someone is.”

“My God, Jacob. How much did you offer her?”

“Enough to satisfy her, but to be honest, I thought she’d be more determined to remain here with the sole purpose of making our lives miserable,” Jacob said.

“I misjudged her. I thought she’d fight you tooth and nail,” Hendry agreed. “I guess money speaks louder than her desire to wrangle for power in this house. My Belle is tough. Elizabeth chose the wrong woman to go up against.”

“I don’t suppose Belle will be on the porch to wave goodbye to Elizabeth,” Jacob said with a smile.

“I wonder how long it will take her to get through the money you intend to give her. I reckon Confederate money won’t be worth a damn soon anyway,” Hendry said worriedly.

Jacob shrugged. This was one of the many questions on his mind. He and Hendry had holdings in England, which were safe. They had substantial bank accounts in British coin, bank notes, and gold in a Liverpool vault, but what value would Confederate bonds and Confederate dollar bills have now? The North held the coffers, the national banks, and the federal government was recognised worldwide.

“I’ve been asking myself that question and more, Hendry. Will the South gain recognition in Europe? Will Britain and Europe trade with us? Is trading outside America even a credible proposition now? How the hell are we supposed to come to terms with this when the ramifications of what we’re doing become more alarming with every day that passes? We could lose everything here.”

“Agreed, so I guess Elizabeth should start spending straight away before her dollars are not worth more than kindling.”

Jacob smiled at his brother, grateful for the touch of humour. This would be the last brandy they shared together for a while. The conversation was a serious one, as it should be, but it wouldn’t hurt to lighten the mood for a minute or two.

“Hendry, I would have given her everything I owned had she put demands on me. I think I’ve just dodged a bullet – I saw her father yesterday at the militia’s headquarters. He was with his two boys, Nathan and George. I told him about my intention to end the marriage. I said I didn’t want any trouble.”

“How did he take the news?”

“That’s a good question. He didn’t say much about it. Said he wasn’t surprised. He insisted I give Elizabeth funds to buy a property to ensure that she’s financially independent. I might be wrong, but it looks to me as if he has more to worry about than his daughter. I reckon had this happened a year ago, I’d have had a rifle at my back and a fight in the street with his boys.”

“You ain’t heard about old man Coulter’s troubles?” Hendry asked.

“Nope.”

“I hear tell he’s got problems of a financial nature, has for quite awhile. I don’t reckon he’ll keep Pine Trees, his estate, either. By all accounts, he’s up to his ears in debt. Are the Coulter boys enlisting with you?”

“Yep, and I promised their old man I’d look out for them.

“Well, good luck with that. You’ll more than likely get a knife in your back. You be careful there ain’t no accidents when they’re around you. Seriously, though, I’m happy for you and Mercy, and I’m sorry, Jacob. I was a damn fool trying to push you into that marriage.”

“No one pushed me. I guess I just fell into it all by myself.”

“You’ll tell Belle and me about Mercy’s situation before you leave?”

“I will in the morning. Here, give this letter to Belle. Mercy’s been keeping herself busy reading and writing, amongst other things.” Jacob took the letter from his inside jacket pocket and passed it to Hendry.

Hendry deposited it in his pocket and smiled. “Thanks. Belle will be mighty pleased to get this.”

“Hendry, Mercy makes me so damn happy. I want to marry her as soon as I’m free. I’d like her here with you and Belle. She wasn’t accommodating when I asked her to come back, but I would feel much better knowing that she’s safe at the plantation. Can you arrange it?”

Hendry’s expression changed. Jacob watched him down his brandy with a nervous gulp. He knew his brother well. “Hendry, that’s enough about me. We’ve got more important things to talk about. Tell me exactly what happened yesterday. A couple of men came in to the enlistment station and told us that the Confederacy had taken the navy yard. They said it had been quick and easy. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The navy yard’s commander …”

“McCauley?”

“Yep. He tried to burn down the yard, but he didn’t get the job done as well as he’d hoped. I think he was taken by surprise at the speed and way it was taken. He and the other Federals in the ranks abandoned it pretty quickly, and as far as I know, there were no shots fired. When I got there this morning, there were remnants of smoke damage. About nine ships in all were scuttled or sunk. They tried to explode the USS Merrimack. She was all fired up, but there was no explosion. The top of her burnt down, and there ain’t no saving that, but her bulk is still intact above and below the waterline. I spoke with some folks and then went straight to the Carrabelle.

“Where did the Federals run to?” Jacob asked.

“Hampton. Fort Monroe. I don’t know what McCauley was thinking. I would have burnt every ship lying at anchor or alongside. I would have destroyed every building and warehouse capable of supplying or constructing anything that could help the Confederacy. The armoury was left mostly intact. I don’t how much was in there, but I figure it must be close to two thousand heavy guns, and that’s a great coup for us. Those guns will go a long way.”

Jacob sighed with relief. “I wanted to talk to you about this before dinner, but I guessed if you were here, then it couldn’t be that bad over there. At least they didn’t stick around for a fight they knew they’d lose. So what does this mean for the Confederacy – and what about you and the Carrabelle?”

“It means that the navy yard and everything in it now belongs to the Confederate navy, which I guess I’ll have to get used to saying. Unfortunately, the Federals have the fort, which gives them a bastion up at Old Point Comfort in Tidewater. They have us blocked at the southern tip of the Chesapeake Peninsula, but they’re isolated. I figure we’ll make a run at Fort Monroe as soon as we get the chance. We’ve now got a major shipyard, and I’m hoping they’ll start building the ships we need to defend these waters. If we don’t, there’s nothing stopping the Federals from cruising back down here to take the yard off us again, and if they do, we’ll lose the gateway to the Carolinas …”

Jacob listened intently. Hendry was uneasy still. He was finding it difficult to look him in the eye. “You didn’t answer my question, Hendry – what about you and the Carrabelle?”

Hendry eyes darted everywhere but Jacob’s face.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Jacob insisted.

“The Confederacy chartered the Carrabelle for an unspecified period, and there was nothing I could do about it,” Hendry said, finally looking at Jacob. “They offered me a commission this morning, and I accepted.”

“You’ve done what?” Jacob’s eyes bored into his brother’s reddened face. He was not particularly shocked about the Carrabelle being commandeered, but Hendry going with her was a different matter altogether. “Hendry, are you saying you’re going to take a command for the navy?”

“I reckon I am. They’re pretty short on officers, as you can imagine. They’re asking for anyone with experience, and I have plenty. I’ll be taking my orders from the navy from now on. I took the oath on a Bible, signed enlistment papers, and was given captain’s stripes, which Belle is probably sewing on my jacket now – spittin’ mad – so I reckon that makes me a naval officer.”

“Lord have mercy. Hendry this is madness …”

“They were going to take her with or without me. They’ve already started putting guns on her. She’ll patrol the bay area and may skirt the Atlantic. She may raid. I can’t say what she’ll be asked to do if this turns into a long-running war. I just know that someone has to be at the helm, and no one knows her better than I do. I’ve spoken with Jack. The old sea dog is coming out of retirement. He’ll be a useful addition to the crew.”

“Poor Dolly. She won’t be none too pleased about her husband’s going back to sea. You made this decision without talking to Belle first?” Jacob asked him.

“I had to. It was not a casual invitation. Had I not agreed there and then, they would have given her to a bunch of strangers, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that happen. I leave tomorrow afternoon.”

“You don’t have to do this, Hendry. Think about Belle and Grace. What happens here at home?” Jacob asked him, still reeling. “We can’t both leave Belle alone with over a hundred slaves on the property. You promised you’d take care of things here. Said you wouldn’t get involved. I would never have signed the enlistment papers had I known you were going to do something crazy like this. Jesus, what do we do now? How did Belle take this news?”

“Hold up, Jacob. Slow down. Don’t get yourself all riled up. Belle took it better than you have. She understands – and as for leaving her alone, I’d never consider that. Her ma and pa are coming to live here with her.

“You’ve got it all worked out.”

“I had to. There was no way of telling you before now, on account of you not being around much lately. I need you to agree to this. You can’t honestly envision me sitting here with our ship at sea? Belle is not pleased about it, but even she knows where I have to be right now.”

Jacob looked into his glass and swirled the brandy within. He shook his head. “I feel as though a hurricane’s come in and blown us and everything we’ve built clean off the map. James won’t bring the Christina across the Atlantic, will he?”

“He’d be a damn fool to even think about it.”

“I agree,” Jacob said. “Hopefully he’ll continue trading within Europe for us.”

“I wrote to him, asking that he do just that,” Hendry said.

“How long do they want you for?” Jacob asked.

“I don’t know, but I figure the Carrabelle will come into Norfolk or the navy yard for repairs, rearming, whatever needs to be done, so I’ll get back here when I can to keep an eye on things. That’s got to be better than you going God knows where … Look, we’ll grow what we can, Jacob. We’ll make do with what we’ve got and pray for a quick solution, but I’ll tell you straight: if this house and its land become too much for my Belle to handle, or if the damn Yankees get anywhere near it, I’ll have her and her family out of here and into Portsmouth. I will not put them in danger.”

Jacob nodded in agreement. The consequences of war would become clearer in the coming weeks or months, he thought, but what was staring them in the face right now was the collapse of Stone Plantation’s stable routine. The slaves would have new masters, overseers, and crops that may or may not have a destination when harvested. Their niggers would sit in their wooden huts and talk amongst themselves, wondering if their days on the plantation were numbered, if they would gain freedom through this conflict, or if they would be asked or forced to fight alongside their white masters. Would they run away, and if so, who would have the time or resources to bring them back? He and Hendry had paid for every slave with dollars or mortgage agreements. They were their property, but would they also become a worthless commodity like a Confederate dollar bill?

“Hendry, we have to talk to our niggers. We have to do it now. I want to be honest with them, but you will be here more than I will, so you need to use a heavy hand and convince them that it’s business as usual. The last thing we need is a damn slave insurrection …”

“And what about Mercy? Do you still think she should come home?”

Jacob shook his head. He wasn’t comfortable with her being so close to du Pont without Hendry to watch over her. “Nope, not here, but she does have to leave Newport News. If I were with the Federals, I’d want Newport News under my belt.”

“Well, the way I see it, they’ve got a strategic advantage over us already. They can resupply by water. They don’t even have to use the land. They’re connected to Newport by a narrow causeway, but it’s nothing more than an isthmus of land, which means we can’t get near it. I reckon the sons of bitches are sitting pretty at that fort, and the worst of it is that they’ll lock us down with a sea blockade.”

“I agree, but I don’t know if I can use persuasion to entice Mercy back here – and even if she agreed, I’d be uncomfortable with du Pont being next door. The witch has a loose tongue. I warned her to keep her damn mouth shut about Mercy, but it seems she’s waging a war of her own against me.”

“Killing her would be the sensible thing, but it wouldn’t be moral or legal. You’re going to have to find another way to get rid of her.”

“I know. Anyway, Mercy is my main concern at the moment.”

“What about Dolly?” Hendry said.

“Jack’s wife? What about her?”

“She’ll be lonely, Jacob. She might be glad for Mercy’s company in Norfolk now that Jack’s thrown his hat in the ring. Mercy will be safe and nearer home, without the threat of du Pont.”

Jacob nodded in agreement, saying, “See what you can do, Hendry. I’ll get a letter to Mercy and let you make arrangements to get her to Jack’s house straight away.”

“You got it,” Hendry said.

Both men sat in silence for a few minutes, each deep in thought and reluctant for the night to end. They drank the last drop of brandy in their glasses and then made their way to the slave quarters, which were hidden from the house by a tall hedge that stood on the east corner of the garden. They walked in silence with lanterns showing them the way. As they approached the first hut, Jacob said, “I reckon we’ll have runaways before the month is out. We have a lot to discuss, Hendry. I do believe it’s going to be a long night …”

Chapter Five

“For goodness’ sake, Lina, will you just tell me what going on?” Mercy said, tired of the secretive glances darting back and forth between Lina and Charlie. “We’ve been sitting here for almost an hour, and I know there’s something you’re not telling me – both of you.”

Mercy was tired. She hadn’t slept properly in days. Virginia was now a Confederate state, just as most had predicted. Men were leaving and not coming back. Advance parties were heading north towards Yorktown and beyond. Some were going westwards towards Richmond, whilst others were making their way south of the James River to Portsmouth and Norfolk.

The rumours were rife with regards to Fort Monroe. The Federals held it, and the Newport News townsfolk were sure that they would march into their town any day now.

Newport News was a small fishing town with agricultural land, wetlands, wooded areas, and thickets, but it was also a bridge between the north and south side of an important crossing. As fear of being occupied by the new enemy grew, there were hardly any able-bodied men left.

Mercy banged her cup on the tabletop. She was in a sober mood and had been ever since Jacob left her. “God blimey – Charlie, will you tell me what’s wrong with you both?” she asked. “It’s like pulling teeth trying to get you both to speak to me this morning.”

“Child, don’t you presume to know what I am thinking, and don’t presume that I have to tell you what I am thinking,” Lina scolded her.

“Hush now, dear. No need to say anymore,” Charlie said, patting Lina’s hand. “Mercy has nothing to do with this.”

Lina’s face turned red with anger. She stared at Charlie with indignation, tore her hand away from his, and then gazed deep into Mercy’s eyes. “Charlie, Mercy has everything to do with this, seeing as how she’s already gone and done it.”

“Done what?” Mercy asked, exasperated.

“Freed a slave. That’s what.”

Charlie groaned and thumped the table with a clenched fist. Mercy had never seen him so angry. “Hell’s fire, Lina.”

“Charlie, what’s the matter?” Mercy asked, getting worried now.

“I’ll tell you what’s the matter! This woman of mine has it in her stubborn head to take a runaway slave up through the wetlands tonight in the back of a wagon, and I told her it’s a damn fool idea.” He pointed at Lina. “I reckon if I have to tie you to the bed to stop you from going, that’s what I’ll do.”

Mercy flicked her eyes to Lina, sitting as straight as a poker with an obstinate expression that Mercy now knew so well. When Lina was in this mood, there was no reasoning with her. “Lina, you have a slave? When …? Where is he – or is it a she?”

“He’s a young man, not yet eighteen, or thereabouts – he don’t really know. I got him in the basement, and I got the key so no one can get in there. He came into town last night all skin and bone, dressed in rags with his back still bloodied from a whuppin’. He was scared to death – it was only through the grace of our Lord that he was picked up by one of my associates, who very kindly brought him to me. Now Charlie here says he don’t want me to do my job, but I ain’t gonna let this one get caught, not the way every man in uniform is acting – like they want to kill every Northerner and string up every nigger trying to make a run for freedom. I ain’t gonna let him down. He’s just a boy.”

Mercy said, “How are you planning to get him up to the border? I presume you’re talking about Delaware? You know a lot more about this than I do, but it’s not going to be easy, not with all these hot-headed buffoons running loose. Charlie’s right. I don’t think the Underground Railroad should be running anytime soon, not until all this hoopla dies down.”

“Listen to you with your American words. I liked you better when you spoke all the time in that peculiar way of yours. Didn’t tell me what to do then neither,” Lina said indignantly.

Mercy felt Lina’s irate stare. She blushed, lowered her eyes, and squirmed uncomfortably in the chair. She had never been on the receiving end of one of Lina’s tantrums, but when she looked up again, she could see by Charlie’s expression that unless the situation was defused, there would be some sharp words coming. “Lina, do you really want to do this? You know I’ll go with you gladly, but even if you’re familiar with every rock and bush from here to Delaware, it doesn’t change the fact that from here to the border, every rock and bush will be crawling with soldiers who are itching to get into a fight. Please don’t do this.”

“Child, for your information, I ain’t going all the way to Delaware. I’m no fool, and there ain’t no need for you to get involved. For all I care, you and Charlie can stay here and bake cookies for those Federals that’ll be walking in here any time now, but I’m going, and there ain’t no changin’ my mind.”

“The captain lost his boat,” Charlie said gruffly to Mercy. “One of the militias took it just as soon as Virginia declared – they say it’s the duty of every Virginian to make sacrifices.” He then told Lina, “The Confederates will hang you as a traitor if they catch you, and no wife of mine is getting strung up. Now, I don’t want to hear no more about this. I figure it’s time we headed back to the cabin. I’ve had enough of war and it ain’t even started yet.”

“And leave your boardin’ house in the hands of those damn Yankees figuring on comin’ here? ’Cause that’s what’ll happen,” Lina flung at Charlie. “They’ll come in and strip it bare, and you know it.”

“I don’t give a damn what it ends up like, just so long as it don’t end up as a secret hidin’ place for runaway slaves. I don’t want nothing to do with any of this damn stupidity. I’d rather hunt bears and trap rabbits than see this unholy spectacle unfold. Honey, I promised to protect you until the day I die, and that’s what I aim to do – not to mention I promised Jacob that I would look after Mercy.”

Lina softened. She held Charlie’s hand, leaned in, and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you Charlie, I surely do, but you have to let me take this boy up. He’ll be the last one, I promise. There’ll be hundreds of niggers making a run for it in the coming weeks or months, but whether they’ll be successful or not is now in the hands of the good Lord, not in mine. So I’m asking you to give me your permission to see this last one through before we head to the cabin – please, Charlie. I aim on goin’ through with this, but I don’t want to go with you all riled up.”

Mercy sensed Lina’s sadness. All these years of hard work and effort to free slaves would be but memories for her now, she thought, for even Lina must know that to make attempts at any of the borders by land would be far too dangerous in the near future.  “Charlie, if she’s set her mind on this, I’m going with her,” Mercy said. “You know you won’t talk her out of it, and she’ll never let you tie her to the bed. I’ll have my revolver and my rifle, and it’ll be dark, Charlie. The rushes and brambles are really high, and there are woods for cover. No one will see us in the dark amongst all that greenery.”

“What makes you think you know anything?” Charlie said sternly. “You ain’t never gone up the bay by land, so you ain’t got nothin’ to say. I been here near on thirty-one years, and I still don’t know it all.”

“I saw plenty of land from the deck of the steamship and on the captain’s boat when we took Nelson up,” Mercy replied defiantly. She waited for Charlie to speak again. His decision would be final, and even Lina would know to stop talking when Charlie put his foot down. As though they were her own, Mercy sensed the tumultuous thoughts that must be running through his mind. He had never forbidden Lina to work with the Underground Railroad, but his family in Mississippi owned slaves, and he had always refused to take part in its activities.

Charlie looked at both women in turn and sighed with exasperation. “God damn it, I want to knock both your heads together. Listen here, you both need to take an oath on the good Lord’s Bible that this will be the last time. That’s the only way I’m goin’ to allow this. You’re both as stubborn as each other. That Jacob Stone will have my hide if anything happens to you, Mercy. You know that, don’t you?”

Lina kissed her husband on the cheek and beamed at Mercy. “You rest up today, child. You hear me? We got a long ride ahead of us …”

Chapter Six

The wagon left Newport News around midnight with Lina, Mercy, and the young black man called Seth. Lina had filled the back of the wagon with belongings that she and Charlie planned to take with them to the cabin on her return. There was a small oak sideboard, waist high, a couple of chairs, a trunk, and a mattress. She had hidden Seth behind the mattress, which would give him some cover should they be stopped. “It ain’t gonna be enough to shield the boy, should a body be determined to do a proper search,” Lina told Mercy. “But if a body was lazy and didn’t pay no heed to what was behind the bulk of the contents in the wagon, it would be a good enough hiding place.”

This undertaking had not been as well planned as Lina’s previous endeavours. Usually a network of captains and crewmen on river boats were used, taking the responsibility from Lina. She rarely took land routes north, preferring to smuggle slaves up the river on vessels and touching land only when they reached the borders, she’d told Mercy. However, she did know around twenty miles of the Chesapeake Bay land strip, and as far as she was concerned, that was more than enough to see Seth to the handoff she had in mind.

Lina knew just about every safe house and person involved in the Underground Railroad, from Newport News right up to the very top of the peninsula. After twenty years, this tightly knit network of people smugglers had come to feel like family to her. No people involved ever turned slaves away but instead moved them as far as they could, until they were eventually handed off to the next persons in the chain.

The organisation was well structured. Members never knew when co -conspirators would turn up at their door with runaways, but they were always ready to play their part, just as Lina had insisted on doing on this occasion. These people were devoted to their cause. Some were deep-rooted abolitionists; others were sympathisers and believed it their Christian duty to set their fellow men and women free from chains. All members swore an oath of allegiance, sometimes passing the mantle to their children when they came of age. No one was forced to join. It was, Lina stated, an individual’s measure of conscience that dictated participation.

Lina had calculated that it would take them no more than three hours to reach Garrett’s safe house, a farm some twelve miles up the wetlands and wooded route. It was a difficult drive, she told Mercy, and not one she liked taking with a wagon. There was flat agricultural land for a few miles, but then they would encounter soggy ground thick with undergrowth. Seth would be handed over to Mr Garret, a man Lina knew well and trusted implicitly.

So far, the journey had been smooth, without any major catastrophes. They had met some rough terrain, at times awkward to manoeuvre through bramble bushes, waterlogged marshes, and thickets. But the moon was almost full in a crisp and clear sky, which gave the land a stunning deep blue hue and afforded good visibility. They had but two miles to go, and not a living soul had been spotted since they had left the outskirts of Newport News; however, Lina decided to rest the horses after they’d struggled across a particularly difficult couple of miles of uneven ground.

The wagon stopped at a riverbank. Mercy led the horses to a small pebbled area at the water’s edge and watched them drink. She then moved them and the wagon to a clearing just behind a coppice of bushes and rushes. She waited patiently until the horses had pulled and ground their teeth on the sparse grassy roots and then knotted the lead rope around a tree. She picked up a couple of oat pouches, slung one strap of each over each horse’s neck, and then secured the pouches under the horses’ mouths before returning to the river.

Mercy was in an optimistic mood. They had made good time, and according to Lina’s calculations, they were only about thirty minutes away from Garrett’s farm. She took a handful of water and splashed it on her face. Her body ached, and she could not shake off the weariness that plagued her. Just before leaving the hotel, she had concluded that wearing a dress was a silly idea and had put on the breeches, shirt, braces, and jacket that she loved so much. As always, Eddie’s hat sat on her head, hiding her hair and half her face.

She could not get Jacob out of her thoughts. She had promised him that she’d be good. She wouldn’t stray again or put herself in danger, she’d told him. He’d only been gone four days, but every minute of every day since then had seemed endless as she struggled to come to terms with his absence yet again.

She dismissed her guilt as quickly as it had descended. They would be back at the hotel by morning. She would write to Jacob, telling him that she was going to the cabin, the safest place in Virginia, she thought. No one would be any the wiser, and another slave would be on his way to freedom.

Mercy looked up. Lina was sitting a few feet from her, giving encouraging words to Seth. Mercy smiled. Lina could be crabby at times, but she had a kind heart and the gift of empathy. Lina was not complaining about being tired, Mercy noted, splashing her face again, so neither would she.

“Mercy, Seth here wants to know what freedom feels like and what he should do with it. I told him it’s a state of mind, no matter if a body’s a slave or not a slave. Ain’t no man can enslave another man’s heart and soul, ’cause them would be belongin’ to God almighty. How would you describe freedom?”

Mercy pondered a good answer for just a second and then decided to say exactly what she felt. “Well, this might sound silly, but I felt free when I walked across a long bridge that stood high above a wide river running through London. I was forbidden to do that, but when I disobeyed my grandparents, it felt like the first time I had ever made a decision on my own. On that day, I chose to walk down any street I fancied and talk to anyone I wanted without permission. I even sat in a restaurant all by myself. I will never forget that feeling, Seth, and you won’t forget the first time you get to choose what to eat, where to walk, or where to sleep at night. You won’t have to answer to anyone. You will have to find a way to earn your living, though, no matter how menial the job is. You will need a bed to rest on, a place for shelter, and food to eat. Money is not something you have ever known, but you will have need of it, so you just concentrate on your talents …”

“What talents they be, Miss Mercy?” Seth asked her.

Mercy gathered some more water in her palms and laughed. “Oh, I don’t know, but I’m sure you’ll …” She stopped talking and pricked her ears. Her smile froze. Her eyes widened. The water, still cupped in her hands, trickled through her fingers in mid-air. The sound of horses’ hooves and rushes being shifted and trampled upon was getting louder and closer by the second. She put her finger to her lips, gesturing to Lina and Seth to remain perfectly still and quiet.

The thud of horses’ hooves halted. She could hear two male voices, loud and boisterous. They were only yards from her sheltered position in the rushes. Horses were whinnying. Oh, dear God, the men were at the wagon. She gestured to Lina and Seth, telling them with her hands to lie flat amongst the tall bushes. Silence reigned for just a moment, save for water flowing over and between river rocks.

Mercy curled up in a foetus position and prayed. She heard heavy footsteps. They were heading straight for her. She closed her eyes and recited the Our Father in her head, fighting the fear that crawled up and down her spine, making her shiver. The swishing sound of undergrowth being disturbed stopped, yet she knew she dared not lift her head to see who was there. The familiar click of a gun being cocked was directly above her. She opened her eyes, looked up, and saw the two men looking down at her.

“Well now, looky here – a white woman and two niggers cowering like fugitives,” the man closest to Mercy said. “Now that ain’t a sight you see every night. What you reckon, Kyle? I do believe we caught ourselves a couple of runaways and a do-gooder with a real nice shapely form.”

“She has that, Joe, and damn pretty too,” the man called Kyle replied, “but I reckon that old nigger woman here don’t look like she’s got no runnin’ left in her. Go on now – on your feet, old woman,” he said to Lina.

Lina stood up with clenched fists, faced the two men, and tossed her head in the air. “I ain’t no nigger. I’ve been a free woman for thirty years, and I ain’t got more than one-quarter nigger blood in me, you ignorant boys.”

“Feisty. Old but feisty,” Kyle said. “Well, you sure as hell look like a nigger to me, and what looks like a nigger and talks like a nigger is a nigger.”

“Lady, state your business with them,” the man called Joe said, staring down at Mercy. “You weren’t figuring on helping them run, were you? We don’t take kindly to white folks helpin’ niggers to run. That would be like stealing a hard-working man’s property right from under him.”

Mercy shook her head, looked up at him for just a second, and then slowly and carefully stood up to face him. She held his eyes and casually buttoned up her jacket in an attempt to hide her Colt and holster. She took in their appearance, playing for time by fumbling slightly on the stony ground. They were dirty, like scavengers. They carried old smooth-bore muskets that looked exactly like Charlie’s up at the cabin. They were carelessly draped over their shoulders and attached to leather straps. Both men had old Colts in their hands, though they were not being pointed at them for the moment. They were a slightly odd shape with a longer barrel, Mercy noted. They were probably older and no match for hers in speed and range. She sensed their enthusiastic desire for a fight and quickly concluded that no amount of charming words or gestures would appease the two men.

Joe had a gaunt face with a stubbly chin and untidy hair. She noted that most of his teeth were missing and that his uneducated accent had probably originated from a small rural holding or farm. He pointed his gun at her chest just as she brought herself to full height. The other man, Kyle, was standing in the shadows. She couldn’t see his facial features. He had his gun aimed at Seth and Lina, also standing and huddling together a couple of feet from Mercy.

“Well, what you got to say for yourself, little lady?” Joe asked Mercy.

“It’s none of your business where I’m going, and for your information, this boy is my nigger,” she said, pointing to Seth, “and this lady is as free as I am, so I suggest you step aside and let us be on our way.” She stood nonchalantly with her hands by her side, staring back at him without flinching. “We have a long way to go, and we’re minding our own business, so why don’t you do the same and leave us alone. There’s no need to hold us up like … like you’re a couple of bandits. We’ve done nothing wrong, and we’ve got no valuables to give you.”

The soldier peered into her face, smiling meanly. “You ain’t going nowhere, lady. Where you from anyhow? You don’t sound like no Southern woman to me.”

“As it happens, I’m not. I’m from England. I’m English and proud of it. I’m engaged to be married to a Southern gentleman. He’s in one of the Virginia militias, and he won’t be pleased that you’re asking me all these questions whilst pointing your stupid gun at me.”

Joe laughed. As he glided his tongue across his lips, Kyle looked on with amusement. “You sure are a pretty little thing, and you got guts – I’ll say that for you – but I ain’t buying that story,” he said, pointing to Lina and Seth with his gun. “No, sir, I sure ain’t. I know runaways when I see them. Your woman here – is she your mammy?”

“No, she is not. She told you; she’s a free woman,” Mercy told him.

“Don’t matter if she is. They ain’t got no business being out here. Ain’t that right?” he said to Kyle.

“Yep, I reckon we should just string them up here – it’ll teach the rest of them niggers not to run away, should they happen to pass by these rotting corpses.”

Kyle then turned to Mercy. “You sit your sweet little ass up on that wagon and git. Ain’t no way they’re going free just ’cause you and Mr Lincoln want them to.”

Mercy looked at Lina for guidance. She was at a loss at what to do next. These men were not gentlemen, and they appeared to be oblivious to reason. Why they were here in the middle of the night was a mystery, but she had no time to speculate. They were threatening to kill Lina and Seth, and she believed they would do it.

She saw defeat on Lina’s face. This scared her, for she had never seen Lina afraid of anything. She tried to read her friend’s expression. She had probably not given her freedom papers a thought in the rush to leave the boarding house, but even if she had, she doubted it would change the men’s intentions. Lina’s skin was only slightly darker than her own, yet these men had spotted her black heritage the moment they’d seen her – and they seemed to hate Negros.

Panic was overpowering Mercy’s calm demeanour. She had to think fast. She couldn’t stand there gaping at the men for much longer. “I have some money. It’s yours if you forget you ever saw us,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Come on – do you really want to waste your time stringing up two niggers? Just take the money.”

Joe looked at Kyle, held out his hand, and nodded. “Why, thank you kindly. I don’t mind if I do,” he said.

Mercy’s hand went into her jacket pocket. She pulled out a few dollar bills and placed them in Joe’s palm. “Lina, Seth, get to the wagon,” she said. “We’ve lost enough time here.”

“I didn’t say you could go,” Joe said.

“But I gave you money – you took it from me,” Mercy said angrily.

Joe raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Take the young ’un,” he said to Kyle.

Seth was pulled roughly by the ear. He now stood some distance from Lina, shivering with fear in Kyle’s firm grasp.

“We’ll hang this one first and let the old nigger bitch watch. There’s a good tree back there, next to the wagon,” Kyle said.

Mercy was horrified. Hang Lina and Seth? Over her dead body! “Get your bleedin’ hands off of him. We made a deal!” she shouted.

“Lady, shut your mouth. I ain’t listening to you no more. Go on now. Git going before we string you up too.”

Lina’s eyes darted from Joe to Kyle. “Boys, wait a minute. My husband owns a boarding house in Newport News. What you say we get this mix-up out the way and then I give you boys the keys to that place? You and your friends are welcome to stay there with our compliments whenever it takes your fancy. How does that sound?”

Kyle let go of Seth, swung the rifle strap off his arm, gripped the rifle with both hands, took a long stride forwards, and struck Lina’s face with its butt.

Lina stumbled backwards, fell on her backside, and stared up at him. As the pain hit her, she looked dizzy, shocked, and terrified.

Kyle hung the rifle’s leather strap back over his shoulder and shot her a thunderous look. “Shut your nigger mouth! There ain’t nothing you can say that we want to hear.”

“How dare you, you bloody big bully!” Mercy shouted again before she could stop herself.

“Will you shut your hole? You’re testin’ my patience, God damn it!”

Mercy felt the heat in her face. Her blood was boiling. She couldn’t let this happen. She had to do something. “I’m warning you: leave them alone. I’m not giving you my money and then watching you take them into the bargain, you thieving swine.”

Lina’s hand cupped her cheek, where blood was pouring from a deep gash. She was silently weeping. Her eyes pleaded with Mercy not to do or say anything else.

Kyle spat out his tobacco. Mercy shuddered. He reminded her of Eddie. “Please don’t do this,” she begged him.

“Grab the old nigger,” Kyle told Joe. “And you – you’re lucky we don’t kill white women,” he said to Mercy.

Joe pulled Lina to her feet by her hair. Kyle clipped Seth around the ear. Both men turned their backs on Mercy, indifferent to her tears. They dragged Lina and Seth in the direction of the clearing. Their determined strides were so long that Lina had trouble keeping her balance. She was crying, and Seth was begging them to stop.

Mercy watched in horror until she couldn’t bear to watch another moment. She drew her gun and cocked it. “Stop! Stay right where you are!” she shouted. She had acted on pure instinct, but now that the weapon was in her hand, she froze with fear.

Joe and Kyle turned at the sound of Mercy’s shrill voice and laughed at her. Joe said, “Now what did you go and do that for? Are you aimin’ to shoot me and my friend – a little lady like you?”

“I’m not a little lady, and I don’t mind at all if I shoot you between the eyes. Take your hands off those niggers,” Mercy demanded.

The two men laughed again, clearly amused at Mercy’s youthful passion.

Mercy stared at each face and then finally looked into Lina’s eyes. “Run, Lina!” she screamed.

Lina jerked her arm free of Joe’s grasp and then stumbled backwards a few feet. She turned to run. Joe fired his gun, hitting her in the back, and she dropped to the ground with an excruciating moan.

Mercy pulled the trigger. Her bullet struck Joe in the chest. Meanwhile, Kyle was tussling for the gun with Seth, who had surprised him with an unexpected display of defiance. The young black boy fought valiantly to disarm Kyle. A shot rang out, and Seth fell to his knees, gripping his side.

Mercy aimed and fired, hitting Kyle in the centre of his forehead. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Joe on his belly with arm outstretched, reaching for his gun. She fired again, killing him with a close-range shot to the back of his head.

She stood for a second, and then her legs buckled. She dropped like a brick and panted for air. She was on all fours, staring at the ground, which darted up to meet her. The ringing in her ears clouded her mind of all reasonable thought. Flashbacks to the shootings engulfed her, and she winced, reliving them as though they were happening in the present. She shook her head from side to side, and the ringing became a soft whistle. “Lina … Lina … Oh God, please no!” she sobbed.

She crawled over to where Lina lay, her hands and palms grazed and cut on rough-edged stones. Lina’s legs lay awkwardly. Her hands cradled her belly, and she moaned softly through a mouth filling with blood. Mercy reached her. She took Lina’s hands and looked at the gaping hole in her stomach, bordered by a large patch of blood and looking black in the darkness. The bullet had gone all the way through. Blood was trickling outwards on the pebbles beneath her body. Mercy put pressure on the wound with both hands and stared into Lina’s rolling eyes. “Lina, Lina, I’m here. You’re going to be all right. I’ll get help …”

Lina focused her eyes on Mercy’s face and laboriously lifted her bloodied hand to stroke it. “You did good, but ole Lina’s done …” She coughed silently. Blood stained her teeth and trickled down her chin.

Mercy took Lina’s hand, raised it to her lips, and kissed it. “Don’t leave me, Lina. Please don’t go … Lina? Lina!” Mercy cried.

Lina coughed once more in a feeble attempt to clear her blood-cluttered throat. Her eyes widened. She took her last breath whilst staring into Mercy’s eyes and then exhaled it slowly to linger in the night air.

Mercy lay down beside Lina’s body, inconsolable with grief and shock, feeling physical pain. Her heart beat so fast it was making her dizzy. He mind filled up with thoughts and questions she couldn’t answer. What should she have done? was her first question. Why didn’t she shoot the two men when their backs were to her? She had hesitated. She had not wanted to fire. She never wanted to hurt them.

“Oh God, forgive me, forgive me … Oh God, no!” She wept like a baby, rocking Lina in her arms. Her wrenching sobs ripped from her throat and joined howling animals nearby with barely a distinction in sound between them. Eventually, she crawled over to Seth. He was dead. She sat on the ground, covering her face with her hands. She should have reacted quicker, she thought, reliving it all over again. Her lack of courage and strength had taken the life of the woman she adored and that of an innocent boy.

She struggled to her feet. She would never hesitate again. She had finally learned that in this life, you killed or were killed when guns were involved. There would be no more restraint. She would not be Mercy Carver with a gun in her hand. She would be a warrior, determined to survive. She would cull her fears, for precious lives had been snuffed out tonight because of her terror.

She walked to the river on unsteady legs and washed her hands. She removed Eddie’s old hat and ducked her entire head under the river’s water in an attempt to shock herself into waking up from her stupor and to put a stop to her weeping. She stood looking at the scene, trying her best to put chaotic thoughts into some semblance of order. Her first priority was to get out of here. The two men had been alone. Had there been more of them, they would have come running upon hearing the cracking of gunfire that had echoed into the air. The shots had sounded like thunderclaps and would have reached a good distance; therefore, she had to presume that the two men she’d killed were not part of a bigger group.

Her task now was to take Lina home to Charlie. The rifles belonging to the two dead soldiers were on the ground, still hanging loosely over the men’s shoulders. She left them where they lay. She went to the clearing and then led the horses and wagon back with her to the riverbank. She looked down at the man called Joe. He had killed Lina, and as far as she was concerned, there was no death horrible enough for the likes of him.

She stared at his face with loathing and then kicked every part of his body, not stopping until she found herself breathless. Tears once again rolled down her face. She almost wished that he still lived in order to inflict yet more pain, such was her hatred. She looked at him once more and spat on the back of his head just before she turned away.

She knelt by Seth and put Kyle’s gun into the palm of Seth’s hand, curling his fingers around it, and placing one of them on the trigger. “I’m sorry, Seth. I’m so sorry – please forgive me,” she whispered. She despised herself for blaming Seth for the killings, but it would answer any questions that might arise when the dead bodies were found. “Dead,” she said aloud, the familiar word slipping off her tongue with ease. She had killed five men in the space of a few months. The gates of hell would be waiting wide open for her. She would go straight there, without call for God’s judgement, for he now possessed more than enough evidence to convict her.

She stared once more into Lina’s beautiful face, failing to stop a throaty sob. For the first time in her life, she had lost a person she truly loved. Grief was beyond measure, she thought. There was no word to amply describe how she felt – desolation and sorrow fell short, as did sadness, for she had already experienced what was perceived to be those emotions. She felt physically sick. Her stomach was knotted so tightly that it constricted her breathing. If she relaxed her body and exhaled properly, she was sure a piercing, painful scream would rip its way out of her mouth. It would be irrepressible. She didn’t need to fear death anymore, she thought, for she was already in hell.

Chapter Seven

Listening to Elizabeth Stone’s childish weeping, Margaret Mallory was at the end of her tether. She wanted to batter the stupid woman into silence, but instead she displayed a sympathetic facial expression, which played a major role in her facade of required social niceties. These nuances were necessary tools in order to achieve her goals; however, constantly having to use them tested her patience to the very limit of endurance.

Margaret missed Madame du Pont. She found it increasingly difficult to adjust to the false character she was playing, where a compassionate ear, amiability, and feminine charms gained respect. Madam du Pont never had to conceal her thoughts or actions in her mansion, yet here she was having to put up with a mealy-mouthed pathetic bitch who in the old days would have been disposed of long before now.

Margaret’s forced retirement had not brought her the successful life she’d hoped for. The losses suffered in Liverpool were never far from her mind, for they had completely devastated her in so many ways. There was nothing she’d like better than to get on a ship back to Liverpool, where life had been so straightforward and people had been so easy to manipulate. But that life did not exist anymore, nor would it ever return to her.

She had unanswered questions, so many of them that they were driving her mad. There were no answers as to why a multitude of disasters continued to strike her in this new land. She would never know what or who had set her mansion on fire. Nothing more had been said or done about poor Eddie’s murder. The money that had been stolen on the night he’d been killed had never been recovered, nor had the slave, Nelson.

Her sister, Myrtle, and her continuing absence also perplexed her. She had expected her to turn up at the door at least a month ago. She’d sent letters every week since the beginning of February, begging for news on the Knightsbridge house sale. She had wondered lately if something unsavoury had befallen Myrtle, but she’d thrown that belief out the window, and she was now convinced that her dear sister had deliberately cut off all communication with her and was on the run with her well-earned money.

She would be ruined within months – no, less. It would be no more than a few weeks. Everything here cost much more than she’d expected. The rotten winter snow had almost collapsed the roof, and she’d paid a bloody fortune to get it fixed. Slaves were more expensive than she’d first thought, and she’d lost four of the buggers already! Two of her horses had been stolen along with her guns – and as for Sheriff John Manning, well that had ended as quickly as it had begun. He’d dropped her like a hot coal, without an explanation or by your leave. She’d wondered why at first, until Jacob bloody Stone came to mind. She was convinced that he’d told tales about her to John. She wouldn’t put it past him to do a rotten thing like that. She had no proof, but John Manning had given her the brush- off, and it wasn’t because he didn’t like what she gave him in bed. No, Stone was waging war – and that meant their little arrangement was well and truly over. She’d gut the bastard! Jesus, the list of disasters went on and on …

“Have some cake, dear,” she said to Elizabeth to break the silence.

She watched Elizabeth clasp yet another clean handkerchief in her delicate hands. Christ almighty, how many bloody handkerchiefs did she have? she wondered. Madam du Pont would never have been forced to befriend someone like Elizabeth. She was weak and gullible, pitifully so.

She sighed and ordered more tea, which seemed to cure all ails for spoilt Southern women. She banished her thoughts and concentrated entirely on Elizabeth and her continued weeping. “You really do need to eat something, dear,” she said. “You’ll be fit for nothing if you don’t get some food inside you.”

Elizabeth sobbed once more for good measure whilst wringing her hands and shaking her head as if trying to clear her confusion. “Why, Margaret, I declare, I don’t know what to do. What do you think I should do? Should I stay with Ma and Pa until I find my own house or should I move into Portsmouth immediately?”

“Well, dear, first of all, you have to decide where you want to live.”

“I don’t understand,” Elizabeth said petulantly. “I told you not two days ago that I want to live in Portsmouth – just off Court Road, near the church, because that’s where all the most expensive houses are. I do so want to be in a good neighbourhood.”

“Yes, of course you do. I remember now … Elizabeth, have you considered the ramifications of being a divorced woman?”

“Ramifications … I’m not sure what you mean with that word.”

Margaret sipped her tea and then put the cup back on the saucer. The stupid bitch didn’t even understand proper English. She folded her napkin and at the same time took on a pained expression. She was aware of Elizabeth’s eyes on her and that the girl was feeling uneasy. She looked up and shook her head in dismay. “Oh, my dear girl, I didn’t want to say anything to you, but seeing you in such a state is breaking my heart, so it is. I feel it’s only right that you should know …”

“Know what? Please, Margaret, you have to tell me. What are these … ramifications?”

“Well, when a divorced woman is beautiful, such as yourself, married women become envious and suspicious. It’s in their nature, dear. Jealousy knows no bounds, believe me, and they don’t call it the little green devil for nothing. What these married women don’t realise is that by constantly accusing their men of infidelity with other women, the poor cows end up doing more damage to their marriages than a newly divorced woman ever could. I know this through my own experience. I was younger then, of course, but after my dear husband passed, I lost friends. They suddenly saw me as a threat. I was cut off from all social gatherings – ostracised I was, as if I never existed. Elizabeth, I expect you’ll find this hard to believe, but I’m telling you that you won’t be accepted by these people here, not anymore. And there you have it. These are your ramifications.”

Margaret picked up her cup and watched Elizabeth’s ever-changing expression. She smiled to herself. The girl’s eyes were tearing up, just as she’d hoped they would. They were wide with fear, and if she weren’t mistaken, they’d overflow like a riverbank in spring any minute now.

“I’m sorry, Elizabeth. Maybe I should have held my tongue, but I think it’s better for you to be forewarned. Haven’t you noticed the way people are looking at you, turning their backs on you? I saw it for myself yesterday when we were at that restaurant. There were some women there who were talking about you, and what they said wasn’t very nice. You didn’t hear them, did you?”

Elizabeth shook her head as if unable to speak.

“I was ready to say something to them, but I didn’t want to make a scene.”

“Wh-what did they say?” Elizabeth sobbed.

“Well, only that they would have to keep away from you because a lot of men were going off to war and there wouldn’t be many left to go around. It was disgraceful. They said that you would stop at nothing to get at their husbands, so they were going to shut doors in your face … Wait, is that what they said? Yes, that’s right. Those were the exact words.”

Elizabeth blew loudly into her handkerchief and clutched her breast. “Why, that’s just not possible. I can’t believe it. I have so many good friends in the county. Everyone likes me! And anyhow, Ma and Pa would never allow folks to treat me like that. It will never happen …”

“Oh, but it has. You take my word for it.”

“Margaret, this is your fault! You convinced me to divorce Jacob – you told me that if I had money, I’d have power!” Elizabeth said, stamping both her feet. “You said it would be easy to pick and choose my next husband. Why do you have to acquaint me with such cruel conversations now that I’ve gone and left him?”

“Elizabeth, don’t you go blaming the messenger,” Margaret said harshly. “I’m telling you for your own good, and if I’m lying, God will strike me dead. Don’t you think it’s strange that your family have not asked you to live with them permanently? You’re alone and vulnerable, yet they made it quite clear that you should find your own way.” She paused. Elizabeth was grappling for words. “They’re embarrassed – that’s why.”

“They are not! My father has some problems of a financial nature. He’s selling his slaves, and I believe he wants to sell Pine Trees too. It has nothing to do with my state of affairs.” She blew her nose. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Pa doesn’t believe we will win this war. He thinks we will all be ruined and our slaves will be taken away. He’s very angry with my brothers for going off to fight because they’ve left him with all the responsibility. He suffers with gout, you know. Oh, thank goodness for Jacob’s money. At least I’ll have a roof over my head. Maybe I’ll ask Ma and Pa to live with me if they can’t sell theirs …”

Margaret panicked. Jesus Christ, that was the last thing she wanted to happen. “Oh, no, that’s a terrible idea,” she stressed. “You’ll never get respect that way. You have to keep your independence now. Living with your mother and father will only hold you back, you mark my words. Think about it: if you’re not invited anywhere, you’ll just end up a lonely woman looking after your parents for the rest of their lives. You’ll have to pay to keep them too cos who’s going to want to buy your father’s slaves when the black buggers might get freed by this Lincoln man? And what person in his right mind would want to invest in a plantation when those Yankees, as you call them, come down here and burn the towns and everything that surrounds them?

“You’re right, Elizabeth. I did encourage you to divorce that horrible man you married cos if he and his brother die, you’ll be left to fight for that plantation against that bitch, Belle – and remember, she’s got a baby, so she’d have more rights to it than you. My God, you could have ended up with nothing had you stayed with him!” Margaret paused for a second to watch the tears course down Elizabeth’s cheeks. Things were going well, she thought.

“I’m so humiliated. I’ve been treated badly by everyone it seems. My only consolation is the money he gave me. I’m still young and desirable. I can find another husband. I’m sure I can – don’t you think so?”

Margaret stood and then crossed to the couch. She sat beside Elizabeth and held her hand. She had been planning her next words for weeks, hoping against hope that this girl would be stupid enough to let go of the power she had as Jacob Stone’s wife. It had been touch and go for a while but all her urgings had finally paid off.

“I think there will be a queue of men wanting to be your new husband, dear, but you have to let go of the past. Your prospects are not good here in Portsmouth. I know this is hard for you, but we could never have foreseen these problems – your friends abandoning you, men going off to war, your mother and father wanting to use you and your money …”

“Oh, Margaret, I don’t know what to do – please help me! Everything has gone wrong. I could just kill that … that Mercy Carver woman. It’s all her fault! What if she does come back here? Who’ll listen to me now? If no one wants to speak to me, how can I tell folks what a horrible, horrible woman she is? And I do wish you hadn’t overheard my friends yesterday. Why, it’s disgusting after all I’ve done for the ladies of Portsmouth over the years. I hate them all. You’re my only true friend … Oh, I just want to die.”

“You don’t want to do that, not when you’ve got me … and you’ll always have me,” Margaret said.

“Then if I can’t die, I feel like running away and starting over. If I knew where to go, I would. I swear it on all that’s holy. I was only married for five minutes before she ruined everything. Why couldn’t she have died? I hate her!”

“Now, now, there, there. I hate her too. She destroyed my wonderful memories, remember. Shh, don’t cry. You know, I think it might be a good idea for you to start over somewhere else, as you said, for you don’t want to be reminded of her every day, do you? That’s what will happen if Mercy Carver is brought back here. She’ll parade around like a bloody cockatoo. They say Richmond is wonderful, with opportunities for women like us, who are all alone.”

“Richmond? But I could never leave Ma and Pa. It would break their hearts.” Elizabeth sobbed even harder.

“I understand. I just hate to think of your life being wasted. I don’t see any good coming for you if you stay here …”

“Maybe I should never have left Jacob …”

Margaret was losing all the patience she had mustered. It was time to put an end to this before she ended up punching the stupid bitch in the gob. “Elizabeth, please stop crying. You’ll stain that beautiful face. Now, listen to me: don’t give that Jacob Stone another thought. You could do so much better than him. He never wanted you, so why are you ruining your lovely eyes over him? Just think about all the unmarried officers in the Confederate Army. They’ll be in Richmond, and when this nasty divorce is settled, that’s where you will find yourself a husband of good standing – you might even meet a general!”

“Oh, I never thought of that,” Elizabeth said.

“Of course you didn’t, but that’s because you won’t look to the future. Well, I am, and it’s looking rosy from where I’m sitting.”

“What are you going to do?” Elizabeth asked.

“I’m leaving. I’m sorry for your troubles, and I wish I could remain here to assist you and your needs, but I have decided to go to Richmond. I want to live there for a while …”

“You can’t! I won’t survive here without your good guidance,” Elizabeth wailed.

Margaret sighed. “I’ll miss you too, dear, but I’m tired of Portsmouth and the nasty people who are saying terrible things about you. I did hope that you would decide to come with me. I suppose I’ll just have to go to all the balls and parties on my own. Portsmouth will be deserted, apart from women and a scattering of old men, but Richmond is a different kettle of fish.”

“If I did come with you, where would we live, Margaret? If I get Pa’s permission, he’ll insist I live in the best house or the best hotel in the city. I would want everyone to know I’m rich. After all, it’s not like I can’t afford to treat myself.”

“I agree with you there. You should take your money and enjoy it – you should buy a whole new wardrobe of clothes and then you’ll have men hanging on to your skirts for dear life. So you’ll think about it?”

“I believe I will, Margaret. As you so rightly said, I won’t have many attractive opportunities in Portsmouth, and I’m sure Ma and Pa won’t mind as long as I’m with you. Why, before I know it, I’ll be old and then no man will want to marry me.”

Chapter Eight

The graveyard, which sat on a hill at the edge of the town’s perimeter, was bathed in a soft spring morning glow. The dew twinkled like diamonds on damp grass and wet the mourners’ bare ankles and dress hems as they came to stand around the newly dug hole.

Mercy stood at the graveside with head bowed beside Charlie, standing rigidly to attention and steadfast in his resolve not to shed tears.

She watched him place a small bunch of Virginia bluebells on top of Lina’s coffin. He kissed the wooden lid and stepped back to watch it being lowered into the ground. He had barely spoken to her since her return yesterday morning with Lina’s body, but she surmised that his stoic silence was but a mask to hide his pain. Mercy sensed his desolation, but he would not speak of it. She had seen his eyes lose all light on her return and had done her best to give an honest account of all that had happened, but Charlie could not comprehend Lina’s murder. The blame for Lina’s death was hers, she’d told him, describing the moments before Lina died. She had drawn her Colt and had aimed it. She had wanted to save Lina and Seth, but she had hesitated to pull the trigger, and by the time she did, Lina was dead.

She pleaded with Charlie to say the words that would either vindicate or condemn her actions, for blaming her, she’d told him, would be better than his wall of morbid silence. She spoke of Lina’s bravery, of her desire to help Seth right to the bitter end, but Charlie remained voiceless, unable or unwilling to give her the peace of mind Mercy craved.

She thought back to the night she, Lina, and Seth left Charlie standing in the street, watching the wagon drive away. She had seen his fear and torment, not wanting Lina to go yet not able to stop her. It was as though a voice somewhere in the depths of his soul had already told him that he would never see his beloved Lina again. She recalled his last words to his wife: “I love you.” Mercy had witnessed the truth in those words many times, for they were clear to see in everything Charlie did or said when he’d been with Lina. That night, however, was the first time she’d actually heard him say those three short words aloud.

Only a small group of mourners had accompanied Lina to her final resting place. The town was almost deserted. All the townsfolk suspected that the Yankees, as everyone called them, were going to occupy Newport News. The woods and waters would soon echo with the tramping of boots along the great Warwick Road, they had all agreed.

Charlie was leaving the moment Lina was laid in the earth. He was going to the cabin – alone. He said he did not want company. He would not return until Northern boots left Southern ground, Mercy had overheard him say to the captain who had helped Nelson escape. She would not argue with Charlie on this occasion. She was leaving too, to Norfolk and Jacob. He was her home, her compass, and she should have gone with him when he’d asked her to.

Mercy had quickly read the letter brought to her by courier this morning. In it, Jacob had given her many reasons to leave this place, and she had finally agreed with him.

Lina had gone forever, and her arguments for remaining here were no longer valid, which she had already decided before receiving his missive. She did not want to be divided from Jacob by an occupying army for an indefinite period. She had come to realise that life was a vulnerable state in which all things should be enjoyed and savoured before death robbed a body of consciousness. She would go with the courier to Jack’s wife, Dolly, as Jacob requested, and she would remain there for the foreseeable future. She would not disappoint Jacob again with misfortunes brought about by her own hand, not after witnessing Charlie’s sorrow.

Mercy stood by the wagon as Charlie loaded the back of it with the rest of his belongings. He had a glum expression, and his eyes were dulled with pain. She checked the horses’ harnesses and then placed her hand on Charlie’s arm. She looked deep into his eyes and recoiled at the accusations she saw there. He was not going to forgive her. Her truthfulness had come from a genuine attempt to give him understanding, yet it had also condemned her as a coward. She waited patiently for him to speak, to say something that would give her heart some tranquillity.

Charlie stepped up and into the driver’s seat. He looked down at her tear-stained face and shook his head with a miserable sigh. “Mercy, I just don’t know what to say to you, girl. My Lina was as stubborn as a mule and could kick like one too. I loved her, but I’m so damn angry with her. You were with her when she drew her last breath, and it should have been me. You saw her eyes looking at you just before she closed them forever, when they should have been seeing me – I’ve no doubt you gave her comfort in those last moments, but I can find no ease in any of this. You’re the best damn shot I know, man or woman, yet when it came for the moment to deliver, you let my Lina down …”

“I’m so sorry, Charlie …”

“No, you will not speak. I’m going to give you some advice because you were as close to my Lina as it gets. You need to hear what I have to say and recall that I said it. If you ever have call to draw that gun on someone again, you make damn sure you fire it without hesitating. I lost my Corslina, and I ain’t gonna lose you too! I love you, girl, I do, but damn it, Mercy, I can’t give you the comfort you need. You’ll have to get it from Jacob.”

As Charlie’s arm reached down to stroke her face, he noticed that her eyes were swollen. He doubted she’d slept in days. His heart went out to her as she stood with trembling lips. He couldn’t leave her like this when he figured he might never see her again. He had not meant to be cruel; she was not to blame for Lina’s death. But he believed she had needed his opinion, for she was not the kind of woman who would sit still in someone’s house ignoring a war. He had come to know her – she was impetuous and fearless, and she would throw herself into another dangerous cause because that’s who she was. She would draw her gun again, and he had wanted to drill into her that she might have to fire the damn weapon to save her life.

His days would be over soon. His life’s blood would ebb away with sorrow and emptiness, and he’d be glad to see his end. He looked once more into Mercy’s face and smiled for the first time. “Get on your way to that man of yours. He loves you as much – every bit as much – as I loved my Lina, and that’s saying something.”

“Will I see you again?” Mercy asked.

“No, my sweet Mercy, you will not. This is a parting of the ways for us, but don’t you worry none about me. I’ve got my bears and my rabbits, and I’ll be just fine. You’ll always be in my thoughts, and I don’t mind tellin’ you I’ll miss you. Now let me go. You make a good life for yourself, Mercy Carver. You hold on to Jacob and don’t let anything or anyone come between you two.”

Chapter Nine

June 1861

Isaac Bernstein stood on the highest part of Fort Monroe’s stone wall, which had been designed and built with the purpose of repelling heavy attacks from a foreign foe. For 250 years, a fort had stood at the edge of the causeway. The first stronghold, Fort Algernourne, was erected in 1609 by British colonists and had served them for three years, before it burnt to the ground. This had always been a highly strategic position, no matter who had held it in the past, the commanding officer had told Isaac during his history lesson. Forts had come and gone on this very spot. They had been given various names. Some had been besieged, and the site had welcomed the Bantus, the first black people to set foot on American soil from Angola, Africa.

Isaac thought it a cruel irony that the foe on this particular occasion were his own countrymen, blatantly turning their backs on the United States and all they stood for, but he was not surprised that verbal conflict had turned to war or that he was once again in Virginia.

On his return to Boston in February, he resumed his surgical career under his father’s tutelage, with the aim of becoming a bone specialist. However, the threat of war had grown louder in March, and by the time Fort Sumter surrendered to the rebels, he had already enlisted in the army.

Being an army surgeon meant that he would not be asked to attend strategic meetings, nor would he fight unless, God forbid, he was called upon to do so in extenuating circumstances. But after being ordered to Virginia, his first objective had been to find out all he could about the long-term goals of the federal government.

It had not been easy to come by classified information, but thanks to his father, a noted surgeon who had treated the North’s elite for years, he had managed to ascertain the nature of certain military proposals made by General-in-Chief Winfield Scott, one of his father’s old acquaintances.

Scott’s plan had been put forward to President Lincoln and entailed bringing the states back into the Union by cutting the Confederacy off from the rest of the world. This, Scott stated, would be a more cohesive strategy than attacking its army in Virginia. His plans had already been executed and involved a blockade of the Confederacy’s coastline, using navy and troops from Fort Monroe to control the Mississippi River with gunboats. This blockade had now been joined by two more: the southern seaboard from the South Carolina line to the Rio Grande, Virginia, and North Carolina coasts.

Isaac looked out towards the Atlantic Ocean, to the east and the James River, bordered by Portsmouth and Norfolk to the south. His emotions were entangled in a bittersweet conflict, for he supposed he should be remembering five years’ worth of good memories here instead of focusing on a petty squabble on Portsmouth’s railway station platform with Jacob.

That day still lay heavy on his heart. Jacob had been one of the closest friends he’d ever had, yet their parting had been filled with veiled accusations, envy, and bitterness, which had resulted in a staid and indifferent farewell between them. Were he able to, he would turn the clock back and apologise for his crass behaviour and jealous rhetoric, which had involved a woman who had not been his to begin with. However, saying these words to Jacob would not change the way he felt about her.

He thought about Mercy often. His feelings for her were not those of an infatuated boy blinded by a comely form. No, he loved her with the heart of a man, suspecting that his affections had been and always would be unrequited, but at the same time allowing his eternal optimism to deem that after months apart, Mercy would have come to recognise the futility of her love for a married man.

He wished for an opportunity to apologise to Jacob for so many things. He would give anything to cross the river and correct his bullish conduct, which had turned a friend into an enemy and trust into suspicion. He wondered, as he stared at the James River, what Jacob and Hendry were doing right now. Were they looking across the water at this fort?  It was the incumbent North’s final bastion, standing alone at the enemy’s gates. Were they already on the march, slowly edging their way towards these walls in an attempt to drive the Union northwards?

He turned and looked downwards at the open parade ground sitting in the centre of a maze of buildings and filling up with reinforcements and supplies. He’d arrived only yesterday, following behind two trained Massachusetts volunteer militia infantry regiments, yet work was already under way to fortify the fort’s defences.

He shifted his gaze to the land. General Benjamin F. Butler, the fort’s commander, had ordered the men to dig trenches – long lines of them stretching from one side of the narrow causeway to the other. Two cannons sat at each end of the narrow strip of land facing eastwards towards Newport News, some eight miles away, and the town of Hampton, which was on their doorstep. He was not privy to all the officers’ meetings but he had been informed that the towns would be occupied within days and that this, for the moment, would be their land grip on the Virginia Peninsula.

He walked down the stone stairs to the level below and then climbed down the ladder to ground level. His man was there waiting for him. He smiled. Everywhere he turned, Nelson was standing to attention, ready to serve and please him. “Nelson, I want you to make sure that my uniform is ready for dinner tonight,” Isaac said. “I’d like to make a good impression on the other officers. I’m going to be here for quite a while and can’t have them thinking I’m green about the ears.”

“Yes, sir, Mr Isaac. I make sure you look like a fittin’ soldier.”

Nelson heard the snap of a gun being fired and spun his head to the left and then to the right of him. He was uneasy in his new surroundings. For starters, there were too many white folks with guns, he thought. He had struggled long and hard to get to Boston in search of a new life, a peaceful life, where his skin colour would not determine who he was or what he was capable of doing. He thought about his journey to Boston a lot, and every time he recalled it, he shuddered with fear.

Bandits had stopped him. They had taken some of his money but not all, thanks to Miss Mercy, who had advised him to keep most of his money in his socks. The bandits had punched him in the face. After kicking him in the ribs, they had left him on the ground hugging his belly; that had been his first taste of freedom. Later he’d been questioned by white folks who had insisted on seeing his freedom papers. Had he not been in a public place, he felt sure that they would have hauled him away to a slave auction back in the South. He was thrown off a carriage, even though the driver agreed to take him and his money. He was refused bed and board on three occasions and had slept in fields and empty barns, feeling like a slave on the run once again.

He had concluded that freedom was a wonderful notion but at times a theory, absent of reality. He also thought that being alone and having to fend for himself was not the great adventure he had hoped for but was instead a daily struggle to stay alive and safe.

“It don’t seem right, me being back here, Mr Isaac, on account of me bein’ a free man. But you can count on ole Nelson,” he said, mulling his thoughts aloud.

“I didn’t think I would be back here so soon either, Nelson,” Isaac said, smiling at him. “I guess we can thank the Virginians for this situation of ours. Tell me honestly – are you afraid? Do you wish you had stayed in Boston with my father?”

“No, sir, Mr Isaac. I’s right where I’s meant to be. Miss Mercy done tol’ me you were a good man – she done tol’ me an’ tol’ me. Said I be in good hands, and I sure am. You done let me see the white folks’ world. I got to eat in a restaurant. You done give me a job, and I done got dollars. I done walked down a street beside you, and some white folks even called me Mr Stuart. I done got to make a decision for the very first time, and I’s real proud to be with you here, Mr Isaac. Yes, sir, I reckon I ain’t never been no prouder.”

The two men walked towards the infirmary, which sat in a block behind the row of buildings overlooking the parade ground. Isaac looked at its shabby facade, engrained with dirt and eroded by sea salt. It was lined with small windows and framed with cracked wood holding panes of dirty glass. He was going to be here for the foreseeable future, he thought, and the first thing he’d see to was the infirmary’s cleanliness.

“We have a lot of work to do, Nelson,” Isaac said. “If I’m to be the fort’s surgeon, I’m going to make damn sure this place is cleaned properly. It was a good day indeed when you arrived at my doorstep, but you might not think so now. You’re going to be working harder than you ever did in the cotton fields, and I’m sorry about that.” Nelson’s arrival in Boston at the end of April had been a joyful day for him. He had read Mercy’s letter more times than he could count since then. It sat inside the cover of his Bible, one of his most treasured possessions, and he brought it out at least once a day, a reminder that Mercy was alive and well.

Isaac looked at Nelson’s black face, grinning with the elation of freedom still new to him. He envied Nelson. He’d been fortunate to come to know Mercy better than he had or Jacob had. Nelson had spent months with her, surviving, laughing, crying, and sleeping beside her. On that journey, they had shared experiences that he would never have. As he walked to his office, he realised that he begrudged Nelson and Mercy’s relationship. He had learned that Mercy was alive and well, and that should have been enough to satisfy him, yet proof of life was not enough to satisfy his incessant craving for her nor dampen his resolve to possess her, body and soul.

“Nelson, where do you think Miss Mercy is right now?” he asked. “Do you believe she might still be in Newport News?”

“I don’ reckon I know, Mr Isaac. She talked all day long ’bout getting back to the man she left behind. I done told her that she should forget him, on account of him being married, but she just say they meant to be together. Now, Mr Charlie done tell Miss Mercy to stay away from that Mr Jacob Stone, but Miss Mercy say she love him and he should know better.”

Isaac smiled to mask his disappointment. “Know better about what?”

“I dunno – about love, I reckon. Love sure must be a powerful thing, the way Miss Mercy be goin’ on about it.”

“It is, Nelson, and when you have it, it’s not easy to give up. I believe it may be a cursed pursuit for some folks.”

Nelson didn’t know any more about Mercy’s whereabouts than he, Isaac, did. There was still a sliver of hope that she had decided against going back to Jacob, he thought. He would cling to that hope.

“Nelson, I have paperwork to be getting on with. You best get on with cleaning those rooms, like we talked about, and, Nelson, if a soldier stops you and asks what you are doing and where you’re going, you tell them that you are a free man and that you are Major Bernstein’s orderly. You understand?”

Chapter Ten

For over a month, the Ninth Virginia Volunteer Cavalry Regiment had vigorously trained in Portsmouth, under the command of Colonel Godwin. Its members came from the counties of Roanoke, Chesterfield, Isle of White, Nansemond, Lunenburg, Dinwiddie, and Norfolk. They were an enthusiastic bunch of men, but many had turned up bedraggled in well-worn farm clothing, with unsuitable guns and without the cavalry’s most important requirement, a horse.

Jacob and a few other large plantation owners had discussed finances during the first week of training, and all had agreed that it was their duty to purchase horses for the poorer farmers in the regiment, for most of them owned no more than a couple of old beaten mules. The men also had to be outfitted with uniforms, it was declared, as there was a prideful reluctance by the officers to face the Union Army looking like a bunch of badly dressed country boys.

The bulk of the Ninth had no orders to deploy; however, on this June morning, Jacob, along with fifty other cavalrymen, was preparing to leave Portsmouth for Yorktown, which sat on the northern side of the James River. Colonel Godwin, who would accompany them, gave no solid reasons as to why this particular advance party was going, except to say that their comrades up the bay were on the march and that some of the Ninth had been asked to join them.

Mercy patted Jacob’s black horse, Thor, on the nose whilst whispering softly in its ear. She had been dreading this moment. She had seen it in her mind’s eye many times, but now, with her heart filled with poignant farewells, she realised that reality was much more painful than her imaginings could ever be.

She looked at the other horses, well groomed and destined for battle, and wondered how many would fall or be crushed, shot, or stabbed with sabres. Her eyes searched out Jacob in a moment of panic, and they found him some distance away in a light-hearted conversation with a fellow officer. She watched his animated face break into a smile, and her heart filled with love. God was cruel, she thought, for although he had given her and Jacob these past months together, he was once again tearing them apart this morning.

Mercy stood alone and was well aware that the other women present were deliberately shunning her. Mercy had grown accustomed to the Portsmouth ladies and their determination to make her an outcast, yet their cruel jibes about Jacob Stone and his whore never failed to hurt her feelings.

She looked across the street and saw Elizabeth’s mother standing with her husband and a group of matronly women who were in different stages of weeping, hugging, and kissing their sons goodbye. Two of Mrs Coulter’s sons were also leaving, yet their mother seemed more intent on making Mercy feel uncomfortable with blatant hateful stares than in receiving comfort from her sons’ farewell embraces. Mercy lifted her chin in defiance and turned away from the Coulter family. She could put up with Mrs Coulter’s spitefulness, but what Mercy could not abide was having a bad reputation borne out of an old woman’s personal and biased hatred.

As far as Mrs Coulter was concerned, Mercy was the woman who had disappeared for months, only to appear again in the arms of her daughter’s husband. It was rumoured that Mercy was an infamous prostitute who had fled from England under suspicious circumstances. There were also women, starved for excitement, claiming that she was a witch involved in the cults. She had heard all about the utterances and gossip, yet she could not blame the Portsmouth ladies or Mrs Coulter, for they were ignorant of the truth. The fault for all the dreadful words spoken lay at Madam du Pont’s feet, Jacob had insisted, and Mercy had agreed with him.

Upon her arrival in Norfolk, she had learned that she would not remain there but would instead be joining Jacob in Portsmouth until his departure for the front. Madam du Pont, Jacob told her, had spirited Elizabeth away to Richmond and had left even the Coulter’s in the dark concerning their daughter’s exact whereabouts. Mercy had mixed emotions regarding this shocking news. Lately she had been happier than at any other time in her life, lying in Jacob’s arms every night in Belle and Hendry’s Portsmouth home and grateful that this arrangement had been made possible by Hendry and Belle, who had offered to chaperone them for as long as necessary. But at the back of her mind were nagging worries about Jacob’s wife. Mercy had no love for Elizabeth, but she well knew Madam du Pont’s cruelty and could only imagine that Jacob’s wife was being manipulated and cheated out of her newfound wealth.

Jacob had requested leave in order to bring Elizabeth back, such was his sense of duty towards his soon-to-be ex-wife; however, the country was at war, so the task of bringing Elizabeth home had fallen to Elizabeth’s father. Mr Coulter had returned a week later lamenting that his daughter had been found but was extremely happy living in a rented house in central Richmond. According to him, Elizabeth had absolutely no intention of leaving Richmond in the near future. In fact, she was thinking of purchasing a house there.

Mercy waved to Jacob, striding towards her in shiny new boots to match his fresh grey uniform and hat with gold tassels. He wore a gold sash today. She had made it for him after purchasing material in the haberdashery store, which had profited greatly in sales of military attire, from gloves to coats. She had never seen him look so handsome. “Is it time? Have you said your farewells?” she asked.

“It is time, my darling. So where is my brother?” Jacob asked worriedly. “He promised to be here by noon.”

“Are you sure he’s not at sea already? You know how sudden things can change.”

“He might be. He did say he might not get back today. If he doesn’t get here before I leave, I want you to tell him that I’ll miss him – and tell him not to break the damn ship.”

Jacob grinned and kissed Mercy’s hand. He was terrified of leaving her alone, yet he was determined to say goodbye to her with a smile and a kiss. He could ill afford to display the anxiety that was cramping his stomach and making him feel as sick as a dog, for that would only cause her more worry. Even so, he did feel sick and painfully aware that he was scared of what was to come in the days, weeks, and months ahead.

He looked at Mercy’s sweet face searching for Hendry. He could happily gaze at her forever. He loved the way her eyes shone with youthful passion, her soft playful smile, and her unending desire to learn about his country. He not only loved her, he thought, watching her; he also admired her. She had been treated abominably since her arrival in Portsmouth, yet she had faced the hatred and spiteful comments thrown at her with stoic patience and dignity. She had put the ladies of Portsmouth to shame as far as he was concerned.

Madame du Pont came to Jacob’s mind, and as always, anger joined the thought. Her lies had been the catalyst for Mercy’s latest troubles. Du Pont had spread falsehood after falsehood until a ripple of rumours had become a tidal wave of attacks on Mercy’s character.

Du Pont’s death would alleviate Mercy’s suffering, Jacob thought, but it would not dismiss the damage the old whore had already caused – that was now irreparable. The world and everyone in it would be better off without the vile creature, yet for some reason, the Lord often chose to protect evil. The good often died at an early age while monsters roamed for decades upon decades, until their outer shells were as black and crippled as the soul itself. Maybe God put evil on Earth to challenge humanity’s resolve. Whatever his reason, Madame du Pont had outstayed her welcome in this world!

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to Stone Plantation?” he asked Mercy, who was now looking decidedly uncomfortable in the crowd.

“No, as much as I would love to be with Belle and Grace, I’m unwilling to drag Belle into this quagmire of filthy lies. Belle pleaded with me. She assured me that no amount of malicious gossip would affect her, but I can’t do it – I won’t. Anyway, I’m looking forward to getting to know Norfolk. Dolly will be good company, and Jack and Hendry might be home from time to time to give us news. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Jacob took her in his arms and felt the lump in his throat. He could barely swallow. Her head leaned against his shoulder, and he looked down at her face, partially hidden, as it pressed against his chest. He cupped her chin in his hand and forced her to look up at him. Her lips trembled with sadness. He brushed them lightly with his mouth half open and then kissed her greedily. If only this moment did not have to end, he thought. If he could take her with him, hold her every night, and wake up with her lying beside him, he would. In a perfect world, he wouldn’t spend a day without her, for in that idyllic life, he would never have to worry about losing her again. He kissed her deeper, knowing that they would be ripped apart at any moment. He had cried for Mercy many times, but he had never felt the gut wrenching agony of separation until now.

“Mount up, men!” the colonel barked loudly. “Those Yankees are not going to wait for us. We ride!”

Mercy tore herself from Jacob’s arms and gazed up at his eyes, bright with unshed tears. She kissed him again and then reluctantly stepped back to watch him mount Thor. “I love you, and I will see you soon. If you don’t come back in quick measure, I will come find you. You know I will.” She sobbed.

“Stay out of trouble, my love. I suspect that if it doesn’t find you, you’ll want to go looking for it. Stay safe, darling. I love you too, so very much.”

“Move out! Move out!” the sergeant roared this time.

The bugles played a gay tune. They were accompanied by side drums and a base drum which sounded like a giant’s heartbeat. Mercy stood amongst the waving, cheering crowd and watched the Portsmouth men ride off to war. She walked towards Jacob’s carriage, blinded by tears and uncaring of sly and hateful glances.

Chapter Eleven

Jacob sat underneath a tall Virginia oak just a few feet from the river. It would be sundown soon, but the sun’s blazing heat and blinding rays were still oppressive. The ground was hot and hard caked dirt. A light breeze kicked up dust, stinging his tired eyes. The tree afforded him some shade. It also made the task of cleaning his weapons that much more bearable. His handgun, a five-shot back-action revolver, had been issued to as many cavalry officers as possible, with the hope of making it the standard weapon of choice for all cavalrymen at some point in the future. Most of the men still handled old smooth-bores muskets and rifled muskets, which were chiefly percussion weapons. The past couple of months had been dedicated to improving speed and precision with these rifles, which were heavy and time consuming to load and reload.

Jacob put his rifle aside and once again wondered how the hell the Confederacy were going to come up with all these promised weapons before lives were put in danger because of damaged and inadequate guns. He cast his eyes around the once-peaceful landscape, marred now by the sight of soldiers, tents, trenches, and cannons. He shut out the noise of men arguing good-naturedly over a game of dice and others talking about family and home. He listened to the soothing sound of river water running over pebbles and stones. The water had been warm enough to give him the bath he’d craved, his first in over three days. It had left him feeling refreshed and slightly more at ease in his surroundings. There was nothing worse than smelling your own stink, he thought.

He and the other regiment members with him had arrived in Yorktown to the news that advances were already under way due to the growing threat from Federals at Fort Monroe. Thus they had been ordered to join the force already in place at the newly fortified areas on and around Warwick Road. The strong advanced positions sat mostly on the north side of a branch of the Back River at Big Bethel Church, about thirteen miles south of Yorktown and eight miles from Hampton. A smaller outpost had also been established at Little Bethel Church, which was about the same eight miles distance from both Federal camps.

It was imperative that the entire peninsula be taken and held by the Confederacy; this had been drummed into them, for should they fail here, a massive force of men from the North would come, open the gates to the rest of the southern states, and lay waste upon them.

George Coulter rested his head against the same tree trunk. His legs were stretched out, arms folded across his chest and shoulders relaxed. Jacob stood for a moment and stretched his body. Cleaning and priming weapons was a tiresome task and not one he enjoyed. He looked at George out of half-closed eyelids. He liked George. He was the best of the Coulters and the only one of them not to stab him in the back. His divorce proceedings were going better than he’d hoped. Elizabeth had signed all the papers bar the final one, which would set him free. She had received the settlement money and was almost out of the picture, yet the Coulters had demanded even more money from him, insisting that he pay compensation for the shame they had suffered at his hands. George had spoken up against his much older siblings and parents, who were almost bankrupt. “You cannot steal from a successful man to cover your own inadequacies in business,” he’d told his father.

Jacob had refused to pay the Coulters a dime. He would be regarded now as a rogue, a hard-hearted son of a bitch who had dumped his wife for a prostitute. But somehow the only part of that analysis that bothered him was the word prostitute. If he got out of this fight alive and made it back to Portsmouth in one piece, the Coulters would find out just how much of a son of a bitch he really was.

“Jacob, when do you think it will happen?” George said.

Jacob sighed. He was growing impatient with men asking that damn question. He thought about how to answer George. The Yankees would be on the move any time now; he was sure of it. They knew where the Confederate lines were, and they would not want to miss an opportunity to push them back. They probably had eyes on them already and were getting ready to march from Fort Monroe. Everyone knew as much as he did, yet the same question arose every five minutes, and every five minutes he tried to answer it in a different way. He felt drained of energy, waiting and wondering, not to mention feeling exhausted by his men’s incessant ponderings on battle.

“I’ll tell you what I’ve told every other man here in our brigade: Don’t ask so many damn questions that I can’t answer. Just be ready with rifles that fire and sabres that are sharp enough to split a man’s head from his body. Asking about when we’re going to be attacked is not the question, young George. The questions should be: Do I have enough rounds in my belt pouch? Is my canteen full of water? And here’s another important one: Are my damn boots comfortable enough should I have to make a run for it?”

“Gosh dang, Jacob, should you be talking about running?” George exclaimed. “What’s Colonel Godwin going to think if he hears talk like that?”

Jacob laughed. “I reckon he’s going to be thinking the same thing, George. There ain’t no shame in retreating if it’s called for. I’d rather live to fight another day than get my ass shot off first day out. Wouldn’t you?”

“You scared? I’m scared. I got moths flying around in my gut just thinkin’ about them Yankee, sons of bitches.”

“We’re all scared. Any man here who says he’s not is a liar. But we’re on home ground. We have good cover. Anything that comes near us will be cut down in that clearing there. I reckon that before long we might even march on Fort Monroe and kick those Yankees back to the North to lick their wounds.”

“I sure hope so, Jacob. I hope you’re right. We’ve got the good Lord on our side, I reckon. We didn’t ask for this fight. We only asked to keep what is rightfully ours. I figure when those Yankees see what we’re made of, they’ll hightail it out of Virginia ’cause there ain’t nothin’ meaner than a Virginian who’s all riled up.”

Jacob looked towards the sparse treeline sitting directly in front of him. Trenches were well dug in. Men were already manning them. Heavy artillery, a couple of cannons, and rifles were dotted around the lines and standing erect against the trench’s dirt walls like sculptures on display. Men from North Carolina and Georgia, already hardened by the march to this position, were laughing, talking, and writing letters home on scraps of paper. Wagons with canvas covers sat idle in rows, with ammunition and supplies under the hoods. A few tents were set up for officers and command posts. A medical unit prepared surgical instruments, intent on making them as clean as possible. Niggers, being used as aides to some of the higher-ranking officers from other states, walked around with sullen expressions of barely veiled resentment. Horses were tethered to long roped lines, his own horse, Thor, among them. They would do battle within hours, Jacob secretly thought – he’d never felt so scared in his entire life.

“George, go find something to do. I’m going to get some shut-eye,” Jacob said. He twisted his head. The tree trunk obscured George’s face, but he could see his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. They were trembling. “Tell Sergeant Tybrook to come to my tent – and, George, remember, there ain’t nothing worse than waiting for battle. I reckon our first fight will calm us all down. We’ll be wondering what all the fuss was about after it’s over, believe me. Just remember what I told you in Portsmouth. You stick to me like a fly round shit. You do what I do at all times. You got it?”

“I got it, Jacob.”

“All right, I’m turning in. It’ll be dark soon, and after I talk to Tybrook, I aim to have at least one good night’s sleep before we’re thrown into hell. I suggest you do the same.”

Chapter Twelve

General Butler, commander of Fort Monroe, devised a plan for a coordinated dawn attack on the Confederate front lines near Bethel Church.  Isaac, accompanied by Nelson, walked back to his office from the meeting and felt his legs trembling with trepidation. Having just received orders to march, he now wondered what to take with him and what he might find on the battlefield. This scenario, he told himself, had always been a possibility, but it had been, according to General Butler on his arrival at the fort, a slim prospect and one which would probably not transpire. The general’s words floated through Isaac’s mind now as he walked into one of the infirmary’s treatment rooms.

“Your duties will lie solely with the everyday medical care of the soldiers within these walls. We will have men enough to fight but what we don’t have are enough doctors to mind the men at this fort.” What had happened to change the General’s mind was not for him to question, of course, but he believed that his colleague and superior, Colonel Driscoll, a war veteran, was decidedly more equipped to deal with battle injuries than he was.

“Nelson, we march tonight,” he said, hurriedly putting his supplies together in satchels. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but General Butler has seen fit to entrust us with caring for the men going into battle. So what do you say?”

Nelson was glum in the face. He had no desire to leave the fort. He had enough work to do here, he thought, what with all them niggers arriving here on the run and sick soldiers to mend. The last thing he wanted was to go out there and meet those slavers just itching to shoot a nigger. “Well, I ain’t gonna be no use to nobody. I ain’t never had no cause to fire no gun, Mr Isaac,” he said. “Miss Mercy got mighty worrisome I might do myself harm with a gun in my hand. She say I ain’t got the disposition for violence. I got no rifle anyhow …”

“It’s all right, Nelson,” Isaac assured him. He tried not to smile at Nelson’s earnestness. “With a bit of luck, we’ll be at the rear of the columns, behind the men with the guns. Soldiers don’t want their doc getting shot at, now do they? We’ll find ourselves a good spot and dig ourselves in. You just remember that if anyone gives you an order to advance without me, you tell them what I always tell you. You’re my orderly and you don’t leave my side.”

There were two columns. Isaac and Nelson marched towards the rear of the left-hand column, alongside the ambulance wagons and field orderlies. The Union command wanted to advance during the middle of the night and catch the enemy out before dawn. Isaac couldn’t fathom why this was so important. If anything, it invited more danger. It was so dark that he couldn’t make out more than the ground beneath him and boots of men in front of him. It wasn’t as though the war were going to be won by mid morning because of this one skirmish, he thought.

After picking up more men in Newport News, the two columns took to Warwick Road. As they marched, Isaac found himself thinking about explosions, the deafening sound of gunfire, smoke, and blood. It was funny, he thought, how easily the mind could imagine such things when it had never actually experienced anything remotely similar. “God damn it, this has got to be the worst possible time to march on an enemy,” Isaac murmured to no one in particular after hitting his foot against a heavy stone on the road.

He moved out of formation and swung his body up onto the closest ambulance by hanging on to a hand railing next to the driver’s bench. Why walk when I can ride? he thought, now sitting beside the driver. He looked ahead with a better view of the lines and noted straight away that the two columns had split. He presumed they were closing in on Bethel, but apart from seeing a thinned outline of marching men directly in front of him, he couldn’t see a damn thing to give any indication of where they were.

“What’s them noises over there?” Nelson asked Isaac, nervously walking beside the wagon. He pointed to the right. Isaac looked and saw only trees but nodded his head. “I hear it. There are men in among those trees. They’re close.”

“Our men?”

“I don’t know. They could be. I reckon it’s the other column.”

“What if it ain’t them? What if it’s them Southerners?” Nelson said, panicking.

“I don’t know!” Isaac said, harshly this time. “Just keep your ears open and stop talking, damn it.”

Isaac heard murmurings in the ranks. The men had heard noises too. He could feel their nervousness infecting him. There was definite movement on the right, some sixty feet away. Tree branches were swaying from side to side in the wind, waving at them, taunting them like black giants. The leaves rustling sounded like soft moaning. He cursed the darkness again. It was impossible to see anything clearly.

The first shot fired, cracking into the air. Isaac hunched down, the top half of his body bent forward and his head resting on his knees.” He was a sitting duck up here, he thought. “Keep as close to the wagon as you can,” he said to Nelson as he jumped down from the wagon. Better to be on the ground shielded by the wagon than sitting on it like a firing target, he thought.

“Who that firin’ at us?” Nelson, asked.

Isaac’s head jerked up at the sound of a voice shouting from the direction of the trees. “Boston!” it shouted. “Boston!” He then heard this for a third time. He listened for a voice in his column to shout something back, but when none came, he turned to a sergeant standing next to him.

“Why is he shouting Boston?”

“Damned if I know, sir,” the sergeant answered. “Don’t mean nothin’ to me.”

Another shot fired on their column, then another. Bullets began whistling past them in quick succession. The line broke. Someone shouted, “Take cover!” Men hit the ground and lay on their bellies. Some were shooting recklessly into the darkness towards the trees. Isaac and Nelson used the wagon to shield their bodies and waited for orders to come down the line.

Isaac took a couple of strides forwards and looked over to his right. Fire lit the sky. Smoke hovered around misty figures, visible thanks to the gunfire. Soldiers were running in and out of the treeline dressed in what looked like grey uniforms. Isaac didn’t care who they were. The bastards were firing at them, and that was enough to make his heart race with fear. Confederates, Isaac decided. They had been caught out by the enemy, who had probably stalked them for miles. He saw a man just in front of him fall silently to the ground. A pool of blood surrounded his head. He had his first war casualty.

Rifles were being loaded, fired, and reloaded. The Union field commander, Ebenezer W. Peirce, was pushing the men on, urging them forward, even as a few of them fell. Those designated with the task carried as many injured and still bodies lying on the ground to the ambulances. They were on broken and swampy ground, difficult for men to manoeuvre but even harder for the ambulances to advance. The column halted. They dug themselves in, using the thick woods behind them. “What’s the other column doing, Lieutenant Greble?” Isaac shouted to the regular army man.

“Damned if I know, sir. I can’t pinpoint their position. Reckon they must be behind us. Hold your position, Major. You’ll hear us hollering for you if you’re needed up the line.”

Isaac nodded, found himself a reasonably sheltered spot, and drew his gun. Nelson lay beside him. “Miss Mercy sure was right. I ain’t got no stomach for violence,” he said.

Chapter Thirteen

Jacob woke up to the sound of a bugle call and immediately heard gunfire. It was just past dawn, and the noise of boots running back and forth on hard-crusted ground sounded like thunder. Jacob stood just beside his tent flap, tying on the sash which Mercy had given him, and stared up at the patchy red sky, not yet painted in the sun’s golden rays.

George appeared, wide-eyed and fearful. His questioning expression was that of a young child asking for guidance. Jacob smiled in an attempt to put him at ease. “Well, George, guess this is it. I’m ready for the Yankees, are you?”

“I’m ready, sir,” George answered, “but I’ll admit I ain’t sure what I’ll do if I come face-to-face with one of them.”

Jacob put his hand on George’s shoulder and grinned boyishly. “Well, it’s like this: You shoot the ass of anyone who points a gun at you. You make sure that your eyes and ears are looking and listening for a body who might not be pointing a gun at you but who might have it in his mind to do just that. You remember at all times to keep your head down in one of those trenches out there and think of nothing else but keeping the bastards back.”

George nodded and straightened himself. “You’re wanted in the officers’ tent. I’ll walk with you and wait outside – if that’s all right.”

“You do that. You keep me in your sights today. I’ll make sure you’re in mine, and when this is over, we’ll have coffee and cornbread. You got it?” Jacob smiled again.

“I got it, sir.

Jacob was in position on the forward line. The trench he and George were in had a depth of about four feet, which made it uncomfortable to sustain a firing position in a half-crouched, half-standing state. The orders had been clear: stay under cover, draw the Federals to their position, and cut them down. His eyes scanned the clearing in front of their dugout. Shouts were growing louder. Enemy orders to advance were rising with the wind behind them.

The first shells were fired and landed about twenty feet in front of Jacob. He should not have been surprised, but nonetheless, his heart thumped wildly in his chest. “You keep that rifle loaded for me, Private,” Jacob said to George. “When I’m out of ammo, we switch, just like they taught us. Keep your head down. There ain’t no reason for you to see what’s happening. That’s my job. Just make sure I’ve got ammunition ready to fire.”

“Yes, sir,” George panted. “I don’t see Nathan.”

“Your brother will be fine. Ain’t no time to start looking for him, you hear?” Jacob said, hardening his voice.

The Federals came from the trees firing indiscriminately at nothing in particular. “They must have thought we’d be standing in line waiting to get gunned down,” Jacob said to George. “Their damned arrogance will be the end of them here.”

After what seemed like a never-ending flurry of crossfire, Jacob heard Colonel Godwin order an advance. This is it, Jacob thought. This would be the test of his courage. He would know his measure as soon as he got out of his well-sheltered trench and onto the hard shell ground above. “Forward with me!” he yelled to his Portsmouth members. “Sabres ready and guns loaded! Let’s drive these Yankee sons of bitches back!”

Jacob’s head spun with the noise of shells, bullets whistling past him, and men yelling like wild animals. He wasn’t sure whom he was shooting at, but as far as he was concerned, anyone who was coming towards him was a target. He lost his direction and footing in a thick fog of fire. After a while, the heavy mist cleared just in time for Jacob to see the first Federal retreat. First a regiment left the field, leaving a small force that was still attempting to take Confederate positions. They too were forced back with a ferocious volley of shellfire. As Jacob watched the enemy run back, leaving the clearing empty, bar their dead and wounded, he wondered if all battles would be like this – a racing heartbeat, adrenaline pumping through his veins, fire, smoke, and anguished cries of injured men.

He ran back towards the trench. It was no more than thirty feet in front of him, yet every step towards it seemed long and endless on legs which could barely hold his body. When he reached it, he hunkered down with George. The fight was all but over. Colonel Godwin had ordered his men back, leaving only a few men from Georgia chasing the last of the lagging Federals off the battlefield.

The sound of gunfire abated, bar a few shots fired by overzealous Confederate soldiers. Jacob’s head rested against the hard soil trench wall. He took a few long breaths and turned to George beside him. “I know what hell looks like now,” he said, “and it’s not as bad as I thought it would be.” He looked about him. From his position, he saw very few grey coats lying face down or bloodied. “We were lucky, George,” he said. He looked at George’s young face, blackened with gunpowder, and slapped him on the back. “We whipped them good. I just hope to God the Yankees don’t learn any lessons from this fight. I’d hate to see any man from Portsmouth looking like those poor dying bastards lying over there …”

Jacob rode with the Portsmouth Cavalry Brigade towards Yorktown. In front of him and his men sat General Magruder, straight as an arrow on a fresh horse, nodding every now and again at something his aide said. Behind the Portsmouth men were militias from North Carolina and Georgia.

They were an impressive fighting force, Jacob thought, but there had been many more Federals than Confederates this morning. From what he’d heard, the Confederates had been outnumbered almost two to one. Trenches and good planning had saved him and his men from the brunt of oncoming fire. The Yankees, on the other hand, had been forced to fight in the open, and this had been their biggest mistake.

He didn’t know how many men had been injured on the Confederate side, but he had been told that one man had been killed, a Private Wyatt of North Carolina. His body was in the back of an ambulance wagon. He was the Confederate’s first casualty, and his name would probably be remembered.

As they were leaving the field, Jacob had wondered what would happen to the dead and dying enemy still there. Would they be left to rot or was there some kind of gentlemanly code which dictated that all men had the right to a decent burial, regardless of side? He supposed all his questions would be answered as time passed and war became more familiar to him.

There were a few Yankee prisoners being dragged back with the column. Where would they be taken? Richmond, he decided. They were lucky bastards. They would be locked up. Their marching days were over, as was the threat of dying.

Jacob was not an experienced tactician, but he fully agreed with General Magruder’s decision to withdraw to Yorktown and the Confederate defensive lines. There, he imagined, they would wait until a full force of men arrived before going into another fight. This morning had been a relatively small skirmish. There would be much bigger and bloodier battles ahead. When and where would the next one be was the question floating around in his mind.

He turned in his saddle to George and Nathan, riding behind him. “We’re still in one piece,” he said. “We’re dirty, dusty, and tired, but we’re just fine. I told you we would whup the Yankees, did I not?”

George grinned at him with youthful enthusiasm. “You did, and we did it with half their number. I reckon they don’t have the stomach for a fight, not like us Southerners. We were born to fight them and beat them because of our pure Southern bloodline and our righteousness. Them northerners ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of immigrant mongrels. They ain’t no match for us, I reckon.”

Jacob smiled, thinking he wouldn’t be the man to knock George off his pedestal. Before leaving the field, he had listened to some of the men shout obscenities at the retreating Federals. They had taunted the Northerners with Southern overinflated pride, but they had only been moderately successful this morning because the Yankees had not gotten past them. They had put up a good defensive fight against a stronger force, Jacob thought, and they had driven the enemy back to where they had come from. But these were early days and too soon to be talking about victory.

Chapter Fourteen

Mercy panted so hard that she thought her chest would explode. She found it difficult to utter a sound. Her dry throat hurt with each laboured breath. She ran through thick bushes and brambles, which scratched and cut into her bare skin, ripping her coarse shirt and breeches. She tried to shout out to the black man and woman who followed closely behind her. She wanted to tell them not to look back and to run faster, for men and their dogs, barking viciously, were catching up and would be upon them within seconds. However, her breath continued to catch in her throat as she lengthened her stride even more.

Her legs felt as though they would give way at any moment. She turned briefly and saw her two companions running together and holding hands just a few steps behind her. They were still not running fast enough to escape the dogs or rifles within range of them. They would have to pick up speed, just as she was doing.

She stumbled over branches knitted together like a spider’s web over the ground’s undergrowth. She straightened herself and moved on until finally she saw what she’d been looking for. The partially hidden path was easy to spot during the day, and she had strolled along it a few times in the past month. Not so at night, she thought now. She’d been convinced at one point that she would never find it.

She’d walked this route many times in preparation for a mission, although in the last week she had wondered if her services would ever be required. She’d attended countless clandestine meetings with the organisation in the past two months but always went home without a single task being given to her. She had traced the Underground Railroad with hardly an effort. They did not go out of their way to hide what they were doing, and their exploits were well documented in an abolitionist newspaper. This was not very clever of them, she thought now, with her being chased by rabid dogs and men with guns!

Mercy heard a soft thud and turned her head again for just a second. The black woman behind her had fallen head first onto the uneven ground. The man pulled at her arms, but she stubbornly refused to rise, clearly preferring to lie with her knees at her chest, weeping with defeat in the bushes.

Mercy ran on, shouting behind her in a barely audible voice that unless the black man left the woman and ran, they would both die. She heard the slave’s footsteps gaining on her again. He caught up, ran beside her for a moment, and then overtook her, but there was no sign of the woman.

She could see the downward slope of the bank leading to Higgins’ Wharf and Wrights’ Wharf, a little farther along. It was an area where slaves strived to make it to freedom. The pathways were well worn. Many slaves had walked and run down them to the steamships which travelled to New York. As she ran, she cursed the Underground Railroad, again – bloody stupid idea this, with half of Norfolk knowing about this place!

She and the slave approached the wharf. Two men would be waiting with a small sailboat, she had been told. There were no more steamers going to New York from here, thanks to the war, and this was the best they could do for the slaves. The two men in the boat were brothers, in their early twenties. They were oyster fishermen and knew the rivers like the backs of their hands. They would have no difficulty manoeuvring the boat across the James River to Fort Monroe, the organisation had told her.

Mercy fell and slid on her backside down the steep embankment towards the wharf.

The black woman’s screams, now echoing in the still night air, cut like a blade into her heart. Waves of nausea engulfed her. She was dizzy, staggering back onto her feet with exhaustion and fear. The sickening sound of dogs growling ferociously was deafening, even though she had put distance between her and the savage beasts. As she stumbled on, moving pictures of the black woman being ripped apart limb from limb flashed through her mind. She quickened her pace, putting even more distance between herself and the noise. She felt an even greater determination, hearing, imagining, and mourning the woman’s agonising death, until only the shouts of the men in pursuit remained. Dogs could not distinguish the difference between a white skin and a black skin. She would be mauled just like the poor black woman.

She pushed all thoughts of the woman aside as she zigzagged around nettled bushes and errant branches, like sharp spikes pointing upwards and outwards. She and her black companion took the last few strides in the undergrowth and then welcomed the wharf’s hard and even ground. She finally found her voice as her pace slowed. She looked down the wooden steps leading to a docking port. The boat and men were there waiting for her. “Get ready. Get in the boat!” she shouted hoarsely.

The slave took to the stairs, for the moment out of their pursuers’ firing line. The brothers loosened the tethered ropes from an iron ring sitting just above water level on the wharf’s wall. The black man leapt into the boat just as it began to move off, leaving Mercy alone on the wharf’s rickety wooden steps. Shots were fired again. Mercy held on to the wall, easing her way down the steps. She felt a breath of air whistling past her ear just before her head disappeared from the guns’ sights. The shot had almost blown her bloody head off!  She couldn’t go back, she suddenly realised. She’d be cut down – she couldn’t go back!

She looked at the gap between the boat and the step she was standing on. It was a tall order to leap into a moving boat, but the time for daintily stepping aboard it had long gone.

She crouched down, swung her arms backwards and then forwards, and took a giant leap, aiming for the inside floor of the boat below. The slave stood unsteadily in the boat, ready to catch her or at least grab on to some part of her body.  A high-pitched squeal left Mercy’s mouth. She was going to miss the bleedin’ boat entirely!

The black man flung himself onto his belly towards the boat’s stern, grabbed hold of her left wrist just as she hit the water, and dragged her along behind the boat in an iron grasp.

She couldn’t swim. Even in the rivers where she had bathed with Nelson, she had gone in no farther than waist deep. The shoreline was being left behind. She held on for dear life, for she would be shot or she would drown if the slave let go of her wrist. “For God’s sake, get me in,” she begged. “Just pull me!” Her legs flailed under the water, trying to find the side of the boat to give her leverage. Mercy felt her wrist crack and cried out in agony. The men, rowing with four oars, screamed in unison at the black man to hurry up and pull Mercy in. They would not slow down or stop for her, one of them shouted. Another shot was fired, and one of the boatmen was hit in the arm. “You goddamn son of a bitch!” he screamed angrily towards the wharf.

The slave managed to grasp Mercy’s right wrist, letting go of the left one, which was, judging by its twisted and swollen appearance, broken. A determined growl left his throat as he pulled her right arm towards him, using both his hands. Her entire body was immersed in water, making her slight frame heavy to manoeuvre. The black man also had the disadvantage of not being able to stand for fear of being shot. After a few tugs, he managed to lift Mercy high enough out of the water in order to grab the rear of her breeches’ waistband. With one final heave, her body was unceremoniously hauled over the rim of the boat’s stern.

Mercy screamed from a searing pain coming from her abdominal area. With her head facing downwards, she witnessed her shirt rip on a splintered piece of wood on the boat’s top edge. She saw the blood bursting out from a long tearing gash that began just below her breasts and ended at her breeches’ top button. She landed on the boat’s floor like a caught fish, faint with excruciating pain from her wrist and ripped belly.

“Stay on the floor and keep your head down,” one of the boatmen ordered. “Here,” he said to the slave, “take over my oars. My damn arm is useless. I ain’t got no power in it – stings like the devil.” He changed places with the slave by sliding his backside onto the floor of the boat. Mercy looked at his shocked and pained face. She lay awkwardly in the rear, curled up in a ball, with her hand pressing down on her wound. He was no more than a foot in front of her.

The other boatman, thus far silent, cursed as the slave fumbled with the oars. “You got to row steady and fast with me, else we ain’t never gonna git out of this harbour. Do what I do and for the love of God, don’t drop the damn oars,” he added.  The boat began to rock with oars fighting against each other until eventually the slave found a rhythm and the boat glided along smoothly in the water.

“Thank God,” she heard the boatman whisper after a couple of minutes. “I think they’ve given up on us. Shore’s quiet.”

Mercy sat up cautiously and peered in the direction of the shoreline, almost invisible now in the darkness. Her left wrist was smarting, but the pain didn’t stop there. It was shooting up and down her arm. Her hand and fingers were numb. Her stomach felt as though it were being pummelled with tiny needles. She’d have to have stitches to close the tear, but she’d also have a bruise the size of an apple. She was still panting with fear. Everyone in the boat was quiet. The injured man was wrapping a strip of cotton around his gunshot wound. The slave and the oarsman had their heads down, putting all their efforts into arm movements that were beginning to work in tandem.

A thought struck Mercy, and she was filled with shame. She had not asked the slave his name, nor had she asked the name of the poor woman who was most probably dead. How rude of her. She had decided to volunteer for this particular undertaking, for she had truly thought herself ready for anything that would be thrown at her. It had all appeared so simple. This particular route had been used many times without mishap or incident, she had been told. Well, not tonight, she thought. This was a bloody disaster.

She had wanted to behave like a lady, spend her days sewing, taking tea with Norfolk’s wives and young ladies, and waiting patiently for news of Jacob. But she had been bored to distraction and increasingly worried that the longer she sat still, the less her inquisitive mind would function. She was becoming cold-hearted – or maybe she hadn’t wanted to learn the black couple’s names. After what had happened to poor Seth, she thought, who could blame her for not wanting to get attached to the runaways?

“I don’t know your names – any of you,” she said.

The injured brother attempted a smile. “Name’s Mathew. This here’s my brother, Billy.”

“Thank you for waiting for us. You saved our lives,” Mercy said tearfully. “I thought we were going to die. The poor woman with us was caught by the dogs. I heard her scream. I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said to the slave.

“I ain’t never seen the woman. A saw her for the first time tonight in the place they hid us.”

“I see,” Mercy said, surprised. “I thought – when you were holding her hand … What’s your name?”

“Andrew, on account of my massa’s ancestors being Scottish.”

“Scottish, huh? Where’s that at?” Billy asked Andrew.

“I don’ rightly know, sir.”

“It’s at the top of England,” Mercy said. “I’ve never been there, but my grandpa had a map. I think they’re a bit of a violent lot. That’s what my grandpa said when I asked him about the Scots. My name is Mercy – Mercy Carver. Is your injury very bad?” she asked Mathew.

“Naw, the ball’s gone straight through. I can still move all my fingers. Reckon that’s a good sign. I ain’t never been shot before.”

“Why are you going to the fort?” Mercy asked.

“Me and my brother are going to turn ourselves over to the them Union fellas and help them drive these slave lovin’ critters into the Atlantic.”

Billy was panting but still rowing ferociously. “Mathew’s right. We been planning this for weeks. Family ain’t gonna forgive us in a hurry – but hell, we’re fishermen and we ain’t got no fight with Washington, not like these traitors puttin’ on a grey uniform yellin’ Dixie every five minutes.”

Mercy wondered what the Federals would do with her when she got to the fort. She didn’t want to go there. If she were a good swimmer, she’d swim back to shore. Oh God, Dolly would wake up and find her missing. She was mortified just thinking about the poor woman worrying about her. “I don’t want to go to the fort. Is there an island or something where you can drop me off?” she asked no one in particular.

The brothers laughed. Billy said, “There ain’t no island, ma’am, just water. You don’t have no choice but to sit back and rest up. We got around fourteen miles to row, give or take. We got to stay real quiet. Ain’t no ships or boats on the James at night, but that don’t mean we’re in the clear. I reckon just about anything can happen these days. Now if Mathew here was fit and hadn’t got his arm half blown off we could make it real quick. Water’s smooth as glass. No offence, Andrew.”

“I ain’t never been on a boat before, sir, but I’m as strong as a bull.”

“Yep, I reckon you’re doing just fine.” He looked then at Mercy. “I apologise, ma’am, but there ain’t no going back to Norfolk, not tonight. It’s the fort or nothin’.”

The reality of her actions finally hit Mercy as the fog of shock and fear lifted. “I need to get home,” she said, voicing her thoughts.

“Well, like I said, ain’t no way we’re turning this boat around – beggin’ your pardon, but didn’t it occur to you that this might happen?”

“No – I mean, maybe. This is the first time I’ve led a slave to the wharf. I went down there every day to make sure I knew exactly where it was. When they told me this afternoon that I was to take Andrew and that poor woman – oh God, I’ve let people down again. They will all think something terrible has happened to me. Sometimes I could kick myself for getting into bother time and time again.” Her first tears were soft and silent, but the more she thought about Jacob finding out that she had disappeared, the more forlorn she became.

No one spoke, and she was glad. No one tried to comfort her, and she was grateful for that small kindness too. As always, her mind was debating the righteousness of her actions. She wanted to help slaves, she really did, but she also needed these assignments in order to feel useful and active. These self-centred reasons were utterly selfish and, in some small part, cruel. Hendry, Jack, and Belle would also be worried now. “Will they let me go, do you think?” she asked Billy.

“I don’t know about that,” Billy said. “Me and my brother here, we glad we made the choice – but I don’t know about you. They might not let you go home on account of you seein’ what they got inside the fort.”

“Oh God, this is a disaster. I’m going to get into big trouble for this …”

Chapter Fifteen

Mercy drifted off in a fog of pain and exhaustion. She had left Dolly’s house around midnight, sneaking out the back door, warning the slave sleeping on a chair in the hallway next to the kitchen not to utter a sound. She yawned. She had no idea how long she had dozed on the boat’s floor. Not even the sound of oars gliding through the water had kept her from falling asleep.

She came to and felt pain hit her senses. She watched Billy and Andrew row with smooth movements. If her wrist weren’t so bleedin’ sore, she’d offer to take over for a while, she thought. The boat’s movement was soothing. The sail had been run up. She thought this strange, for it would draw attention to the boat. “Why is the sail up, Billy?” she asked.

“There’s a south wind. It’s pushin’ us along. The good Lord’s been kind to us. We ain’t got far to go now. See those lights ahead in the distance?”

Mercy strained her eyes and then spotted a line of torches flickering in the distance. “Yes, I see them. Is that Fort Monroe?”

“It sure is. When we get closer, we gonna holler for help, all of us. I don’t figure they’ll shoot without askin’ questions first. I hear tell there are slaves makin’ it into the fort just about every night. You just keep your body low and your head down – and take off your hat. It’ll help us if they see you’re a woman.”

The first shots coming from the fort whistled passed them, just over their heads. Mercy and Mathew lay on the floor. Mercy felt her heartbeat quicken. So much for asking questions first, she thought. She had no gun, not tonight. She felt vulnerable without it, but she had been loathe to arm herself after what had happened to Lina.

“Quit shootin’ at us! We’re friendly!” Billy shouted after the warning shots stopped. “We got a woman and a slave here. We’re loyal to Lincoln!”

“Help!” Mercy shouted in a pitiful voice. She looked up and saw just how close the boat was to the fort’s walls. Blue-uniformed soldiers appeared out of the darkness, looking down on them from lookout posts. Their rifles were trained on the boat and occupants. If a nervous soldier pulled the trigger, one of them in the boat would be hit, no doubt about it.

“We’re defectors from Norfolk,” Billy tried again. “We’re here to lend a hand!”

“We ain’t got no guns!” Mathew cried out, following his brother’s lead.

For a few moments, there was an exchange of words between the soldiers. The oars lay still, and the boat rocked gently in the water. They waited for a response. They were now at the mercy of Federal forces. Mercy stared at the guns trained on them. Her entire body tensed up, making the pain in her stomach more severe. She sat poker straight with her back against the boat’s stern. She had no idea what would happen next. She would end up either in a bed or in some dungeon – the bed sounding like the more inviting prospect.

“State your business!” a soldier shouted down to them.

Billy gestured to the others to keep quiet. He would do the talking. “We need your protection. We got two injured souls here. We’re out of Norfolk, runnin’ from the rebels. We don’t want no trouble. Me and my brother are here to join you fellas, if y’all will have us.”

“Steer your boat real slow,” the same soldier shouted again. “Bring it to the dock. When you get there, I want to see your hands in the air – all of you. We’ve got our eyes on you!”

The fortress was like an island, its stone walls sitting in the water like a giant ship. As the boat approached the docking port, Mercy’s heart sank. She would be imprisoned inside this bastion. She had seen their guard posts already and would observe their operations the moment they were allowed inside. Billy was right. If she wanted to, she could tell the Confederate Army about the Yankees strength in men and armaments.

Jacob came to mind. Her information could help him and the soldiers he was with – maybe she would find a way to escape. She would run straight to him; after all, she knew where he was. He would be angry with her this time, she then thought. She could just imagine his disappointment upon hearing that she’d vanished again. Dolly would have no explanation for her disappearance, for she had not been privy to the secret Underground Railroad meetings.

Jacob would suffer the agony of not knowing for certain where she was – she despised herself, for she had not kept her promise to remain in Norfolk, and the man she loved would now bear the brunt of her voracious need to free slaves yet again …

Six soldiers in blue uniforms stood on the stone bridge looking down on the boat’s progress. Billy deftly manoeuvred the craft towards the dock and, after touching the wall, pulled the four oars into the vessel. Two soldiers waited at the top of six stone steps to secure and tie the boat off. Some of the soldiers on the bridge talked for a moment out of earshot, staring at her and the others.

Only Billy and Andrew managed to raise their arms above their heads. Mercy and Mathew were unable to comply with the soldier’s order to put their hands up. Mercy prayed that they would not take this disobedience as a sign of defiance.

The soldiers stopped talking to stare at Mercy with slack jaws as she slowly removed her hat. She said hurriedly, “I think my wrist is broken. I’m bleeding from a stomach injury, and Mathew here has been shot. Please help us.”

“You just sit tight, ma’am,” she was told by a soldier with three stripes. “We’ll get you folks inside and patched up just as soon as we’re given the order.”

After the arrival of an officer, things moved quickly. Two more soldiers appeared at an arched entrance which sat at the top of the docking steps. The boat party was told to disembark. Billy and Andrew helped Mercy and Mathew, struggling now with their injuries. The soldiers standing in front of the arch gestured with their rifles that they should pass. As they walked under the arch, Mercy saw that they were in a short tunnel; at the other end of it was a large courtyard.

Once inside the fort, Mercy and Mathew were told to lie down on stretchers that had been brought for them. Billy and Andrew were led away. Mercy panicked, afraid of what might happen to them. One of the stretcher bearers reassured her and Mathew with an open and friendly tone of voice. “Don’t you worry none about them,” he said, smiling. “After they’ve been interrogated, they’ll get some chow and a bed somewhere. You just worry about yourselves. The doc’s waiting for you. He’ll take real good care of y’all.”

Mercy felt her tense muscles relax into the stretcher’s canvas base. There was one soldier at the front end and another at the back, and they were being very careful not to drop her or rock her too much. This was another good sign, she thought. They might not be the vicious enemy that everyone in Norfolk was talking about.

As the stretcher moved across what looked like a colossal piece of open ground, Mercy’s eyes scanned the area as far and wide as she could see. There were clearly defined outlines of roofs, buildings, walls, and passageways as large as streets leading to somewhere beyond this open area. The fortress was much bigger than she had imagined it to be. She could only hazard a guess at the number of soldiers occupying it at this moment, but she surmised that a great number would be needed to secure it from an attack by the Confederacy.

Mercy closed her eyes, hoping to avoid a conversation with the stretcher bearers. Tiredness washed over her. She could quite easily fall asleep right now if she weren’t so filthy and sore. Her trousers were muddy and ripped by brambles. Her shirt was completely shredded at the front and stained red. Her hands were also covered in her own blood, and her wrist … Well, that was a fearsome sight.

Chapter Sixteen

Mercy looked up at the ceiling, then at the walls, and finally out of the window into the darkness beyond. She and Mathew had been separated upon entering the infirmary. She had no idea where he had been taken or what these people were going to do with her. She lay on top of a narrow bed in a room alone, waiting for someone to deliver news about her fate. The orderlies who had brought her here had closed and locked the door, and for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself the pleasure of comforting tears.

She recalled the sounds of dogs and screams, her running and stumbling. She shook her head from side to side in an attempt to clear these thoughts. She had failed miserably, and an innocent young woman had died. She shook her head again and squeezed her eyes shut. No, she reflected, she had not been negligent, nor had she failed in her duty. She had followed the same rules as always and had been more than happy with the route she had taken.

She sighed loudly and looked at her wrist, lying limp on top of the covers. It was broken. Why else would it be twisted, swollen, deformed, and still excruciatingly painful? Her stomach had been left to air without treatment. It was a horrible sight. The gash was surrounded by dried blood. The skin around the wound had already turned black and blue, and her flat stomach looked like a lumpy old mattress. Her ripped breaches and shirt were still damp and smelled of river water, and even her muddy, soggy boots were still on her feet. Were they going to give her something for the pain, she wondered, or was she to lie here without treatment until morning?

“Mercy, Mercy, open your eyes.” After losing the battle to stay awake, Mercy snapped her eyes open at the sound of her name. Her misty vision caught the candles that flooded the room and shadows, which danced on the walls from flickering flames. She cautiously turned her head on the pillow. Even the smallest of movements from the tip of her head to her toes caused her pain.

Isaac stood at the side of the bed, smiling at her. The soft lighting and her exhausted mind were playing tricks on her, she thought. She closed her eyes and then opened them again. Isaac was still there, as large as life, beaming from ear to ear. “Isaac? Blimey, Isaac, what are you doing here? I thought I was dreaming.” She stared at his face. His boyish grin was infectious. She smiled back, yet tears rolled down her face. “Why are you here?” she mumbled through her loud sobs. She could think of no other thing to say. Fate had once again played its hand.

“I’m serving my country, Mercy. I’m one of the fort’s surgeons. I’ve been here for months. More to the point, what are you doing here? Dear Lord, Mercy, if there is trouble around, you will surely find it. Are you never going to settle down and be safe?”

Mercy smiled again at the pleasure of seeing him. She tried to sit up but couldn’t move. “I’m sorry – I can’t …”

“Lie still. I’m going to tend to your injuries. No need to answer any questions for now. I heard all about your escapade from your friend, Mathew,” Isaac said affectionately. “You sure are a sight for sore eyes. I came as soon as I heard we had a comely Englishwoman with dark hair in our midst. I had a gut feeling it would be you. Only you could get into a fix like this.”

“I know. I can’t seem to help myself,” she replied with another throaty sob. “Oh, Isaac, you can’t begin to imagine how happy I am to see you, but I didn’t want to come all the way here. I was supposed to leave the slaves and go home after they had gotten into the boat. It all went wrong. There were guns and dogs …”

“Hush now, my dear. Don’t upset yourself. You may not want to be here, but now that you are, I’m going to fix you up and make you better. I prayed I would see you again – I only wish it weren’t under such testing circumstances.”

Mercy nodded whilst staring at his blue uniform jacket with brass buttons and pips on the shoulders. “You look handsome in uniform. All I have seen these past couple of months are men dressed in grey.”

Isaac caressed her cheek with his fingers. She blushed at his lengthy stare and earnest eyes.

“Mercy,” he murmured, clearly embarrassed, “I need to treat your wrist first. It’s definitely broken, and I’m going to have to reset it. If I don’t, it will remain deformed and you will have trouble using your hand again.”

“I understand.”

“I’m going to give you something for the pain, but I have to realign the bones straight away. Please don’t hate me.”

“Never,” Mercy told him.

Isaac lifted her hand gently. Mercy stared into his downturned face. He was just as handsome and tender as her recollections of him, she thought. This was an unexpected surprise and not the ending that she had envisaged for this night.

A sudden and intense pain shot up her arm and into her shoulder and neck. The bones in her wrist cracked loudly as they fell back into place. She cried out. Tears ran down her cheeks. There had been no ready, steady, go! Isaac had taken her by surprise. “Oh God, help me! That hurt!” she sobbed. “Please give me some medicine for the pain.”

Isaac’s eyes told her that she was the last person in the world he wanted to harm. “Hush there. It’s over. I’m sorry, but in my experience, it’s better not to tell a patient exactly when I am going to cause excruciating pain.”

Mercy half laughed and half cried. “Yes, I think I can see why,” she said.

“Here, drink this,” he said, pouring laudanum into a spoon. “It will numb it a little and help you to get a good night’s rest. I need to splint your wrist and put on a heavy bandage. You won’t be able to use this hand for a few weeks. If you do, the bones won’t knit together properly. Mercy, can you tell me exactly how this injury occurred?”

“I was caught by the wrist when I tried to jump into the boat – but the boat left the jetty at more speed that I thought it would. I didn’t jump out far enough and ended up in the water being dragged behind it.” She smiled at how ridiculous that sounded. “I think Andrew, the slave, tugged at it – but thank goodness he didn’t let go of me. If he had, I’d be at the bottom of the James River now instead of lying here talking to you.”

Isaac shook his head again. “One of these days, someone is going to have to lock you up for your own safety. Darn it, Mercy, you scare me at times with your shenanigans. I would have thought what you and Nelson went through would have been enough to make you settle down.”

“I’m sorry. Poor you – you’re always patching me up in one way or another.” Her eyes abruptly widened. Nelson? He’d said Nelson! “Isaac, where is he? Is Nelson here? Please tell me he’s here!”

He nodded and offered her a big smile. “Yes, he’s here with me,” he eventually told her. “I will send him to you first thing in the morning. He’s a soldier, Mercy, and proud of being in uniform.”

“A soldier? But he’s a free man. Was he forced into this?”

“No, he volunteered with me. He’ll tell you himself that it was his own decision to join me here. No one forced him.”

“I can’t believe he wanted to come back here,” Mercy insisted. “Oh, Isaac, we have so much to talk about – I want to know all about you in Boston and how you came to meet Nelson …”

“You will, but not tonight. I don’t want you to worry about him. I’m taking care of him. I have since the day he walked into my hospital in Boston, asking for me. He brought me the wonderful news about you. Mercy, I thought you were dead – God forgive me, but I lost faith.”

“I lost faith at times too. There were days I didn’t think we would survive to see morning. Nelson saved me.”

“He tells me that you saved him.”

Mercy smiled again. She was in terrible pain, but knowing that Nelson was well and here with Isaac was the most wonderful news, pain or no pain. “This really has turned out to be a very strange night. I missed you. Knowing that you took Nelson in means the world to me.” Mercy sighed and then began to sob. “God’s truth, Isaac, I’m going to cry again. I’ve become such a crybaby since you last saw me.”

“Close your eyes, Mercy. Any man or woman would cry with the pain of a badly broken wrist and a torn belly. Let me tend to you. There will be plenty of time for us to catch up with all our news.”

Mercy closed her eyes at his soothing words. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying out and attempted to concentrate on the news she had just received instead of the pain coursing through her. She thought about the Carrabelle and the long conversations she and Isaac had enjoyed on the voyage across the Atlantic so long ago. Fresh tears escaped from her squeezed shut eyelids. Even Isaac’s gentle touch was agony. Nelson … She would think about Nelson, alive and well and in Isaac’s good hands.

She wondered how she would answer Isaac’s questions when they came. If it became common knowledge that she was going to marry Jacob, a cavalry officer in the Confederate Army, the Federals might not let her leave the fort. Isaac would be duty-bound to report this piece of information to his commander. She didn’t want to lie to Isaac, but she was determined to leave here at some point and go to Jacob. She would get down on her knees in front of Jacob and swear on the nearest Bible that her Underground Railroad days were over – for good this time. She needed Jacob’s love, she realised, not more adventures.

“How are you holding up?” Isaac asked.

Mercy opened her eyes. “Better. Thank you.”

“Good. I’m done with your wrist. I’m going to send a woman in to you. She’ll remove your clothes and clean that nasty wound on your stomach. I’ll be right back to put some stitches in it, and afterwards you’ll have a good long sleep.”

“Thank you, Isaac.”

When Isaac left, Mercy’s thoughts turned to Lina. If she were here, she’d tell her that the hand of fate had placed her right where she was meant to be. Her arrival at the fort, seeing Isaac, and hearing that Nelson was well and sleeping down the hall felt like a miracle rather than just an accumulation of coincidences. She thanked God for his intervention. She would no longer have to worry about Nelson’s whereabouts, nor would she continue to wonder if she would ever see Isaac again. Fate still travelled with her through life, just as Lina had predicted it would – and she was eternally grateful for its presence.

Mercy was clean. She wore a crisp white nightshirt. Her stomach had needed five stitches, but the medicine Isaac had given her, coupled with a lack of sleep, had knocked her out. She barely remembered Isaac coming back into the room or putting the stitches in. She lay now in that luxurious state when one begins to drift off to sleep yet is still aware of surroundings and voices. The laudanum had dulled the pain somewhat. She heard Isaac’s muffled whispers to the woman who had cleaned her. Mercy listened to his lyrical tone whilst floating happily with the thought of seeing Nelson in the morning.

The woman who had bathed her had told her, her name. As Mercy fought to keep her eyes open, she tried to remember it, but for the life of her, she couldn’t. She closed her weary eyes. There would be no questions from Isaac tonight, she thought thankfully, and she wouldn’t have to think about what answers to give.

Chapter Seventeen

“Mrs Bartlett, it would be an honour to attend your ball,” Margaret Mallory gushed at her guest with her most amiable smile. “You know me and Elizabeth here, always ready to help the Southern cause – aren’t we, Elizabeth?” Margaret’s eyes bored into Elizabeth’s face. The trusting idiot was close to tears, she thought. She had wept, sniffed, begged, and screamed all morning as the ramifications of yesterday’s visit to the lawyer’s office became clearer. It was too late for Elizabeth to undo what had been done. There was no legal recourse open to her, Margaret thought with satisfaction. But nonetheless, Elizabeth was not happy about her decisions, and Mrs Bartlett’s arrival on the doorstep this morning could not have come at a worse time.

“Why, yes, Mrs Bartlett, I would be very happy to attend your ball and to contribute something towards supplies for our gallant men – although I pray to the Lord that this horrid war ends and that our young men won’t need the care you speak of,” Elizabeth said.

Margaret smiled to herself. Thank God for Southern etiquette, she thought. Elizabeth’s pride and social education would not permit her to make a scene or spill her guts in front of strangers. Her mother had trained her well. She was like the Liverpool whores, taught to keep their mouths shut. There was nothing to worry about – nothing at all.

“We all desire this, Mrs Stone, but unfortunately men will be men, and as such, no amount of diplomacy will deter them from their quest for bloodshed and glory. Why, I do believe our army is growing tired of waiting for a real battle to begin.”

“This war is a nasty business,” Margaret said absently. “I think we women should bash Lincoln’s and Davis’s heads together. That might knock some sense into them.”

“Why, I do believe you might be right, Mrs Mallory,” Mrs Bartlett said.

Margaret let out a contented sigh. She sat back in her chair and allowed the conversation to flow between Elizabeth and Mrs Bartlett whilst she looked on, triumphant and immensely satisfied. The past few days had been tense, but her powers of persuasion had worked on Elizabeth, who was like a simple-minded idiot, unable to think for herself.

There would be many more influential people gracing her new house with their presence, she thought as she listened to her guest trundle on about ball gowns and the latest fashions. But when she had fully ingratiated herself into Richmond’s upper class, Elizabeth Stone would disappear forever. Elizabeth had exhausted her these past months. Putting up with the girl every day drained her of humour. Pretending to like her was becoming a real chore, one she couldn’t contemplate for much longer.

Elizabeth was a pawn. In the grand scheme of things, she was not important. She wasn’t the enemy. No, Margaret thought, feeling her heartbeat quicken, her enemy was Jacob Stone. She hated him. She would never get over what he did to her at the farm, for it had been the only time in her life that she’d been scared stiff of a man. Her blood boiled every time she thought about the night he attacked her. Her wig ripped from her head. His rough hands on her skin, smearing her perfectly made-up face. The gun pressed against her forehead and his cruel words telling her she was ugly. That night would haunt her to the grave. Sweet Jesus, she nearly had a flaming heart attack!

Taking Elizabeth’s money and throwing her out on the street would not be sufficient punishment for Jacob Stone, but Elizabeth’s pathetic future would cause him to feel guilt and remorse for the rest of his life; she was betting on that.

“And when are these festivities to take place?” Margaret heard Elizabeth ask Mrs Bartlett.

“One month from today. I have been told that President Jefferson Davis himself will be in attendance. Some of our fine officers from Yorktown are also coming, with an invitation from General Magruder. Why, I do believe this will be Richmond’s most important event in years. I’ve never been so thrilled.”

“A month!” Margaret said, genuinely shocked. “Christ, those Yankees might be roaming round Richmond by then. Can you not make it sooner, just in case we’re invaded?”

“Mrs Mallory! How could you even suggest that the Yankees will get into our capital?” Mrs Bartlett scowled angrily. “Why, it’s a preposterous notion.”

“We are so looking forward to the ball. It is just what we need to lift everyone’s spirits. Isn’t it, Margaret?” Elizabeth said, plainly trying to defuse the situation

“Yes, if we’re all still alive to enjoy it,” Margaret answered.

Mrs Bartlett, one of Richmond’s best-known socialites, spent her days collecting money for her numerous causes from women of high society, such as herself. In each house, she drank tea, ate cakes, and regaled the attributes of her esteemed husband, who held a cabinet position in the Confederate government. The war, not yet fully begun, had been fortuitous, she’d always thought, for it had elevated her husband’s mediocre political career and her standing in the community.

For weeks, she had resisted a visit to this house. She believed there was something not quite right about the Englishwoman, and the Richmond Ladies Society had agreed with her. She tapped her foot now as she watched her hostess order tea from a skinny nigger girl who would never have been good enough for her drawing room.

All the Richmond ladies had been tasked with finding out what they could about the mysterious Englishwoman, who had absolutely no class whatsoever. They had, unfortunately, all failed miserably. Mrs Mallory was an enigma. Even her relationship with the reserved and somewhat sullen Mrs Elizabeth Stone was highly suspicious, Mrs Bartlett thought.

The Richmond ladies did not enjoy the inclusion of outsiders into their midst at the best of times, particularly when the stranger had a questionable background. But money was a necessary evil in these uncertain times, Mrs Bartlett told herself, and these two ladies seemed to have plenty of it.

The nigger girl served tea and cakes from a silver platter. Mrs Bartlett used the pause in what was a stilted conversation to study her two hostesses, who shared this house and a most dubious friendship.

The rumours surrounding both of the Portsmouth women were rife but Mrs Bartlett had always believed that where there was smoke, there was fire. The gossipers were unanimous in thinking that the house had been purchased by Mrs Stone, who was going through a testing time after her husband, Mr Jacob Stone, had run off with another woman. They had further affirmed that Elizabeth Stone had abandoned Portsmouth, unable to bear the shame it had brought her and her family. Richmond was not ready for a scandal such as this; however, it was ready to accept donations for the cause by any means necessary, and for this reason, she had volunteered under sufferance to present herself here today.

Mrs Bartlett had promised the other ladies that she would have the name of the new owner of this house confirmed by the time she finished her tea. Indeed, she had planned a meeting for this afternoon with the society to impart all that she had found out. She was desperate to hear what Elizabeth Stone had to say about the house, for if it did belong to her, it would dispel another rumour involving Mrs Mallory, who had, according to her sources, taken over the management of Mrs Stone’s financial settlement.

“You have a beautiful house,” Mrs Bartlett said casually, casting her eyes over the spacious drawing room. “When I heard yesterday that it had been purchased, I just had to come and congratulate you,” she said to Elizabeth.

“Why, thank you, Mrs Bartlett,” Elizabeth said. “I saw no reason to continue renting it when it was for sale. I bought the house, but Margaret thought it would be safer to put her name on the deeds, just in case the Yankees do come here.”

“My dear Mrs Stone, as I said before, I do not believe for a moment that the Yankees will ever get into Richmond,” Mrs Bartlett said. She was shocked at the very suggestion of it being mentioned twice in one day. She was also extremely angry that Mrs Mallory could even utter her assumption of a Confederate defeat. “My husband is quite determined that the Yankees will go running back to Washington and that an agreement acceptable to the South will come shortly after. I also believe that the moment the Yankees see our brave men on the front lines, they will be shocked – yes, shocked at the strength and power that faces them. I shouldn’t worry about those Yankees, Mrs Stone …”

Margaret interrupted. “Well, you and your husband can think what you like, but if you ask me, it’s you lot that are going to be shocked when those Northerners turn up. You mark my words: they’ll be taking everything they can get their hands on and calling it their own. Now, what I did for Elizabeth was for her own good cos that enemy of yours won’t take a house that belongs to a foreigner. No, stealing from a British woman would more than likely start an international incident – and Elizabeth here agrees with me. Don’t you, Elizabeth?”

“I think I do,” Elizabeth muttered.

“Of course you do. You’ll have to excuse Elizabeth, Mrs Bartlett. She’s not very bright when it comes to money and politics. It’s just as well she has me to guide her – isn’t that right, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She fiddled with her handkerchief with trembling fingers. Her eyes were downcast, and her unhappiness was evident. Mrs Bartlett looked on with a mixture of dismay and shock. Even she hadn’t imagined this scenario. Mrs Stone was either very naive or simply much too trusting of her older companion, Mrs Mallory. She did not like Mrs Mallory, at all, she decided. Even to suggest that the Yankees would march into Richmond was an affront to all the Southerners. Her lady friends would be most upset, and just as shocked as she, when they learned the facts regarding the purchase of this house. She would go straight to her husband and ask him if Mrs Mallory’s claim was correct; that’s what she would do. International incident, indeed!

“So if I’m asked, who do I say owns this house?” she said, voicing her thoughts.

“I own it, of course,” Elizabeth said indignantly. “Margaret is keeping it safe for me, and when the war is over, the lawyer will sign the deeds over to me. Margaret believes I will make a handsome profit if I decide to sell it after the war ends.”

“Of course you will,” Margaret said merrily. “You’ll have your money back and much more on top of it. My dear departed husband, God bless his soul, always said I had a good head for business. In fact, I can quite honestly say that I was instrumental in his success. We had a mansion, you know. It was the talk of Liverpool, and the parties we held were renowned. People would come from all over the north, if they were lucky enough to get an invitation to one of my balls. We should have a party here. What do you think, Elizabeth?”

“That’s a lovely idea. Oh, do say you’ll come, Mrs Bartlett,” Elizabeth said.

Mrs Bartlett rose from the couch, desperate to leave. She had seen and heard enough. “Why, I most certainly will. I’ll tell the ladies the moment I see them. I’m sure they will be excited at the prospect of a party in your lovely home,” she said, heading towards the hallway. “Elizabeth – may I call you Elizabeth?” she asked at the front door.

Elizabeth nodded. “Of course, Mrs Bartlett.”

“I would like you to come to tea at my house. I’m sure some of my dearest friends would love to meet you. Shall we say three o’clock on Monday?”

“Why, that would be lovely. I look forward to it,” Elizabeth told her.

Mrs Bartlett looked at Margaret and nodded a farewell. That’s all she would get, she thought, getting into her carriage.

She was appalled at what she had witnessed here today. She would go with every word and detail firmly etched in her mind. The Richmond ladies had been right. There was something terribly wrong here. Mrs Mallory was as cunning as a fox and as transparent as a mountain stream. She had clearly manipulated Mrs Stone, an innocent Southern woman, who was one of their own, and it would not be tolerated.

She had met women like Margaret Mallory before. Like the Englishwoman, those she had previously come across were more often than not white trash looking for a moment of power and fame. They never lasted long, for the Richmond ladies always proved too much for these low-class interlopers who dared to assume that they could rise on Richmond’s social ladder.

She would find out all she could about the Mallory woman. She would help Elizabeth Stone. She was convinced she detected fear in the young women’s downtrodden eyes. This was an outrageous situation, and she had never come across anything like it. No, she thought, as the carriage pulled away, Mrs Mallory would not get away with the heinous theft. She and the Richmond ladies would see to that.

Chapter Eighteen

Mercy did as ordered. She lay still, closed her eyes, and unconsciously bit her bottom lip as Isaac cut and pulled the stitches from her belly. When he had finished, he sat on the chair next to the bed and smiled with satisfaction. “The wound is healing nicely. There’s no redness or swelling. You will have a small scar, but it will fade with time,” he said. “I hope this is the last time I have to treat you for injuries. You have to take better care of yourself, Mercy,” he said worriedly.

“I will, Isaac. I should have learned my lesson when Lina died. I think I wanted to carry on for her sake, but she wouldn’t be happy with me putting my life in danger, doing a job I’m not even very good at – I know that now.

“You mustn’t blame yourself. It takes courage to do what you did. Hell, there are men who wouldn’t want to dirty their hands to save a Negro. They talk about the abolition of slavery, but not many would actually lift a finger to help a slave on the run – not the way you have. I’m sure your friend Lina is very proud of you. You know, the other night I found Nelson outside wiping tears from his face. I asked him what was wrong, and he told me that Lina had been killed. I’ve never seen him so distraught. She must have been a great lady.”

“She was, Isaac. I loved her very much – so did Nelson.” Mercy felt her eyes water. She shook her head. “I’m going to weep again. Every time I think about her, I want to cry. I’m such an idiot.”

Isaac laughed at her feeble voice. “No, you’re not an idiot. You’re strong and brave. I have never known a woman like you.”

“Stop being so nice to me,” Mercy said. She wiped her eyes and attempted a smile.

“You deserve to be treated nicely – and you will be from now on – but we shouldn’t be dwelling on the past. It’s time for you to look to the future. I have so many questions, Mercy. Is it wrong for me to want to know where you have been and what your plans are?”

“No, Isaac, you’re not wrong, but to be honest, apart from the tragic death of Lina, my life has been quite settled and I have been reasonably contented. I’ve been in Norfolk, working with the Underground Railroad, since the day of Lina’s funeral. There really hasn’t been much time for anything else but that.”

Isaac nodded and then studied her face thoughtfully. “So about you and Jacob … Have you seen him? Do you … still love him?”

Mercy stared unwaveringly into Isaac’s fervent eyes whilst attempting to maintain a passive expression. “No, I have not seen him. I think about him with fond memories, of course, but the love I felt for him died on the day I left Nelson in Pennsylvania. It was on that day that I knew I couldn’t go back to Jacob. He’s married to Elizabeth, and I suppose I never really forgave him for that. I have moved on with my life.”

Mercy prayed for forgiveness. Isaac was kind and such a gentle soul. He did not deserve deceit, for that was disrespectful and cruel.

“I’m glad to hear that. It’s true; I am. Jacob was my friend, but he would have ruined you. You made the right decision.”

“Yes, I know I did. As you said, it’s time to look to the future.”

“Well, I don’t know what’s around the corner, but I do know that you, young lady, can have a bath now that your stitches are out. I’m going to leave you for a while. The nurse will be here any minute. She’ll help you bathe and dress, and when she’s done, I’ll come back with coffee.”

“Thank you, Isaac. You’re so kind, as always. When will I be able to take the bandages off my wrist and hand?”

Isaac shook his head. “It’s much too soon for you to even think about that. You had a bad break. I reckon it will be a good month before you can even think about removing the splints and bandages – and don’t you disobey my orders; I know your impatience. And don’t get it wet in the bath,” he said, wagging his finger comically.

“I won’t, Doctor,” she said. “I promise. Hands are very useful tools. I would hate to cause any more damage to them. Thank goodness it’s not the hand I draw my Colt with.”

She laughed. Isaac’s face was a picture. His expression had changed from shock to absolute horror. He doesn’t know the half of it, Mercy thought, still smiling. If he knew how many times she had actually drawn her gun, he would be even more astounded, maybe even appalled.

“I do hate lying in bed,” she added. “I would love to go for a walk – may I?”

“I think that’s a fine idea. I don’t see why you can’t have a gentle stroll, but remember: the sling stays on at all times.”

“I promise.”

“You might find the fort a little restrictive. There’s not much to see, but I believe it’s the best place for you to heal. You have Nelson and me to take care of you. Nelson is very happy you’re here, Mercy, and I hate to think of you going back to Norfolk. Cities can be the loneliest of places.”

“It wasn’t too bad,” Mercy told him. “I met some nice people. They will be worried about me,” she added honestly. Mercy had been waiting for a conversation like this. This was her chance to persuade Isaac to let her go. With her stitches out and no infection, there was really no reason why she should remain here.

“What if I told you that you didn’t have to leave? Would you be happy about that?”

“I never really thought about it,” Mercy lied.

“I have. I had a long discussion with General Butler. He agreed to let you stay here. I took it upon myself to tell him that you and I are very good friends. I told him you would be a great asset. I hope you don’t mind?”

Mercy tried to hide her disappointment. The last thing she wanted was Isaac thinking she wanted to stay. The past week had been torture, spent wondering if Jacob had written – or worse, had travelled to see her. “I can’t imagine why I would be an asset,” she said honestly.

“Hear me out. I have a proposition for you. I think you will like it,” Isaac said.

Although Mercy nodded, she didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. She had lied to him and to Nelson from the moment she got here. She would have to lie to him again if he came right out and asked her not to leave. “What is it?” she asked him.

“We have Negros here, Mercy, a lot of them. They’re outside the walls but under the fort’s protection. General Butler has declared that all Negro runaways are to be classified as contraband of war, which means that we are under no obligation to send them back to their masters. You didn’t see them when you got here, but there’s a couple of hundred of them in the fort’s grounds.

“We’re building a camp to house them. We won’t turn any Negro away. We will ask some of them to enlist in the army, and others will be urged to take on some manual labour around the fort, but they won’t be seen as slaves. There will be no beatings or forced servitude. We believe they should have something worthwhile to do with their time, for their own sake as much as ours. I thought this news would please you.”

“It does, very much. I did hear that slaves reaching the fort had a good chance of   gaining their freedom. That’s why I joined Norfolk’s Underground Railroad. I’m sure there will be many more trying to get here in the months to come.”

“I agree – and so does the general. He has a grand plan to teach the Negros how to read and write. Jacob always maintained that Negros didn’t have the brains to learn, but I think that given time, any man or woman can be successfully educated. I joined the army to help set this nation of Negros free, and I’m mighty proud to be involved with the general’s venture. I know you feel the same way, and that’s why I suggested to the general that you would be happy for the chance to get involved with our slave issues. Would you like that?”

Mercy hesitated. She should be saying yes. Under any other circumstances, she would be jumping at the opportunity to help. But saying yes would be a dishonest reply. The only thing she wanted to do was run to Jacob in Yorktown. “Will you let me think about it?” she asked.

Isaac nodded, trying desperately to hide his disappointment. His light-heartedness this morning was quickly turning to discontentment. He had tossed and turned in bed every night since Mercy’s arrival at the fort. At times, he was overwhelmed with happiness. He wanted to shout out to the world that he loved her and that she was now free to love him back. She was no longer in love with Jacob. He had wanted to take her in his arms the moment she had said the words. Her heart was whole, not broken. She was free to love again – all he needed was time to convince her that he was the man she should be marrying.

Mercy baffled him at times. He had seen her absolute joy when reunited with Nelson. She had wept tears of gladness. She had no one to speak of in Norfolk, yet she gave the impression that she wasn’t entirely happy at the prospect of staying. He loved her to distraction, but at this very moment, he was damned if he understood her.

“I’ll let you enjoy your bath,” he said at length. “Maybe you can give me your answer later this morning.” He stood to leave. There was nothing else to say for the moment. “I’ll come back in a couple of hours …”

“No, wait. Please, Isaac. Please don’t go. I’m very grateful to you for speaking to the general on my behalf – and I’m overjoyed at the prospect of spending time with you and Nelson – but what I really want is to go back to Norfolk as soon as possible.  People will be worried about me.”

Isaac shook his head. “I don’t understand. I thought you wanted to help Negros,” he said. “You were so happy to see Nelson and spend time with him. You will break his heart if you leave him again. You said you were happy to see me – I know I am delighted to have you here – and what do you have to go back to? Surely you must see that this was fate. Please tell me this has nothing to do with Jacob Stone.”

“No, of course not!” she protested loudly. “I just told you five minutes ago that he is in the past – a memory, nothing more. The last I heard, he was in the Confederate Army, fighting for a cause I don’t believe in. Jacob and I were not meant for each other – but, Isaac, I don’t belong here. I can do more good helping runaway slaves in Norfolk, where they are most vulnerable. We both agreed that many more would try to get across the water. I would like to assist them in their journeys. Please tell me you understand.”

Isaac rose from the chair. Nope, he didn’t understand her at all. Ever since his return from Bethel, his first taste of war, he had come to look at life in a very different way. He appreciated his blessings. He had wealth, a loving family, a fine education, and good memories of adventures with Jacob Stone. But he had also taken away from Bethel an insatiable hunger for love. Mercy had come back into his life, and he believed that the Lord’s will had brought her to him. She had not returned to Jacob, and the Lord had answered his prayers on that too. Should she leave, he would be crushed.

“Mercy, if I thought for a moment that you would be happy in Norfolk, I would do everything in my power to help you get back there. But what is there for you but loneliness? You have a home here. We have women in the fort who are of a mind to teach the Negros to cook for us and to nurse our sick. Surely one of these vocations would suit you?”

“Isaac, please don’t pursue this,” she begged him. “I would like you to ask your general if he will give me permission to leave.”

“I will speak to him if your heart is set on this course, but I cannot guarantee that he won’t force you to remain.”

“Are you saying that I might be a prisoner?”

“No, not at all, but you’re asking to go back into enemy territory. He wouldn’t be a general if he didn’t wonder what information might go with you.”

“Ha – so you think I’m a spy?”

“I don’t think that, but he might.”

“God’s truth, Isaac, do I look like a bleedin’ spy?” she said indignantly. “All I’ve seen since I’ve been here is this room. It was too dark to see anything else, and even if I did, I wouldn’t know the first thing about spying.”

Isaac sat down again. He hated to see her angry. Her eyes flashed with defiance and determination. His heart plummeted. It was not going to be easy to convince her to stay. He would speak to Nelson. She would listen to him, but if after their conversation, her heart was still set on leaving, he would talk to General Butler. Hopefully her permission to leave would be denied.

Chapter Nineteen

Mercy sat thinking about Isaac and his mystified expression when she had refused to give him an answer. She wasn’t surprised at his confusion. She should have told him she’d be honoured to help at the fort instead of giving him cause to doubt her. She wasn’t very good at lying.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She cringed at the ill-fitting dress that hung loose on her body. The woman who had washed her hair and helped to bathe her had donated it, and she had been grateful for it, but still, she looked like the poor orphan she was.

She jumped at a heavy knock on the door. It would be Isaac with coffee and more questions, she thought with dread. “Come in,” she called out.

Her eyes widened with pleasure at the sight of Nelson, until she saw his surly expression. He carried a tray with bread, butter, and a pot of coffee. He was certainly in a bad mood about something, she thought, giving him her brightest smile.

“Good morning, Nelson. Who’s upset you this morning? You look as though you’re about ready to hit someone.”

“Now, why you wanna do that to Mr Isaac? You ain’t got no one waitin’ for you outside these walls, so you best be staying right here with Mr Isaac and me,” Nelson told her angrily.

Mercy fumbled for a reply. Nelson had obviously been told by Isaac that she didn’t want to stay. At least she knew what was bothering him. “I don’t want to talk about it,” Mercy told him.

“Mr Isaac done told me he’s real happy you be here. He sure is fond of you, Miss Mercy, and he’s a fine man.” Nelson carried on. “I don’t reckon you find no one finer than Mr Isaac, so why you wanna leave when you got him and me to take care of you? You ain’t lost your stubbornness. No, you always was as stubborn as an old mule.”

Mercy was elated at being reunited with Nelson. He had grown stronger and more confident, and he had lost that gaunt, frightened expression, as though the world held nothing but peril for him. They had come together the morning after Mercy arrived unexpectedly at the fort, and they had spent an hour reacquainting with each other. She told him about Lina’s death, and they had both cried. He’d wanted to know where she had been since April, and he had not been happy to learn that she had put her life in danger again. Her head had spun with his questions and her attempts to keep up with all her lies.

Mercy learned that after leaving him in Chester, Pennsylvania, Nelson had managed to secure passage on a steam ferry going to New York. He had worked hard, he told her. He had scrubbed decks and, at the end of the journey, had received half a dollar. From New York, he had found himself in all kinds of trouble, as he put it, but though she had nagged him to tell her about his experience, all he would say was that he had eventually shared a wagon with a white man who peddled medicines for a living up and down the East Coast.

Nelson had eventually entered the city of Boston two weeks after leaving her and had found the hospital and Isaac, who, he told her, had been more than happy to help him.

Mercy thought it best to say as little as possible this morning. She was sure it wouldn’t matter what she said to justify her desire to go back to Norfolk, for he was just as determined that she remain here as Isaac was.

There was so much she wanted to say to Nelson. She had opened her heart to him, and he had listened to her talk about Jacob for hours at a time on their fateful journey. Did he believe that she wanted nothing to do with Jacob? She didn’t really know, but she was sure he was at the very least sceptical about her denials.

Nelson was not as polite as Isaac. He was determined, goading her and demanding answers, and she believed he wouldn’t stop today until he got them. “I’ll go mad if I spend another day looking at these walls, Nelson. Mr Isaac said I could take a short walk,” she said, trying to steer the subject in a different direction.

“There ain’t nothing to see round here but soldiers and guns, Miss Mercy. We got more soldiers than we know what to do with – and we got niggers sleeping outside the walls. I don’t know for sure, but I reckon we’ll soon have a whole camp full of runaways before long. Them niggers need feedin’ and lookin’ after. You could stay here and put your mind to that instead of runnin’ away. Why you always runnin’? Runnin’ here, runnin’ there, and always hidin’ from somethin’ and someone?”

“So you’ve been sent here to convince me to stay?” Mercy finally said. “Tell me, if you know me as well as you say you do, why would you want to keep me here against my will? Even if you do think you’re doing what’s best for me.” Mercy smiled at his forlorn expression. “Blimey, Nelson, it’s hard to believe you were a scared, skinny slave not that long ago. Now look at you. Anyone would think you were my father, the way you talk to me!”

“Aw, hush now, Miss Mercy. Old Nelson here ain’t never gonna be no father.”

Mercy laughed. How she loved Nelson. If she had her way, she would take him with her when she left.

She watched him cut a slice of bread and smear honey on it. He handed it to her, but he was clearly pensive and distracted.

“Tell me about Bethel,” Mercy said.

“Oh, that was real nasty, Miss Mercy. I ain’t seen nothin’ like that. Now, I ain’t sayin’ it was a big battle, but men died and I saw some cut up real bad. I reckon them soldiers here killed more of their own kind than they did the enemy that night. They all started hollerin’ and shootin’ at each other before we even got to the Confederate camp. I don’t know who said we should march in the dark, but I know it ain’t the best time to see who you’re shootin’ at. I don’t reckon I want to see that again – all that smoke and blood and men yellin’. Mr Isaac was real brave. He sewed those poor men up like he was darning socks – he’s a fine doctor – but I ain’t got no hankering for marchin’ and soldierin’.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that, but you know you will probably have to march again, don’t you?”

“I guess so. I got to look after Mr Isaac.”

“You like Isaac very much, don’t you?”

“He’s a good man – and he be real good to you. You mind my words.”

Mercy chewed the bread and then wiped a dribble of honey from the side of her mouth with a napkin. “Nelson, are you matchmaking?”

“Nope, I ain’t doin’ no such thing, but if I was, I reckon I would match you up with Mr Isaac. You sure will break his heart if you leave him.”

In a rare display of affection, Nelson reached out and held her hand. He squeezed it and gave her an assuring smile. “Don’t you pay me no heed. When the time is right, I’ll help you, you knows I will. Just promise me you’ll give Mr Isaac a chance to make you happy. That’s all I want, ’cause the good Lord knows you sure do know how to get yourself in a whole lot of trouble when no one’s lookin’ …”

Chapter Twenty

Yorktown was brimming with southern states’ militias. It was late September, and the summer’s oppressive heat had turned to mild and sultry days with cooler nights. The town was now home to the army of North Virginia. It was the Confederate stronghold, ringed by defensive positions and thousands of men. West to the river, east to the wetlands, and south and south-east were manned, barricading Yorktown behind what the Confederacy hoped was an impenetrable line.

Brigadier General John Bankhead Magruder was in charge. He was a man fond of saying, “There will be no soft-bellied soldiers under my command.” He was a hardened army veteran who had fought well in the Mexican wars and had insisted on his arrival that his troops be battle ready at all times. He drove the men hard each day with military and weapons drills, leaving no soldier under his command mentally or physically feeble.

General Magruder’s army friends called him Prince John. The soldiers under his command knew him to be a good leader but with a liking for the finer things in life. Some joked that they would desert should he force his avocation for dramatics and music on them. He could often been heard singing around the camp in smooth tenor tones, and this was the only time he did not suffer from his annoying lisp.

General Magruder had set up a secondary defence line on the Yorktown Road, just outside Newport News. The Portsmouth Ninth Calvary Brigade was camped out just to the south of Yorktown, in and around a schoolhouse. The brigade’s officers lay their heads on makeshift canvas beds inside the classrooms, and the ranks slept inside or outside white canvas tents dotted around the schoolyard and surrounding fields.

There were no signs of Federal advances out of Fort Monroe to threaten the Confederate Army, which had gathered in Yorktown in strength, nor was there any talk of marching or digging in anywhere else in the state. Since Bethel, Virginia had remained calm and, for most soldiers, exceedingly dull. The war was a reality, yet with every passing day, it became but a distant menace to come sometime in the future.

The men were getting itchy feet and becoming bad-tempered while waiting for a battle or the promise of one. Some of them wandered home, if they lived closed by, ate a home-cooked meal, made love to their wives, and kissed their children. Some soldiers left and were never seen again. The Yorktown taverns were doing a roaring trade. The men had been told that such places were off limits, but even the officers had been spotted in them, drinking their fill and having sex with prostitutes. Officers ordered the men not to use the taverns, but they did nothing to enforce the order, nor did they plan to spoil what little fun their soldiers had in this dreary war.

Jacob’s jaded enthusiasm for army life was coupled by his unceasing worries about his family and Stone Plantation. Hendry was at sea with the Carrabelle. He had not said much about what exactly he was up to, but Jacob had read between the lines and was convinced that Hendry was protecting blockade runners, trying to get through the federal net on the Atlantic coast. This work would suit the Carrabelle, he thought, for she was fast, with great manoeuvring abilities.

In his last letter, Hendry had also spoken about Belle. His wife was unhappy living at Stone Plantation, he’d written. It seemed that after three months, she no longer wished to live so far away from the navy yard in Portsmouth. Hendry had also informed him that her parents did not find plantation life to their liking and that they desired a return to Portsmouth’s city routines. Jacob understood Belle’s yearning to live in close proximity to Hendry’s base. He could also imagine her parents struggling to adapt to plantation life, but this news could not have come at a worse time.

He sat beneath a tree and sighed with dark thoughts. He had wondered of late about the validity of his enlistment. What was the point, he thought, of being miles from home when home and everything it stood for was on the brink of destruction? Here he was, in a place where days rolled into one another, with sleep in between them the only activity to separate the mind-dulling hours of drilling, target shooting, cleaning weapons, and sitting under a tree’s leafy branches. There were cannons, heavy artillery, horses, supplies, wagons, and more men than Yorktown knew what to do with, yet he couldn’t help but think that the Confederate cause was nothing more than a basis to mourn the South’s glorious past.

Every decision he had made had been for the good of Stone Plantation and his Southern way of life. But if home no longer existed, what the hell was he fighting for? He pictured in his mind’s eye a crumbling house, overgrown grassy lawns, fields brown with rotting soil, and cotton plants shrivelling up and dying where they once stood proudly in the sunlight. The war had not yet begun, but he was already seeing ruination in his mind’s eye.

“Jacob, there’s somethin’ George and I want to say to you,” Nathan Coulter said curtly, rousing Jacob from his bleak thoughts. Nathan looked down at Jacob, blocking the sun and displaying his usual disapproving expression. “It’s about Elizabeth. Do you have a minute?”

Jacob laughed to himself. That was a damn stupid question, he thought. Time was the only thing he had in abundance. “I have a minute. What’s on your mind, Nathan? These conversations with you about your sister are becoming tiresome, and I’m in no mood to listen to you today.”

“Well, that might be so, but as much as you want to forget your maltreatment of her, she will always be my sister. I will always look out for her,” Nathan answered with thinly veiled contempt.

“George and I were talking about your trip to Richmond tomorrow, and while we have no desire to go to the ball with the general, we would have liked to have seen Elizabeth. We’ve written lengthy letters to her, asking that she return to our ma and pa. I’m hoping there’s still a thread of decency left in you and that you will see her tomorrow on our behalf.”

“We would appreciate it, Jacob,” George said with a friendliness that was in sharp contrast to his brother’s surly words. “I don’t believe she should be with that Mallory woman. I know you don’t say much, but I reckon you don’t approve of her either.”

Jacob nodded. “I reckon you’re right, George. I don’t approve. I tried to warn Elizabeth not to go with Margaret Mallory. I asked her not to believe the poisonous lies coming out of that woman’s filthy mouth, but I’m afraid Elizabeth didn’t listen to me then, and I don’t believe she’ll listen to me now.”

“Will you take these letters and at least try to persuade Elizabeth to go home?” George said hopefully.

“George, Jacob will do whatever is best for him,” Nathan said. “He proved to all of us that he doesn’t give a damn about our sister.”

“If you want to talk, you talk directly to me, Nathan,” Jacob said tersely. He was tired of Nathan’s goading. The man was a hypocrite, Jacob thought, giving Nathan a cold stare. Nathan didn’t give a damn about Elizabeth. He was angry because his parents didn’t receive the settlement that Nathan advised they ask for.

Jacob flicked his eyes back to George and nodded. “I’ll see to the letters, George. I have no intention of disrespecting Elizabeth. I plan to visit her the moment I arrive in Richmond, but as I said, I can’t promise she’ll listen to me …”

“And why should she listen to anything that comes out of your mouth?” Nathan interrupted.

“Indeed, Nathan, why should she? So if you don’t think she’ll entertain me, why are you intent on my going to her?”

“I reckon I want you to feel the shame you deserve. I’m hoping she’s at the ball you’re going to so that your ass is disgraced in front of the general. That’s what I’d like to see.”

“Are we done here?” Jacob asked. He stared at Nathan, willing him to say another word. He would like nothing more than to smack that arrogant, self-serving smirk off Coulter’s face.

“We’re done.” Nathan threw two sealed envelopes at Jacob’s feet and turned to walk away.

“Good – but before you walk away, I have something to say to you,” Jacob said in a raised voice.

“What’s that?” Nathan asked. He swung round and gave Jacob an impatient toss of his head.

“Well, for starters, I’ve come to think that maybe you have a problem serving under me. If I’m right, tell me right now and I’ll get transfer papers whipped up for you – maybe you’d prefer to walk some more in the infantry division, ’cause I sure as hell don’t have time for your temperamental outbursts every five minutes here in the cavalry.”

“No, it ain’t gonna be a problem,” Nathan mumbled.

“What ain’t goin’ to be a problem?” Jacob asked.

“What you said – serving with you.”

“That’s good, ’cause there’s going to be some changes around here. From now on, you address me as captain or sir. You don’t need to like me, but you will give my rank the respect it deserves. I reckon that’s fair, but if you don’t, we can have it out right here, right now. No rank involved, just two men beating the crap out of each other. Then you can get your ass to another militia.” Jacob stared at him again. He wouldn’t have another conversation like this with Nathan. He was sick and tired of wondering if the Coulter boy was going to stick a knife in his back. “So what do you say?”

“Like I said – I don’t have a problem serving with you.”

“Then you’re dismissed, after you pick up those letters and make sure you clean the dirt off them before you put them in my hands.”

Nathan bent down, picked up the envelopes, and stood for a second with them in his hand. He stared at the ground. Then he wiped both envelopes against his trouser leg and handed them to Jacob. He gave a derisive smile and said, “Sir, as ordered.”

“Very good – then I guess I’ll see you when I get back from Richmond. Dismissed, Corporate Coulter.”

Jacob lay on his bunk half dressed, his hat pulled down over his face to block out the sun’s rays streaming through the open windows. What he wouldn’t do to feel Mercy’s arms around his neck, he thought. The little minx had not replied to his last two letters. Her childlike writing and funny stories were a constant form of amusement to him. He could read her letters a hundred times and laugh at her words repeatedly. Every time he read her words, an overwhelming desire for her grew. He wondered where she was right now. What mischief was she getting into? Being separated from her was a constant worry. Never had he met such a wild, obstinate woman. She would drive him crazy one of these days with her shenanigans, he thought, smiling to himself.

Thank God he’d been given permission to visit Norfolk after the ball. He would have three days to convince Mercy to uproot herself again and join him in Yorktown. There were plenty of women here, and wives often came to visit their husbands. He would find a room or a house for her. His life would a lot simpler with her close by. He needed the peace of mind that would come if he was able to keep his eye on her.

Chapter Twenty-One

Elizabeth Stone lay on top of her bed, dressed but with no desire to join Margaret in the breakfast room. As usual, she had slept little. Bad dreams plagued her of late. They were horrible nightmares that woke her up night after night, leaving her listless and yearning for Portsmouth.

She had made some terrible decisions. She should never have agreed to come to Richmond. She had asked herself the same question a hundred times: how could she have been so stupid? She had taken Margaret’s advice against her own better judgement, and now she was wallowing in misery, with no way back to her old life in sight.

Margaret Mallory’s words, with her fancy talk of power to come, in addition to parties and important men who would swoon over her, had come to naught. Margaret was ruining her life. She, Elizabeth Stone, was from the very best of families, yet she was no higher in standing than a slave, doing as she was told. She was a prisoner in her own home – but it didn’t feel like her house. Ever since Mrs Bartlett’s visit – when that dear woman had so kindly invited her to tea – Margaret had kept her locked inside and out of sight.

Charles, Margaret’s slave, would be standing outside her room right now, she thought.  He was always close by, stopping her from leaving the house. She hated him almost as much as she did Margaret.

Margaret was a dangerous woman. She was not the friend or mother figure she’d thought her to be. She had manipulated her with ease. Margaret had taken money from her, and as she, Elizabeth, had been so trusting, she hadn’t thought twice about it.

Elizabeth looked at her face in the dressing table mirror. She could see her own desperation staring back at her. She was going to die in this house alone, without friends or family. She wanted her ma and pa. They would save her. They would deal with Margaret Mallory, that vile creature downstairs. Her pa would whup that nigger Charles too. She wanted the slave to bleed to death. She had hated Stone Plantation, Jacob Stone, and her marriage, but that hatred was nothing compared to the loathing she felt now for the woman downstairs and the slave outside her door.

Margaret ate her eggs and pork bacon whilst looking at the newspaper brought to her by Charles, her house slave. The particular page she had been looking for was towards the end of the rag and boldly stood out against the depressing accounts of the South’s woes.

The ball tonight would be attended by the best of Richmond’s society, the article said. She took a sip of tea and untidily replaced the cup on the saucer. At first, she had been pleased to receive the invitation, but she was now apprehensive about attending the function, where the guest list included almost anyone who was anyone, what with Elizabeth in tow.

She looked up at the ceiling and cursed. Elizabeth was upstairs as usual, probably moping about. The stupid cow would have to go with her tonight. She could not attend such an important function without the bitch by her side, for that would throw even more light on their tenuous relationship.

Bloody Mrs Bartlett, sticking her nose in all the time, she thought. The woman had become a challenging adversary. She was like a dog gripping a bone with snarling teeth. Bartlett was determined to hold on to Elizabeth, and no amount of turning her away at the door seemed to deter her from coming back every other day. “It’s not easy to get rid of people here,” Margaret mused aloud.

Margaret walked into the study and went straight to the desk. She sat in the chair that she had recently purchased and rested her palms on the soft leather arms. It was a good chair. Her new furniture was made with only the best materials and wood. The curtains, bedding, cushions, and crockery were expensive and tasteful. Thank God she’d persuaded Elizabeth to buy the stuff before going to the lawyer.

She opened the desk drawer and lifted out the manila envelope containing the deeds to the house. The document was legal. The lawyer had signed it, as had a judge. There were no loopholes – she had seen to that. There was nothing Elizabeth or the Bartlett woman could do about her ownership. The house belonged to Mrs Margaret Mallory, in black and white, and no court in the land could fight its authenticity.

She smiled. Elizabeth Stone had been led to the slaughter like a baby lamb following its mother’s teat. “I only want to keep you safe,” she had told Elizabeth. “The house will be yours as soon as the North stops threatening Richmond.” How gullible the Southern woman was.

Margaret looked at the writing on another document in the same envelope: The last will and testament of Margaret Mallory. She swallowed deeply. The lawyer had insisted on a will to secure Elizabeth’s money and right to inheritance, and Margaret had found herself with no other choice but to agree. “I’m still young,” she mumbled to herself, “and I’m looking good.” She knew she looked better now than she had in her forties. Her skin tone and even her body looked younger. Elizabeth bloody Stone would be dying long before she did, Margaret thought.

Tonight could be a problem, however. There was no guarantee that Elizabeth wouldn’t shout her mouth off about the house deeds. There might be uncomfortable questions thrown at her, and she would have to defend her actions. She could always blame the lawyer. The stupid git had allowed it to happen, hadn’t he? She didn’t put a gun to his bloody head! Elizabeth had given her permission when handing over her money.

Margaret returned the documents to the envelope and sighed. She was going to have to spend the entire day making sure Elizabeth knew the consequences of opening her trap tonight. Oh, how she wished for the days when she could just take a blade to a throat or snap a neck.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Jacob stood at the front door, just beneath the porch roof, and nodded with satisfaction. Elizabeth had purchased this house, she had informed her brother George in her last letter to him. She had done well, Jacob thought, looking out at the tree-lined street beyond the small front garden. He was happy for her. She had made her own decision to come to Richmond and had obviously been enamoured enough with the city to settle there.

He was not worried about seeing Elizabeth. He was here to pay his respects to her and to deliver her brothers’ letters. He believed that if she had moved on – and the purchase of this house certainly seemed to attest to that assumption – she just might have come to forgive him. This, he told himself, would bode well for an easy divorce, which now required only one more signature from both of them to complete the process.

He thought about the other woman who lived there. Madame du Pont continued to plague him. Every time he thought about or worried about Mercy, du Pont’s face came to mind. He had no desire to see her today. If he were lucky, she would be out. He detested the way she made him feel – the rage she caused within him. The overpowering desire to kill her had been eating at him for far too long; the urge to end her life had not abated with time, nor had it mellowed. She was a curse which had infected the lives of those he loved.

A slave opened the door. Jacob briefly took in his appearance, noting straight away that his muscled body was that of a field slave, not a house nigger. He was dressed in a formal black suit of trousers, jacket, crisp white shirt, and black bow tie. He stared at Jacob for a moment with an arrogant expression laced with suspicion. Jacob was immediately concerned. Never had a slave greeted him in this fashion. House niggers were gentile in character, at times even more so than their masters. They took pride in their jobs as butlers, with overly exaggerated niceties towards guests. No self-respecting household would tolerate a disrespectful house nigger, for that would bring shame to the slave’s masters.

Jacob cleared his throat. The nigger looked as though he was ready to manhandle him and throw him out on his ear. “Please inform Mrs Stone that her husband is here,” Jacob said coldly.

“She sleepin’,” the slave said dismissively.

“Then tell someone to wake her, boy,” Jacob grunted.

“Mistress Mallory said to leave Miss Elizabeth be.”

“And I’m telling you that I want to speak to her.” Jacob felt his anger growing. The slave’s puffed-up chest and angry scowl were intended to intimidate him. This had to be du Pont’s doing. “Du Pont, come to the door right now! I’m not leaving until you fetch Elizabeth!” he shouted past the slave. “Don’t try my patience, woman. Get out here!”

After a couple of minutes, Margaret Mallory appeared. She stood at the door’s threshold with hands clenched and a face reddened with anger and a hint of surprise. The slave walked to a chair in the reception hall and sat down. Margaret looked Jacob over, from the tip of his grey and gold hat to his shiny black boots, and it was clear that he was the last person she expected to see. “The name is Mrs Mallory. I’ve told you that before. What the bloody hell do you want?” she demanded to know. “Well, what are you gawking at? Has a cat got your tongue?”

Jacob stared back at her with his contempt clearly visible. “I had hoped that you would have been thrown out on your ear by now, du Pont. I find it hard to believe you are still able to display false niceties to my wife.”

“Your wife – you’re having a laugh, aren’t you? When did you ever treat her like a wife? I hope you’ve come to tell her that your divorce has been finalised. There’s nothing I would like more than to tell you to get lost and to never show your face here again.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but it has not been finalised. I’m here to pay my respects to Elizabeth, nothing more. Is she here? Jacob asked tersely.

“No, she’s out. She’s gone to collect a new gown for the ball tonight, and she won’t be back for a while. I suggest you take yourself off. You’ll not get in this house whilst I’m here alone – not after what you did to me the last time you were in my house.”

“Your slave told me she was sleeping.”

“Him? That stupid git hardly speaks English. I wouldn’t take any notice of what he says.”

“Then I’ll leave. I have no desire to keep company with you. The sight of your face sickens me.”

“Oh, it does, does it? Well that’s your problem, not mine. And what about your whore, Mercy Carver? Has her face sickened you yet? Have you had your fill of her cunt?”

“Shut your filthy mouth!” Jacob shouted.

“Lower your voice, you!”

“If I could …”

“What? What do you want to do, rip my wig off and stamp your feet like a spoilt little sissy? Look at you – you look ridiculous in that uniform. It won’t stay new forever, you know. It’ll be riddled with holes and bloodied in no time. I’ll look forward to hearing all about your death, so I will.”

Jacob sighed. He sometimes thought du Pont was demented. Never had he known a woman who could fill so few sentences with so many insults. His eyes wandered to her neck. He would love to put his hands around it and squeeze until she had no air left in her lungs.

“I don’t have time for your insults or your games,” he said. He forced himself to keep his words even and his tone of voice passive. He had already parried insults with her in Portsmouth. He had threatened her. He had tried to best her, and he had failed. “Tell Elizabeth I called. Tell her I will see her tonight – and as for you, we have unfinished business. I aim to tell Elizabeth the truth about you, so she had better be at the ball. If not, I’ll come back here and get her.”

“It won’t matter either way. She won’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth. She can’t stand the sight of you.”

“That may be so, but nonetheless, I aim to speak about my dealings with you in Liverpool. Elizabeth and every other person present will be made aware of your true profession, your criminal activities, the murders you committed, and the lives you ruined. You broke our deal, just as I thought you would, and now I am going to break my end of the bargain and do what I should have done a long time ago.”

“Aw, get lost, ya big lout! No one will pay any heed to you. Everything that went on in Liverpool happened a long time ago and so far away. You’ll gain nothing by opening your trap. Nothing will be done and no one will care because it will be your word against mine. You’re an adulterer, for Christ’s sake – who’s going to side with a man like you? ”

Jacob smiled. He flicked his eyes over her with contempt. He would leave now. She would close the door on him with her usual self-aggrandizing demeanour, but once inside, she’d take in his words and would wonder for the rest of the day if he intended to go through with his threat to spread the truth about her past. He had done enough to worry her. “I will see you tonight. I’m going to end you, du Pont.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Who was that?” Elizabeth shouted from the top of the stairs. “I heard a man’s voice.”

“You heard nothing. Get back to your room!” Margaret retorted from the bottom of the staircase. Her hands were trembling. Jacob Stone was the only person she had ever known who had the power to unnerve her. She needed a bloody drink and time to work out how to combat this threat of his. He couldn’t get the house, but he could damage her reputation beyond repair. Christ, there’s no point having a fancy house if no one is going to speak to me, she thought, walking into the breakfast room.

“Margaret, please don’t speak to me in that tone. I am not your servant, and this is my house, not yours,” Elizabeth said upon entering the room behind Margaret.

Margaret sat in the chair and lifted the coffee pot. Her face was burning with rage.  Whenever she’d felt like this in Liverpool, she’d taken her fist to someone. Punching another person usually calmed her down. She had to restrain herself, she thought. She might get caught out if she marked Elizabeth’s face. “You just keep thinking like that if you want,” she said without turning her head. “It makes no difference to me whether you believe this house to be yours or not. The fact of the matter is that legally it is mine – all mine – and there is nothing you can do about it. Come in here. We need to have a little word, you and me.”

Elizabeth walked tentatively towards Margaret and settled on the chair opposite her. Gone were the smiles and pleasantries between the two women. In their place were sheer loathing, an unhidden expression of fear from one and domination from the other.

Margaret casually cast her eyes around the room. “I’m very happy with our new furniture. Aren’t you, Elizabeth, dear?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said.

“Good, I’m glad to hear it. It would be a shame if you decided you had to leave. I think you would miss this grand house, don’t you?” Margaret’s eyes came to rest on Elizabeth’s frightened face and teary eyes. Elizabeth nodded, and Margaret smiled.

“I thought so. Anyway, what does it matter whose house it is? The main thing is to be happy with what we have and, even more importantly, keep our private business to ourselves. You don’t want all the soldiers round here to think you spend all your days moaning and crying, do you?”

“No.”

“That’s the spirit. Now, let’s talk about the ball tonight. Me and you are going to put our best faces on, are we not?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“Cos I’m sure you don’t want to go with a puffed-up blotchy face, do you?”

“No.”

“And I can’t imagine you want to waste the night away bawling your eyes out to get attention from folks. No one likes a crybaby …”

“Stop it! Stop it, Margaret!” Elizabeth erupted, finally unable to take another word from her. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child or threaten me! You want to keep me silent – well, I won’t. I will do what I have to do. You have kept me quiet for weeks, but I swear on the Holy Bible that I will tell as many folks as I can about what you have done to me. You are a wicked, wicked woman, and I intend to make you pay for your crimes against me!”

Tears dripped from the corners of Elizabeth’s flashing eyes. She was afraid, but she was also encouraged with the prospect of finally getting out of the house and telling people about Margaret’s cruelty. She would use this opportunity tonight to shame Margaret in front of everyone. She would beg Mrs Bartlett and her politician husband for help. She would speak to the lawyer and the judge. She would make Margaret sign the house over to her, for there was no trust, affection, or loyalty between them now. She would scream and cry to anyone who would listen to her pleas. She wiped her eyes and looked at Margaret, who was sitting quietly in thought.

“I am going to give you the opportunity to go to the lawyer’s office with me. You will hand over the deeds to me, Margaret, because if you don’t, I will tell everyone about your cruelty and theft of my house and money,” she said. Her self-assurance was growing. Margaret would have to comply now, she thought. She wouldn’t stand a chance against a room full of Southerners; they would band together to protect their own kind. Margaret Mallory had to go. It was as simple as that. “Are you not going to speak?” she asked.

Margaret remained silent. Her eyes, focused on Elizabeth’s face, were without emotion.

The sound of the newly purchased grandfather clock ticking heightened Elizabeth’s senses as she waited with trepidation to hear Margaret’s response.

Margaret banged her cup onto the saucer, which cracked. She rose from her chair and stood with her fists clenched on the table. “I don’t like being threatened either, girl,” she said. She spoke softly, without hurry or anger. “Do you know what I do to little girls that talk back to me?”

“No, and I don’t believe I want to,” Elizabeth said haughtily.

“Stand up,” Margaret said.

“What? What do you mean, stand up? What are you going to do?”

Margaret crossed to Elizabeth’s side of the dining table. She grabbed Elizabeth’s hair by the roots, pulled her up, and held her face inches from her own.

Elizabeth stared, hypnotised at the rage now evident on Margaret’s face. She whimpered at the pain shooting through her head as Margaret’s grip tightened on her hair. She had never witnessed such hatred or malice. She was a stranger to rough behaviour. “Let me go … please,” she sobbed. “Margaret, stop this!”

Margaret loosened her grip and then threw her first punch. It connected with the side of Elizabeth’s head, just at the hairline, and sent her stumbling backwards into the chair she had just vacated. She sat awkwardly, panting but unable to speak. Another blow hit her on the arm. Tears streamed down her face. She lifted her arms to shield her face and turned the top half of her body to face the back of the chair. She felt her arm and shoulder being pummelled by fists. She heard Margaret scream, “You stupid American bitch!”

Then there were her own cries for help. “Stop it, Margaret! For God’s sake, stop it!”

“I’ll stop it when I’m good and ready!” Margaret screamed back at her. “I’ll punch you into next week. I’ll destroy your pretty face forever, and then I’ll kick you till you bleed inside! This house is mine, and it’s staying mine! And you’ll not say another bloody word about it!”

As Margaret’s punches and slaps connected with the back of her head, Elizabeth found herself strangely hypnotised by Margaret’s words. She was mad, Elizabeth decided. Margaret had lost her mind. There was no weapon to fight a woman such as this. She was possessed by demons and abandoned by almighty God! “Get away from me,” she sobbed.

The blows continued. Margaret wasn’t listening to her. She wrapped her arms tighter around her head and then heard Margaret panting with exertion.

“One word from your mouth tonight and it will be the last you ever speak. I crush women like you. I drive them mad with hopelessness, and I’m good at it!” Margaret screamed. “I tamed Mercy Carver, and I’ll bloody well tame you too. Look at me. I said to look at me!”

Elizabeth turned slowly to face Margaret, knowing her eyes were wide with fear. She felt so much terror that she was loath to look away, lest another blow strike her. What had Mercy Carver to do with this? she wondered briefly. Another fierce slap hit her face. “Please stop, Margaret,” she whimpered. “Please … no more.”

“Are you going to open your mouth tonight or are you done with your ranting? Am I going to have to hit you every time you threaten me? Well, am I?”

“No.”

“Is this house mine or yours? Tell me!” Margaret said with a raised fist.

“Margaret, you know it’s mine – you know it is. Why are you doing this?”

Margaret laughed. She lowered her clenched fist and once again grabbed Elizabeth by the hair. She pulled her out of the chair and marched her to the window. She tugged back the curtains and put her mouth to Elizabeth’s ear. “I’m doing this so that you don’t forget my words. Take a good look outside. Know that if you even so much as threaten to spill your guts to anyone, I will make sure you never see or breathe fresh air again. Know that you will be kept inside this house until your body rots from hunger and thirst. This house is mine in name, and it will stay mine cos you don’t have the bloody guts or brains it takes to take it from me.

“I’ve had enough of your whining, you half-witted bitch. You will not accompany me tonight. I’ve decided that you will stay in your room with that big darkie git I have to guard you, and only when I’m satisfied that you will keep your mouth shut about this bloody house will I think about letting you out. Now get lost! Get out of my sight and don’t let me see your face until I open that bedroom door up there.”

Elizabeth stood on shaky legs. A strange calm came over her. She felt as though she had finally opened her eyes and had just stumbled upon a way out of this mess. She was a Southern belle. She was a lady, she told herself, and ladies did not tolerate white trash women. She had to get out of the house, tell people the truth, and have Margaret arrested and thrown into jail. “I can’t believe you are doing this to me,” she said. “I thought we were friends, but I do believe you have lied to me all along …”

Margaret laughed. “Well, if you weren’t so bloody stupid, you would have known I was lying. You thought we were friends cos you’re as thick as a pile of horseshit, that’s why! Me, friends with the likes of you? No, dear, you’re the last person I could ever be friends with. Go on. Away with you.”

You’re as thick as a pile of horseshit. The words echoed in Elizabeth’s ears, which still rang painfully from Margaret’s forceful blows. She lowered her head in defeat and was unable to comprehend the violence and cussing that had come from Margaret’s mouth. She watched Margaret sit back down, quite out of breath and now seemingly indifferent to her presence. Margaret was done with her. She would now cast her aside, lock her up, and do even more despicable things to her. She staggered towards the door and then stopped to look at the back of the chair Margaret was sitting in. She hated Margaret Mallory. She despised her even more than Mercy Carver.

She looked at the sideboard. Breakfast dishes were laid out. A large bread knife lay beside an uncut baked loaf. She picked up the wooden-handled blade, gripped it tightly in her hand, and stared at the back of Margaret’s chair again.

“Have you not gone yet?” Margaret said, without looking round.

Margaret would never hurt her again, Elizabeth thought. She would never say this house belonged to her when it didn’t. Margaret had to go. She had a ball to attend this evening, and Margaret was not going to spoil it for her. She stared at the knife in her hand and tread softly towards the back of Margaret’s chair.

Margaret turned her head just as the knife bore down and connected with her left shoulder blade.

Elizabeth felt it pierce Margaret’s skin and hit bone. She pulled the knife out and jumped back in fright.

Margaret staggered to her feet with a piercing scream. Disoriented, she fumbled her way to the back of the chair and stared with unfocused eyes at Elizabeth, who was near the closed door. She moved menacingly towards her, her pain seemingly forgotten for the moment, and screamed Elizabeth’s name. “I’m going to end you! I’m going to bloody kill you for that!” Margaret threw her body forwards with arms outstretched and hands aiming for the knife, which was clutched at Elizabeth’s breast.

Elizabeth lowered the knife and held it with two hands in front of her belly with its point facing outwards. Margaret lurched forwards again, so filled with rage she failed to see that the weapon had been lowered.

Elizabeth thrust the knife into Margaret’s stomach. Instead of moving backwards, Margaret screamed again, took another stride forward, put her two hands around Elizabeth’s throat, and squeezed. Elizabeth moved in closer to Margaret’s body and pushed the knife farther into her belly, right to the hilt, as she choked and struggled for air.

Margaret growled like an animal and tightened her grip on Elizabeth’s neck for just a second until pain spread through her body. Her eyes widened. She stared at Elizabeth, shook her head in disbelief, and then stood frozen to the spot.

Time was suspended in her mind. She tried to convince herself that what had just occurred hadn’t really happened at all, for it was impossible to believe. She looked down at her belly, seeing the knife’s hilt and blood surrounding it. The knife had gone all the way inside her belly. She could see that, yet still, she thought, it couldn’t be true – she couldn’t die this way.

Margaret tried again to reach Elizabeth, who was staring at the injury she had just caused. She wanted to kill the bitch, but she felt as weak as a newborn and couldn’t even lift her arms to swing a punch. She staggered on her feet from left to right and back, like a drunkard after too many whiskies. Again, she stared down at the knife, and this time reality hit her. Raising her eyes, she found Elizabeth smiling with satisfaction and without an ounce of pity. The weakest of women had ended her, Margaret thought.

She dropped to her knees in front of Elizabeth and then made a last desperate attempt to pull the knife out of her. Blood filled her mouth and spilled out onto her chin. Her body keeled over onto the pale green rug, and she closed her eyes.

Elizabeth stared at the blood gurgling from Margaret’s mouth, yet she was still afraid for her life. She stumbled backwards and watched, fascinated with Margaret’s feeble attempts to move her hands towards the blade. Margaret was finished, she thought. There was no need to fear her anymore. “This is my house, Margaret,” she said. She looked down at the dying woman and panted, “I told you it was mine – so you can go to hell.”

Margaret looked up once more. She managed to grab the hem of Elizabeth’s dress. Elizabeth kicked Margaret’s head and watched it roll to the side like a puppet without a string to hold it steady. Margaret closed her eyes and lay still – until her body twitched with a last long breath.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Elizabeth stood over Margaret Mallory’s body, panting for breath and feeling quite nauseated at the bloody and ugly sight before her. Margaret was completely still, and her face was already taking on the grey pallor of a corpse whose blood had stopped running through its veins. Though sickened, Elizabeth continued to stare. She was curious about the physical appearance of someone that had just died. She had never seen a corpse, nor had she witnessed a human being in his or her last moments, taking that last long breath, and staring at the remnants of life with terrified eyes.

She felt nothing but relief wash over her, for she no longer had to think about Margaret Mallory or be burdened by the Englishwoman’s cruelty. The house was rightfully hers now, just as it should have been all along, and Margaret could no longer threaten to throw her out of it.

Margaret looked vulnerable, Elizabeth thought, cocking her head to one side. With death, her heartlessness, foul language, and malicious intentions had been nullified. She was just as helpless and as pitiful as any other soulless pile of rotting flesh and dried bones. She felt the urge to touch the body’s skin. Her mind was consumed with the entire concept of mortality. She was fascinated with the corpse’s expression. She could no longer call that face Margaret’s, for the wild anger in the eyes and the thin-lined grimace on the lips did not look human at all. She was like an odd sculpture, Elizabeth decided. Yes, that was the only way to describe what she was looking at.

She sat on the couch by the window and lifted a small bell which sat on a side table, ringing it for a good few seconds. She stared again at the body, noting this time that blood was beginning to dry up around Margaret’s wound. She hadn’t realised that the human form was so soft and spongy. It had not been easy to pierce the gown’s layers of fabric with the blade, but once it had gone through to the skin, it had been like cutting into butter. Strange, she thought again, that a body could be so vulnerable.

Charles, the slave, opened the door to the drawing room and was immediately met with the horrific scene. He had heard the screaming and the noise of hands slapping but had thought it best not to interfere with the two crazy women who owned him – never had he been beaten so much in so short a time by a white mistress. She seemed to enjoy whuppin’ him.

He opened and closed his mouth without uttering a sound and then approached the dead body lying on the rug. He stared at it for a second or two before raising his eyes to Elizabeth, sitting primly on the couch. She had not taken her eyes from Mistress Mallory’s dead body since he had entered, and she hadn’t even looked at him.

“You done murder, Miss Elizabeth? You done killed Mistress Mallory?” He looked again at the body and then back to Elizabeth. Her face was a picture of calm curiosity. She looked neither sad nor afraid, just engrossed in the sight of death.

“Why, yes, Charles, I believe I have killed her, but I’m sure I didn’t mean to,” Elizabeth replied, without taking her eyes off the corpse.

“Lord have mercy. What you gonna do, Miss Elizabeth?” He watched her staring at the body, her head cocking to one side and then the other. Her eyes were fixed and unblinking, as though she were in a world of her own. He felt his heart pumping wildly. Lord, he had seen some sights, but never a white woman killing another white woman. Nope, he had never seen nothin’ like this. Miss Elizabeth was in shock, he thought. Or she had gone mad. “You want I fetch the doctor or the undertaker – maybe the sheriff?”

Charles hovered between the body and the couch. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing. He didn’t know what to do or what to say. Miss Elizabeth was not aware of the gravity of her situation, he knew that for sure. She seemed oblivious to her bloodied dress and hands. She was also, for the most part, still unaware of his presence. The only evidence of her being awake was her wide eyes and cocked head. Lord above, when folks found out, he would be sold and Miss Elizabeth would be hung, he thought.

Mistress Margaret had been a cruel, evil woman, and he was glad she was dead. Miss Elizabeth had been badly treated, but thankfully she didn’t seem to want to take her anger out on him for locking her in her bedroom every day. She was smiling. He had never once seen her smile like that.

“I think I would like some tea, Charles,” Elizabeth said, “and I suppose you had better bring me some white cake too. I missed breakfast, and I’m feeling a little peckish.”

“Miss Elizabeth, you gone killed Mistress Margaret stone dead!” he said more forcibly. “This ain’t no time fir drinkin’ tea and eatin’ white cake! Lord, I real scared with what you gone done.”

“Well, I’m sure no one needs to know about this,” Elizabeth told him. “After all, I would just hate for you to get into trouble. Why, I don’t believe I could run this house without you, Charles, not if they hung you. No, I wouldn’t like that at all. Mistress Margaret was mean and spiteful, and I don’t see why you should have to suffer just because of her nasty, nasty ways – she will just have to leave this house now. Don’t you think so?”

Charles felt fear rush through his veins. She was not taking responsibility for what she had done, he thought. She was completely at ease with the sight of the body and her conscience. He would hang, not her. Who would believe a nigger? No one would. He felt panic spread like a plague infesting his body. He had no way out of this. He clasped his hands on top of his head and tried desperately to come up with some sort of plan. He was dealing with a dead white woman who couldn’t possibly have, under any circumstances, died of natural causes. It was murder, pure and simple. “Should we hide her?” he whispered.

“Hide her, Charles?”

“Yes, Miss Elizabeth. I can put her in the basement. Would you like that?”

“Why, no, Charles, I don’t believe I would. What if she starts to rot down there? Why, I believe she might stink as bad as an old pig’s carcass. I’m sure she will eventually. No, I don’t want her in my house. Can’t you just take her away? I don’t want to live with her anymore.”

Charles felt tears gather in his eyes. He had not cried since he was a boy, not even when Mistress Margaret whupped him so badly he wanted to die. He was scared. He had never been so afraid. He stared at Elizabeth again. He would get no sense out of her. She was in some crazy world where nothing was real. “Miss Elizabeth, I will make you some tea. I’ll tell Rose to bring it to your room – but you gotta take off them garments. I don’t reckon you want Rose to see you all covered in Mistress Margaret’s blood, now do you?”

Elizabeth finally looked at her gown and hands. “Yes, you’re right. I do feel sullied. I think I will have my tea upstairs. You take Mistress Margaret out and don’t you go letting her back in. This is my house, not hers – do you hear me, Charles?” She rose from the couch and walked to the door. She put her hand on the doorknob, stopped, and turned her head to look once more at the body. “No, Charles, on second thought, I think I’ll stay here, just for a little while longer …”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Jacob filled his glass with peach punch and walked towards the doorway between the entrance hall and the ballroom. He felt uneasy and impatient, and his muscles were tense at the prospect of seeing du Pont twice in one day. Their mutual hatred for one another was like a bad habit that had to be broken, for all that was achieved after their acrimonious bouts was anger and an even greater desire to best each other.

He leaned against the wall to the left of the doorway and cast his eyes around the room. No expense had been spared, he thought. The ballroom was beautifully decorated. Chrystal chandeliers hovered above waltzing couples like a starlit sky. Food was laid out on long tables down one side of the room. Glasses sparkled and rattled in rhythm with the orchestra’s music. A blaze of colours adorned the invitees – grey and gold uniforms, ball gowns, and government officials in exquisitely cut evening coats and silk cravats.  The glorious South was putting on a show tonight, Jacob thought, and should there be a Union spy attending, he would go back to the North and attest to the Confederate’s unified display of proud swagger.

Jacob’s eyes found General Magruder speaking to the president, Jefferson Davies. He watched the ease in which the two soldiers talked together and hoped the conversation between them would lead to new battle plans. Life had come to a standstill. Jacob was tired of his mundane existence in Yorktown, where his thoughts were not on war but on Mercy. He would accompany her to a ball like this one day, he thought.

“Good evening, Captain Stone,” a petite woman said, appearing next to Jacob.

“Good evening, ma’am,” Jacob answered with a bow and pleasant smile. “To whom do I have the honour of speaking?”

“I’m Mrs Regina Bartlett. My husband is Senator Jerome Bartlett. That’s him right there, the small stocky one wearing the pink cravat.” She pointed to a man just a few feet away. “I did tell him not to wear that one. I do detest that colour on him.”

“It’s an honour to meet you, ma’am. Pardon me if my memory is amiss, but have we already been introduced?” Jacob asked, wondering why she had singled him out.

“No, we have not, but after I was informed of your presence, I just had to seek you out. I declare, I do feel a little uncomfortable meeting you without being properly introduced, but it’s necessary on this occasion, Captain, on account of your wife, Elizabeth.”

“You know Elizabeth? I was hoping she would be here. I tried to see her today at her house, but unfortunately I was not successful.”

“I’m not surprised to hear that. That horrible woman, Mrs Mallory doesn’t allow anyone to see poor Elizabeth. I should know – I’ve tried to see her just about every day during the past two weeks, but I was almost forcibly removed from her porch in a most ungracious manner.”

“I see …”

“No, I don’t think you do, Captain Stone. You see, I believe that Mrs Mallory is holding Elizabeth prisoner.”

Jacob’s eyes widened, and he was stunned into silence at the forcefulness and gravity of Mrs Bartlett’s words. He had been desperate to see Elizabeth walk haughtily into the ballroom, head held high and with her usual confident manner. Only when he had seen her with his own eyes would he be satisfied that his worries about her safety were unfounded. Mrs Bartlett’s summations were very serious indeed. She didn’t know du Pont, her history, or that she was talking about an old murdering whore. He was sure that Mrs Bartlett would not have gone anywhere near Elizabeth’s house had she known about the dangers she was putting herself in.

This situation had to end tonight, he thought. He could easily slip into Elizabeth’s house through an open window and slit du Pont’s throat. He would be in and out in five minute, and the world would be rid of her.

“Mrs Bartlett, please be so kind as to tell me why you suspect Mrs Mallory of holding Elizabeth against her will,” he said. “It has been months since I have heard from my wife. Sadly, we were not compatible in marriage and are separated, but I am very fond of Elizabeth and won’t tolerate any injustice aimed towards her.”

Mrs Bartlett shook her head in condemnation. Her smile was replaced with a disapproving scowl, and her relaxed stance became rigid and tense. “I am very aware of your separation. Elizabeth, poor girl, told me all about you and your affair with the Englishwoman. Had our meeting been under any other circumstances, Captain, I assure you that I would have given you a piece of my mind; however, I believe there are more pressing matters for us to discuss, so I will keep my thoughts about your behaviour to myself.”

“I agree,” Jacob told her respectfully, giving a gentlemanly bow. He would not be drawn into any conversation that would eventually end in insulting innuendos about Mercy. He had suffered society’s wrath for long enough, he thought, remaining poised and with the right amount of charm. “Please continue, Mrs Bartlett.”

“Yes, well, first you should know that Mrs Mallory has been very devious – very underhanded indeed. She somehow managed to persuade Elizabeth to allow the name of Mallory to be inscribed on the deeds to your wife’s new house. I personally witnessed the conversation wherein Mrs Mallory declared that the house deeds were in her name for safekeeping but that the property was in fact purchased in full by Elizabeth. I really don’t know why a sweet, innocent woman like Elizabeth was not protected against a pariah such as Margaret Mallory – and Mrs Mallory dared to say that the Yankees were going to invade Richmond! Why, I’ve never met anyone so disagreeable.”

Jacob was silenced. Thoughts were crowding his mind. Disbelief and rage were tumbling over each other. His heartbeat thumped wildly, making his breath quicken. Du Pont had won another victory, using Elizabeth’s naivety to steal the property he had paid for.

Her next logical step would be to get rid of Elizabeth altogether, he thought. Elizabeth would become a liability, just like some of the innocent women du Pont had killed in Liverpool.

“Please tell me more,” Jacob said quietly.

“Why, I don’t know what else I can tell you. I believe I’ve said enough to make anyone worry.” She sighed heavily, flipped her fan open, and began cooling her face. “I declare, I cannot sleep at night for fretting over poor Elizabeth. I have not been able to find out how she is, and she has not been seen in public for at least two weeks – by anyone! I think you should go back to that house at the very first opportunity and find out exactly what is going on there. Elizabeth is still your responsibility, whether you like it or not.”

“This is very true, Mrs Bartlett, and I will do everything I can to help her, should she ask for it. Were both Elizabeth and Mrs Mallory invited tonight?”

“Yes, they were, and Elizabeth was especially looking forward to it. She was also eager to pay me a visit two weeks ago; however, she did not appear, nor did she send her apologies.” She took a step closer to Jacob and whispered, “I excluded Mrs Mallory from the invitation. I could not bear that woman’s company for another moment, not if you paid me in Confederate gold.”

Jacob took a quick look around the ballroom to make sure Elizabeth and du Pont had not slipped by him while he was listening to Mrs Bartlett. He had been here for at least an hour, and Southern etiquette dictated that it was the height of bad manners to arrive late at a ball, especially this one, where the very first Confederate president was in attendance. Something was very wrong with Elizabeth, he thought, for she was too much of a lady to arrive tardy to such an important function. He turned to Mrs Bartlett, who seemed to be waiting for a satisfactory conclusion to the conversation.

“This is a mighty kind thing you’re doing for Elizabeth,” Jacob began. “Thank you. Her well-being is very important to me.”

“I am very glad to hear that. So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to take your advice and go back to Elizabeth’s house. I have a feeling she might not be coming tonight, and that’s a mighty worrisome thought. I know how much she enjoys balls. I’m anxious, Mrs Bartlett. I don’t think I will be missed if I leave discreetly, do you?”

“It’s worrying indeed. I am going with you,” Mrs Bartlett said.

“But …”

“But nothing, Captain,” she interrupted. “My husband and the Richmond ladies can do without me for a while – and poor Elizabeth might need my comforting hand. Why, what kind of Richmond ladies’ society are we if we don’t support our own kind? My carriage is right outside.”

Jacob smiled to himself. Mrs Bartlett was determined to have some excitement tonight. Her eyes were flashing like a huntress, and he knew that there was absolutely nothing he could say to dissuade her from accompanying him. “Ma’am, please understand that this situation is somewhat delicate, so I insist you ask permission from your husband and that you tell him where you are going and why.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right, I suppose. Jerome will worry. We’ll take his aide, John, with us. Now don’t you move from that spot, Captain Stone, do you hear me?”

Jacob nodded. His meeting with Mrs Bartlett had been fortuitous, he decided. She would keep du Pont in check, and her husband’s aide would make a credible witness should anything go wrong at Elizabeth’s house. Du Pont wouldn’t dare act up in front of the senator’s wife. She valued her reputation too much, and she had already lost her good name in Portsmouth, thanks to Jacob’s few choice words in Sheriff Manning’s ear. Jacob had wondered for a while why Elizabeth had not heard the truth about her dear friend Margaret, until Manning had enlightened him, saying that he would rather keep the information to himself because he was too damn embarrassed to tell anyone that he’d been bedding a whore madam for months.

Jacob watched Mrs Bartlett speak to her husband from his position next to the double doors. From behind, she looked like a child talking to a father on tiptoes, so slight was she of frame and height. She turned and pointed to him. He lifted his hand in greeting and then waited until he was called over to be introduced. This was going to be a very important night, he thought, walking towards the senator, for games with du Pont were well and truly over. Tonight all outstanding issues would be dealt with, one way or another. He was only sorry that Mercy could not be here to see her torturer’s downfall.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The carriage drew up outside Elizabeth’s house. Jacob, Mrs Bartlett, and the senator’s aide, John, sat for a moment inside the carriage, studying the house’s windows. Jacob cast his eyes along the third floor, to the second, and then to the first. The main hallway was in darkness. Only the room located to the right of the front entrance glowed with candlelight, shining behind the netted curtains. The rest of the house was in complete darkness.

“Which room is that, Mrs Bartlett?” Jacob asked.

“Why, I couldn’t really say. I have only seen one room, and that was the drawing room.”

Jacob nodded. “Well, looks as though someone is home. Shall we?”

“Yes, let’s get this nasty business over with. I just hope we don’t encounter Mrs Mallory first. She won’t be very helpful or welcoming.”

“Don’t you worry about her. She will not be a problem – not tonight,” Jacob said. “She will cooperate, even if I have to haul her in front of the marshal and judge myself. I cannot abide thieves and tricksters, and Mrs Mallory is both. I am determined to see this house in its rightful owner’s name, and I’m not leaving until I see Elizabeth settled and contented.”

Jacob opened the carriage door, stepped down, and then assisted Mrs Bartlett. John followed, under strict instructions to say nothing but to remember every word that was spoken. “One last thing, Mrs Bartlett: if you feel threatened in any way, you get your man here to take you straight back to the ball and report what you saw.”

“You can be sure I will, Captain.”

Jacob knocked loudly on the door. It had two glass window panels, both covered with thick lace curtains. Jacob put his nose against the glass and looked into the hallway. There was no movement, no flickering candlelight, and no sound. He knocked again, this time louder. He looked at Mrs Bartlett’s white face and then banged on the door with his fist. “Open the door!” he shouted. “Open the door now! I’m not leaving. If you don’t attend to me, I will get the marshal here. Do you hear me?”

It was impossible to recognise the figure moving slowly around the hallway inside, but as the tall shadowy figure approached the door, Jacob concluded that it was probably the same nigger who had greeted him earlier that day. Jacob looked through the glass, cupping his hands at the each side of his face to block out his reflection, and saw the candle in the figure’s hand being set down on a table. Eventually, after minutes of waiting, they were going to be attended.

“Leave the talking to me,” Jacob whispered to Mrs Bartlett.

“We would like to see your mistresses – both of them,” Jacob said harshly when the door was opened.

Charles swallowed nervously at the sight of Mrs Bartlett and Jacob. He lowered his eyes and stuttered a few words: “They’s s-sleeping, sir, and I ain’t figurin’ on disturbin’ them.” He knew that the tremor in his voice made the words sound rehearsed and false, but he had no idea what else to say.

“Wake them! Inform them that Mrs Bartlett and Captain Stone have come to call; make sure to tell them that we will not be leaving until they see to us. Do you understand me?” Jacob ordered.

“Yes, sir, Captain Stone...Right away, sir,” Charles said quietly with the same tremor.

He closed the door, lifted the candle from the table that sat just inside the hallway, and walked to the breakfast room. He entered and then closed the door behind him. Miss Elizabeth sat on the couch, in the same spot and in the same position that she’d been sitting in all afternoon. Tea had come and gone without a drop being drunk and the soft, moist white cake was hard and dry. Rose had been no help at all. After screaming at the sight of her mistress, she had run to her attic room and had not come out since, and he figured no amount of persuasion would make her come back down. He was on his own.

Miss Elizabeth had gone mad, completely disconnected from reality, and she was getting crazier by the minute. Her staring eyes had not left Mistress Margaret’s corpse, and if anything her fascination with it had grown. Every now and again, she spoke to the body, but it was clear that she had long since forgotten that she had done murder and that Mrs Mallory was dead.

He had tried to move the body, but she had threatened to whup him if he touched Mistress Margaret again. He had urged Miss Elizabeth to go to her room, telling her that she should get ready for the ball, but she had also forgotten all about that and had giggled childishly after telling him she didn’t know anything about a ball.

He approached her slowly. He was just as scared of her as he’d been when he first saw the dead woman. “Some people have come a callin’, Miss Elizabeth. Mrs Bartlett and Captain Stone are here for a nice visit. You want I tell them to come in?”

Elizabeth’s eyes left the body. She looked at Charles and threw him an irritable glance. She turned her attention back to the corpse and cocked her head. “Do you want to see Mrs Bartlett, Margaret?” she asked.

Charles stifled a sob. “Lord above, Miss Elizabeth, I ain’t got no thoughts on how to help you. You just sit quiet now. It’s all right. Shh – I’ll go fetch these nice people.”

Charles walked with determined strides to the front door. He couldn’t lie, hide the body, or help Miss Elizabeth. He was done. This was a crazy house with crazy white women, and he would rather take his chances with Captain Stone than suffer the stench of rotting flesh and a crazy-eyed female who might be aimin’ to kill him too.

He opened the door and bowed his head. “Please come in, sir,” he said.

“Where are they?” Jacob demanded.

“They both in the breakfast room, sir, but I ain’t done nothin’ – I ain’t done a thing to nobody. No, sir, I found Miss Elizabeth—”

Jacob brushed past him, followed by Mrs Bartlett and the aide, looking just as mystified now as he had when they’d left the ball.

“Miss Elizabeth – she done killed. I ain’t done nothin’,” Charles insisted, following behind the group.

Jacob’s heart was jumping in his chest. He had just heard the word killed, and his worst nightmare had become a reality. Dear God, he thought, opening the door, du Pont had killed Elizabeth, and he was to blame.

He took a couple of steps inside. He was followed by John, the senator’s aide, while Mrs Bartlett, looking panicked, stood at the door, refusing to enter the dimly lit room.

The windows were closed, and the rotten stench that greeted Jacob knotted his belly. Jacob focused his eyes in the semi-darkness and found Elizabeth sitting on the couch. He sighed with relief and walked closer. He walked past the table and chairs, eyes still staring at Elizabeth’s odd demeanour, and then came to a sudden halt when he almost tripped over something lying on the rug. He looked down and saw the body lying just in front of Elizabeth’s feet. He gasped but steadied his voice enough to say to John, “Take Mrs Bartlett into the hallway and stay with her. Do not allow her to come into this room.”

He waited until John had closed the door behind him and then looked again at the body, the protruding knife, the blood, and du Pont’s ugly facial grimace. So many details confronted him. His eyes darted between du Pont and Elizabeth, who was completely unaware of him standing in front of her. He was being soaked by emotions like rain flooding him. Du Pont’s dead. It’s over, were his first thoughts, but they were quickly followed by, Surely Elizabeth has not done this?

He watched Elizabeth for a minute or two, afraid to speak lest she wake up from her trance and became hysterical at his intrusion. He cast his eyes over her face and gown. She seemed relatively unharmed, but her blood- soaked bodice and skirt, tousled hair, and shocked expression left no doubt that she had killed du Pont.

Jacob sidled to the couch and sat next to Elizabeth without removing his eyes from her. She was still not aware of his presence. She was almost doll-like in her appearance, with white porcelain skin on a face as still as a statue, unblinking eyes, and lips half open in what he could only describe as a soft smile.

He spoke her name quietly in an affectionate tone. “Elizabeth, it’s me, Jacob. Are you hurt?” There was no recognition or response. “Elizabeth, dear, do you know who I am?” Her expression remained the same, eyes fixated on the corpse. He looked at her profile. Her face was relaxed, and her hands were clasped loosely on her lap.

On closer inspection, he saw that the side of her face was bruised. Rough hands had pulled her hair, and some coils had come loose from pins, leading Jacob to believe that there had been a struggle. He looked at her face again for signs of other injuries. He noticed her arm then and saw black, pink, and blue patches which had not been noticeable in the candlelight when he had first entered the room. Du Pont had beaten her, yet she displayed no sign of being in pain, he thought.

Jacob sighed, miserable. He had done this to Elizabeth. She had been du Pont’s pawn, used as a weapon against him, nothing more. He went to the door and opened it slightly. He called John and whispered in his ear. “Get the marshal and sheriff here straight away. Tell them there has been a murder and ask them to bring a doctor and an undertaker before this stench knocks us out.”

John’s eyes widened with disbelief and questions. “Who’s been murdered?” he asked.

“Mrs Margaret Mallory. Just get them here – hurry.” Jacob turned his attention to the slave, and for the first time, Jacob pitied him. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Charles, sir. Please, sir, I ain’t got no part in this. You got to believe me, Captain.”

“I do believe you. You can tell the marshal all about what happened when he gets here, but until he arrives, you do exactly what I say,” Jacob told him.

Charles nodded vigorously and sighed with relief. “Anything you want, sir,” he answered.

“Bring me a sheet. When you have done that, make some tea for Mrs Bartlett and Mistress Elizabeth.”

Jacob left the room and stepped into the hallway to speak to Mrs Bartlett. She sat in an armchair and seemed to have lost her appetite for gossip and her quest to save a Southern belle. “Is dear Elizabeth dead?” she asked Jacob with a small sniff into her handkerchief.

“No, Elizabeth is alive. Mrs Mallory is dead …”

“Oh, thank goodness!” she blurted out, before crossing herself. “God rest her soul in heaven with the almighty Lord. Oh my, this is a shock. Why, I feel quite faint. Did Elizabeth kill Mrs Mallory? Where is Elizabeth? Is she in that room? Should I speak to her?”

Jacob wondered what to say now. Elizabeth had clearly suffered some kind of mental malady. She was in shock, so much so that her mind seemed to have rejected all that had happened. She had lost all awareness of her surroundings, bar the dead body on the floor, and even that was but an object of curiosity to her.

He began slowly, trying to make sense of his words as he went on, not just for Mrs Bartlett’s sake but for his own understanding. “Elizabeth is stained with blood. It’s on her hands and all over her gown. She has bruising on her face and arms. Her hair has been grabbed and tousled, which leads me to suspect a struggle between her and Mrs Mallory. The problem is, I can’t seem to get through to Elizabeth. It would appear she has lost her mind, Mrs Bartlett.

“Oh, dear Lord. Oh my, I’ve never heard of such a thing. Might I go in and speak to dear Elizabeth?”

“You may, Mrs Bartlett, but no lady should have to see Mrs Mallory’s dead body.”

“Oh, fiddlesticks – I’ve seen dead bodies before. One more won’t hurt me, especially hers.”

Jacob nodded. There was no more to time to waste on discussion, he thought. Elizabeth needed help before the lawmen arrived to question her. “Do you think you could persuade Elizabeth to accompany you to her room until the body is removed? She is fixated on Mrs Mallory’s corpse, and I cannot stress how damaging that sight might be to her mind.”

Being asked to help caused Mrs Bartlett to recover her faintness of heart. She would have so much to tell the Richmond ladies tomorrow, she thought. Why, her stories of this night would probably last an entire week.

“I quite agree,” she said. “I will do all I can to get her out of there.”

Charles returned with a white sheet and followed Jacob back into the breakfast room. They covered the body. Elizabeth blinked, looked disapprovingly at Jacob, and said, “Leave Margaret alone.” She turned back to the white covering and continued to stare, oblivious once again to their presence.

Mrs Bartlett clasped her throat as she entered. “Oh my. Lord have mercy,” she uttered. “We have to open a window. I declare, I’ve never smelled anything so unnatural.”

As she stared at the covered body, Jacob whispered to her, “Please convince Elizabeth to go up to her room. She is not responding to me, but she might to you, if you use your feminine persuasion.”

Mrs Bartlett nodded and gasped as she took in the bloodstains on Elizabeth’s gown. “Elizabeth, it’s me, Mrs Bartlett. Would like to take tea with me upstairs? Mrs Mallory is sleeping, and we don’t want to disturb her, do we?” She looked at Jacob. He nodded his approval. “Will you come with me, Elizabeth? I have so much to tell you, and I’m sure we will be much more comfortable upstairs.”

Elizabeth tore her eyes from the body reluctantly and stared at Mrs Bartlett.

Mrs Bartlett took a step back. There was no light in Elizabeth’s eyes, she thought. There was nothing but darkness. She was possessed! There was nothing that would entice her to take Elizabeth up those stairs. “Oh my word, I think she has gone completely mad,” Mrs Bartlett said to Jacob. “Maybe we should wait for the doctor. I don’t think I can help at all.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The doctor examined Elizabeth, and the marshal and sheriff took statements from Charles, Jacob, and Rose, who was forced to come downstairs. Mrs Bartlett had insisted on returning to the ball. She was clearly overcome with a desire to relate the murder scene and all that had occurred with her husband and the Richmond ladies before the news got out and somebody beat her to it.

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Elizabeth had killed Mrs Mallory. Elizabeth’s bruising however, was enough to presume that there had been a violent struggle between the two ladies. The doctor pronounced Elizabeth very ill indeed and insisted that she be taken to hospital rather than arrested and incarcerated in jail.  The doctor also stated that Elizabeth’s condition was akin to a form of coma, albeit one where the patient was awake. She was also suffering from amnesia and seemed to have no clue that Mrs Mallory was in fact dead. She had lost her senses and needed her family; this was his conclusion.

Jacob watched the long blade being pulled from du Pont’s body. The corpse itself was then lifted and put into a wooden coffin. His thoughts were mixed. He was worried sick about Elizabeth, but he was also pleased that du Pont was dead. She was gone from his life forever. Mercy would find peace now.

After leaving the house, Jacob mulled over what had been done and what he still had to do. The two house slaves, Charles and Rose, had been taken to the jailhouse, where they would remain until after the judge had spoken to them. The undertaker had asked Jacob about du Pont’s burial. “Throw her into a hole and don’t bother marking the grave. She does not deserve a decent burial – and don’t waste any words on her,” Jacob had retorted. The marshal had been visibly surprised by the forcefulness of Jacob’s answer, and Jacob was consequently invited to the jailhouse first thing in the morning to give a statement regarding his relationship with the dead Englishwoman.

A telegram would have to be sent to the Coulters. He would request permission to remain in Richmond until Elizabeth’s family got here. There was no going to Norfolk to see Mercy now.

The marshal said he was going to arrest Elizabeth for murder, for there was no doubt in his mind that she had committed the crime. Jacob had been vocal in his protestations, for what good would that do, he’d asked, if Elizabeth was at present unaware of the entire incident? His request to the marshal, to hold back on the arrest, was met with deaf ears, however. Murder was murder, the marshal told him, and she would be charged, regardless of her mental state.

Jacob rode back to Yorktown after spending an additional three days in Richmond. His body was heavy in the saddle. His head was bowed with the weight of guilt pressing upon him like a ton of rocks. Mr and Mrs Coulter were distraught. Their only daughter was lost in some other world and was incapable of recognising even her own parents. The Coulters had not been unkind to him, he thought, as he spurred his horse on, but this was because they knew nothing of his history with du Pont. Had they known about his association with her, they would have blamed him for this entire mess, and rightly so.

He thought back to the moment the Coulters saw their daughter. Elizabeth had been handcuffed to a bed. Her eyes held a look of fear, and she had flicked them left to right and back, as though she were following a horrific scene. Mrs Coulter had spoken to her daughter, but there had been no response, no glimmer of acknowledgement, and barely a blink from her eyes.

Elizabeth had not spoken a word in the past three days. Her lips had moved with whisperings impossible to decipher. Her expression was completely passive and disinterested by the presence of those who loved her. The marshal had personally come to the hospital and had officially arrested her. She had not flinched when handcuffed, Jacob recalled now, and she had been unaware that within days she’d find herself in the jailhouse behind bars.

Mrs Coulter’s eyes had filled with tears in that first reunion. She had blessed herself, praying profusely for some miracle that would bring her daughter back to life. Old man Coulter had marched off immediately to seek out the marshal. Only over his dead body would his daughter be locked up, he had stated.

Jacob had promised to take full responsibility for Elizabeth’s care and legal fees. He had assured them that he’d find the best lawyer in Richmond, and he had done that, at great expense. Jacob had also given testimony, confirming Mrs Bartlett’s story by saying that he had warned Elizabeth about Mrs Mallory’s deceit and prowess for manipulation. He had added that he’d tried his best to talk Elizabeth out of coming to Richmond with the woman. Jacob had then enquired into the execution of du Pont’s will. The lawyer and a prominent judge had been verbally united in saying that there could be no inheritance for Elizabeth unless she was proven innocent of the crime of murder.

He felt sick to his stomach. He had planned to surprise Mercy in Norfolk, but the opportunity to go to her had been lost.  He had wanted to take her good news about his ongoing divorce proceedings, but all further actions regarding this legal issue would be halted now, according to the Richmond lawyer.

He was drowning in questions. Was Elizabeth’s mental state permanent? Would she remember what she had done? Would she hang for her crime? Would she be deemed fit enough to sign divorce papers? This last question was probably the least important, but it burned brightest in Jacob’s mind. He wanted nothing more than Mercy beside him, right now and forever. The irony was that du Pont had ultimately defeated him with her death – for if there was no divorce in the near future, there would be no marriage to the woman he loved more than life itself.

He grumbled to himself. He was a selfish bastard for even thinking about his personal needs. Elizabeth was facing a hanging if she was deemed fit enough to get to the courthouse. There was nothing wrong with her physical state, and should her mind come back to full or even partial awareness, she wouldn’t stand a hope in hell in front of the judge.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Mercy felt the cool air caress her skin. It was late, after midnight, and the sultry summer nights had turned chilly, with autumn breezes sweeping in from the Atlantic Ocean.               Mercy’s arm was entwined in Isaac’s as they walked back to her quarters in a comfortable silence, with no urgency of foot or need to make conversation.  She spent most nights in Isaac’s company. They ate together when he was not on duty. They took gentle strolls around the fort and Negro encampment. Sometimes he even allowed her to ride with him into Newport News, where she would stare lovingly at Lina and Charlie’s boarding house with a mixture of nostalgia and sadness.

Mercy had spent a month at the fort. It was mid-October, and her wrist had all but healed. She had come to care deeply about the slaves encamped just outside the fort’s walls, and she had worked tirelessly in the past two weeks to make this rough and somewhat uncomfortable camp a home for the Negros. There were barely enough hours in the day. She rose at dawn and rarely reached her bed until after midnight.

Nelson did not join her in the evening excursions and activities with Isaac. He spent most of his time in the infirmary or with the slaves. Mercy had introduced him to Andrew, who had, upon his arrival at the fort, enlisted in the Union Army alongside Mathew and Billy. Nelson’s contentment was evident. He strutted behind Isaac, admired by the other Negros for being a legally free man – and one who had earned a respectable position as the surgeon’s orderly.

Mercy felt the weight of responsibility fall off her in shovel loads. Nelson did not need her anymore. She was glad, for she would slip away soon. Her plan was already in place, and her desire to go to Jacob was overwhelming. Nelson would not try to follow her when she left, but she would go with a lightness of heart, knowing that he had found his way in the world.

She shivered. Every time she thought about leaving, she felt the same nervous anticipation and a small amount of fear. Living at the fort had become like a sanctuary from outside perils, and she had mixed feelings about rejoining enemy territory where men talked about whipping slaves and oppressing their freedoms. Were it not for Jacob, she would not even think about leaving. The Yankees had given her a home and a purpose. Isaac had been a constant and valuable friend, and he was extremely protective of her.

She wondered if her letter had arrived safely in Norfolk. The fort’s commander, General Butler, had given her permission to mail her note. There was no harm in getting word to loved ones, he’d said most generously. It had been addressed to Dolly, but she prayed that it had somehow reached Jacob’s hands. If it hadn’t, she would have a lot of explaining to do when she saw him again.

She looked at Isaac’s profile and strong features. She would miss him, probably more than she cared to admit. She would do him a terrible injustice in the coming days, and he might never forgive her. She sighed and shivered again with guilt and thoughts of a departure which would leave Isaac and Nelson hurt and angry.

“Mercy, you’re shivering. Here, take my coat,” Isaac said.

Mercy jumped at the sudden interruption. She smiled and nodded. “It’s not really cold. I think I’m probably just tired,” she said. She watched Isaac remove his blue uniform coat and allowed him to slip it over her shoulders. He gave her a smile, and she felt a small ripple of pleasure. “Thank you, Isaac. You spoil me. You have to stop it. I’ll become far too used to it and turn all soft and feeble.”

“Good, that’s what I want to hear. I would do anything to make you happy and keep you safe. You must know that by now.”

Isaac pulled the coat across her chest and buttoned it up. He smiled. The coat drowned her slim form. She looked as fragile as a small bird. “I have come to care for you a great deal. I’m so happy you’re here. I don’t think I’ve ever been so contented, which might sound strange considering I’m in the army and we’re at war. But that’s the truth, Mercy. Do you have any affections for me? Could you care for me?”

“I do care for you. I care for you very much,” Mercy said. “I’m happy we found each other again. You have always been my gallant saviour, Isaac, from the very first night we met. I’m very fortunate to have you in my life.” She then told him that it was almost one year ago to the exact day that she’d walked across London Bridge. “It’s my birthday next week. I’ve just remembered. I’ll be nineteen – I’m getting old!” she said playfully.

Isaac laughed. He loved her with a passion which grew in strength with every passing day. He was on the brink of telling her how he felt. He hoped that when he said the words that mirrored his feelings, she would tell him that she felt the same way. But he was also afraid that his declaration of love might be too sudden. He was not entirely convinced that her heart had healed or that Jacob was not still in there, haunting her. He pushed these thoughts away for the moment, deciding to keep the conversation light.

“My dear, do you know how ridiculous that sounds? You are not yet twenty.” He laughed again. “A lot of woman your age are still ensconced at home, learning how to become ladies. You are still so young, yet you are already a great lady with more than enough memories to last a lifetime.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be a proper lady, Isaac,” Mercy laughed. “For one thing, I don’t talk like a lady, and I probably never will. I do agree with you about my memories, though. I do seem to have done a lot in a short period. Some of what I experienced wasn’t very nice, but then, my grandpa always told me that life was meant to be full of hardship for the likes of me. He said that the burden of my father’s suicide was mine to carry. Grandpa thought my father was a coward, and to make up for that flaw, I should be strong and accepting of every last rotten thing that happened to me, just to prove to the world that the Carvers were still a stoic lot and not a bunch of sissies.”

Isaac was pensive for a moment. He would not have liked Mercy’s family; he was damn sure of that. Mercy was a woman who deserved to be happy and protected, not conditioned to simply survive life’s pitfalls because of some damn family code of honour. They were almost at Mercy’s quarters, and what had to be said could not wait for another day. He needed her to know right then that he was going to be the man to give her the happiness she deserved. He had planned his words, and this was the perfect opportunity to ask her the question that had been on his mind for almost a year.

“Mercy, do you believe in fate?” he asked.

Mercy nodded and immediately thought about Lina. “I do, Isaac. When Lina told me about her belief in destiny and fate, I wasn’t sure if I agreed with her argument. I suppose I couldn’t decide if all that had happened to me was because of my own stupid decisions or if there was some higher power at work. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I guess I look at the world in a different way now. Bethel taught me that there’s a very thin line between living and dying. I watched good men fall inches from where I stood. I keep wondering why the bullets missed me and hit them – and I still don’t know. Did the good Lord choose those men to die? Did he decide before the battle that I should return here to see you, when I truly believed that all hope of seeing you again was lost?

“I want to believe that fate has brought us together. When I got on that train in Portsmouth, I held to the opinion that you were bound to become a beautiful memory that would linger until I found my great love in Boston – whoever that might be. After that happened, I aimed to keep you in my mind and think of you as a pleasant acquaintance from the past – nothing more. But I figure the Lord has brought us together again, and I don’t aim on ruining the opportunity given to me.”

“Isaac, please …”

“Please don’t hush me. Let me finish,” Isaac said. There was no going back now. He loved her, ached for her touch, her smile, and her affections. “These past weeks with you have been wonderful. My feelings for you have only grown stronger, Mercy, and I feel it’s not only my desire but my duty to ask for your hand in marriage.” She could be under no illusions about his feelings now, he thought, watching her ever-changing expression. She was surprised. He could see it in her eyes. She needed time to think about this, and that was only fair.

“Please don’t give me your answer until you have had time to think about it. I know how much you loved Jacob, and I understand if you need time to heal. But he is in your past, as is Madame du Pont and all your terrible ordeals. I offer you the future and all that it can offer. If I survive this war, I will give you a wonderful life in Boston. You will want for nothing. Let me care for you …”

Tears gathered in Mercy’s eyes. Isaac, sweet Isaac, was the perfect man for her in every way. In these past weeks, she had come to admire him, and in moments of weakness, she had even wondered what it would be like to kiss him – but he wasn’t Jacob. He wasn’t the man she loved.

“Isaac, I have to go in now,” she said. She unbuttoned the blue coat. She had to get away from him. She couldn’t breathe.

Isaac took her hands in his and kissed them. He removed the coat from her shoulders and saw her to her door. “Promise me you’ll think on it,” he said. “Don’t break my heart sweet, Mercy. Tell me you’ll become my wife and make me the happiest man alive.”

Mercy was consumed with guilt and no small measure of regret. She stood in front of a man who was handsome, clever, kind, and most importantly, believed in the same values she held so dearly – but he was not, Jacob. “I will think about all you have said and talk to you about it in the morning,” she told him. “I’m a little overwhelmed – I’m sorry I can’t answer you tonight.” The tears settling in her eyes threatened to spill over. “Good night, Isaac. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Mercy forced herself to rise after what had been a sleepless night of constant debate over her decision to leave the fort and her plan to reach Jacob beyond the Federal front lines. Dawn had not yet broken through the cloudy sky, giving the impression that night still had hours of life, yet within minutes, the fort would awaken to a new day. She would leave this place behind and never return.

She looked at the two sleeping women with whom she shared the room. They would open their eyes any time now. They would greet her with bright smiles, and she would lie to them about why she was up and dressed so early. She had told no one about her plans, not even Nelson, who would be very cross with her and probably unforgiving. She wouldn’t blame Nelson if he never wanted to speak to her again after this. She was running away without a word and would break their bond of trust and mutual respect.

The decision to leave the fort this morning had been a difficult one. She was a coward, running from a man who had so graciously asked her to marry him. But she was also being true to herself and running to the man she loved. She stared out the window, which threw back her reflection. She would bring shame upon Isaac and would receive condemnation from Nelson, but surely there was no shame in following her heart’s desire.

She didn’t like the woman staring back at her, she finally decided. She had selfishly toyed with Isaac in order to gain his trust. She had given him no reason to doubt her desire to remain with him at the fort. But she had only remained this long because of her injured wrist, and she had counted the days until she was sure she could manage on her own. She would break his heart today, and the guilt would remain with her forever. Oh, why did he have to love her? If only he could have remained the friend he’d once been. She would have confided in him, and she would have told him all about her plans to go to Jacob. He might even have helped her to get to Yorktown by way of a horse. Isaac’s love for her was very inconvenient, and Nelson’s loyalty towards Isaac had made this situation even worse.

Love was the most powerful adversary she had ever known. It was undefeatable in her case. Isaac had attributes that Jacob did not possess. Isaac abhorred slavery. He was a healer and a man who cared nothing for wealth or position. He would make a wonderful husband and father. Jacob, on the other hand, would give his life to keep the Negros enslaved. He’d married a woman to save face and to honour his commitments to his plantation. He would teach his children to look down upon a race of people because of colour and caste. Yet she could think of no better man in the world to have by her side. Her love for him transcended all human flaws. It would never be proved, of course, but real love was a joining of souls, one lost without the other, forever dark and empty, with perpetual desire unquenched.

She looked once more at her reflection. She was dressed in her old breeches, the first time she had worn them since her arrival. She had sewn the ripped material on the legs and had repaired the damage to the crotch, torn when Andrew had grabbed her waistband as she struggled to get into the boat. She smoothed down the creased shirt belonging to Isaac and rolled up the sleeve to her elbows. She tucked the oversized shirt into the breeches, fastened her braces to the waistband, and pulled them one at a time over each shoulder.

She sat on the edge of the bed and attempted to bend Eddie’s hat into a more respectable shape. The hat had been soaked though with river water. Faded in colour, it was decidedly worse for the wear, but she was convinced that it held some magical powers. She strongly believed that it was a good omen, that it had kept her alive during some very harrowing circumstances. She would never part with this hat, she thought. They would have to bury her in it.

She opened the door and put her face up to the early morning air. It was mild out. She was thankful, for she had a quite a way to go before reaching Yorktown and no coat to protect her should it rain. She put her hat on and pulled it down around her ears. It was time to go.

She walked casually towards the kitchens, which sat only a block away from the   infirmary. She looked up at the fort’s walls. Soldiers were on guard all day and all night, looking out towards the ocean, the causeway, and the James River. It was hard to believe they were defending the fort from the likes of Jacob and Hendry, for she found life inside its gates more peaceful than any other place she had been in the past year.

As she reached the sprawling kitchens, her resolve weakened. She breathed deeply and tried to still the fluttering in her belly. “For God’s sake, calm yourself, woman,” she whispered. She would not turn around and go back to her room, but she had to admit that the undertaking that faced her had not seemed this daunting last night. She tried to focus on Jacob’s face, but it faded as quickly as she conjured it up and left her seeing only danger ahead.

She banished her pessimism and scolded herself. All manner of things could happen should she fail, but thinking about them was only going to damage her confidence and dull her senses. God’s truth, she thought, if she had thought too long about everything she had to do, she would never have crossed London Bridge …

Work in the kitchen was in full flow. Army cooks and three women were busy cooking grits,   pork belly bacon, and scrambled eggs in large cooking pans that hung above open fires. Newly baked cornbread was still hot and smelling even more pungent as it mixed with the aroma of fresh, strong coffee.

Mercy greeted everyone and set about making herself useful. Behind her, a Bostonian woman called out to her. “How are you this fine morning, Mercy? You look very strange in them clothes. I got a gown you can have if you’ve run out of things to put on.”

Mercy smiled. “Thank you. That’s kind of you. I’ll take you up on your offer, if you don’t mind. I hope the federal government learns of our sacrifice. I’ve been wearing the same dress every day for weeks. Wet or dry, it goes on my back.”

“And very comely it is too,” an army sergeant called to her.

Mercy walked to where the man stood and gave him her brightest smile. “Good morning, Sergeant. I’m so glad you’re here. May I talk to you for a moment?”

“Yes, ma’am. What can I be doing for you?” He smiled.

“Well, you see, I was wondering if I might accompany you to Newport News this morning. I have a real craving to get out of the fort for a little while. I’m feeling a little unwell, and I’m sure a nice ride with you would do me a world of good. And you could do with an extra pair of hands, couldn’t you?”

Mercy watched him crack eggs into the pan. He was thinking about it, she thought. If he said no, she would have to wait until tomorrow or the next day to try again. “Please, Sergeant. Look at me. I’m not vain, but even I can see that I’m all plain and dull-looking. Surely you wouldn’t deny a woman a new ribbon for her hair. There are some things the fort doesn’t supply for us women – and it’s my birthday next week. I would like to make an effort with my appearance. Will you take me just this once?”

“I don’t see why not. I’ll just run it past Major Bernstein first. I hear tell you’re his responsibility, and I don’t want no trouble with the doc.”

“But he already knows I want to go to town. I asked his permission last night,” she lied. Isaac was the last person she wanted to share this with. “He wants me to go. He thinks it’s a lovely idea.”

“There ain’t much room in the wagon for passengers.”

“Oh, I won’t be any bother. I can ride as well as any man, and I’ll take care of any horse that’s available to me.” Mercy watched him, again grappling with his decision. A horse would be an added bonus, she thought. It would save her from having to steal one.

“Well, I don’t reckon there’s any harm in it, on account of it being your birthday and all. Can’t be much fun being cooped up here for weeks at a time neither. Supply wagon leaves in half an hour – I’ll make sure there’s an extra horse for you.

Mercy felt her thumping heart pushing against her chest. It had been awhile since she’d felt so stirred. She picked up a piece of cornbread and bit into it. She didn’t know when she might get the chance to eat again. She looked around. No one was looking. She picked up another two pieces and stuffed them in her pocket. She tightened the bandage on her hand and wrist, flexing her fingers backwards and forwards. The hand was still tender, but otherwise it was as good as new. She sat on a wooden box and counted the minutes. She smiled. I’m coming back to you, Jacob.

Chapter Thirty

A sigh of relief left Mercy’s mouth. The supply wagon and four soldiers halted at the garrison headquarters in Newport News. Mercy dismounted her horse and led it a little way up the street. She scanned the area, noting the absence of garrison soldiers. Where were they? she wondered. The town was far too peaceful. There were no horses, bar a few tied up here and there. This was not a good sign. She should have deduced that the garrison would concentrate its forces on the outskirts and all roads leading into Newport News from a northerly direction. They would not be sitting around the boarding house playing tiddlywinks, for God’s sake!

Warwick Road would be the Federal’s defensive line, she imagined. She had heard soldiers talk about it in the fort. This same road would also be used by the Confederacy some miles farther north. To reach the Confederate lines, she would have to bypass the Federal lines. This would mean going through some rough terrain, keeping clear of main roads.

She walked back down the street and found one of the soldiers she had come into town with sitting on the hotel’s wooden step. She planned her words carefully and sidled up to him. She smiled sweetly and gave a contented sigh for good measure. “It is such a nice morning, don’t you think, Private?”

“It is, ma’am. It sure is.”

“Do you think the rebels are near? Could they suddenly march in here? I’m probably being silly, but I have to admit that I’m a little nervous with this being my first time outside the fort without Major Bernstein.”

The soldier gave a vehement shake of his head. “Don’t you worry none about them rebels, ma’am. They ain’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of getting into this town. We got men on that main road leading north, and we got men all the way east of here to the north of Hampton. They ain’t gonna show their faces round here in a hurry.”

Mercy smiled again. “Thank you. And how far is Yorktown from here?”

“Well, let’s see. I reckon it’s about thirteen miles northeast of here, give or take.”

“Oh, I feel so much better knowing that. I would just hate it if those bad rebels were to come here and ruin everything. I suppose our brave soldiers are spread out all the way from here to Yorktown?”

“No, ma’am, we ain’t got the whole distance covered. The rebels have got some of Warwick Road some miles up.”

“Nonetheless, I’m grateful to you for putting my mind at rest. I feel safe enough to take my stroll now. May I fetch you something from the haberdashery store?”

The private tipped his hat and gave her a toothy grin. “That’s mighty kind of you, ma’am, but I ain’t got a hankerin’ for nothin’ except a hot bath and a pot of coffee. Don’t you stray too far now. I reckon we’ll be leaving in a short while.”

She thanked the private again and walked towards her horse. She patted the horse’s neck and looked towards the boarding house. The wagon was still being unloaded, but the soldier was right; it wouldn’t be long before the group returned to the fort.

She stared at the road leading out of town. The moment she rode away, her friendship with Isaac and Nelson would be over. There was no going back to the fort later. Gone would be dinners and conversation with Isaac, her special friendship with Nelson, and her ties to Camp Freedom, being set up for Negro runaways. Jacob is worth it, she told herself. She would give up everything and everyone in the fort to have the feel of Jacob’s body next to hers. He was her future.

She swallowed hard and took the horse’s reins in her hand. Enough, Mercy! she thought with a strengthened resolve. Just get on that bloody horse and stop thinking about it! She led the horse to the corner of the street and prayed to God that no one was watching her.

At the far end of the fields, which stretched for a mile, was Lina’s grave. The fields and woods beyond the graveyard were not hospitable to wagons, which meant that it would probably not be occupied by the army. It was hilly, and she was sure the ground would be soggy after recent rains.

These fields eventually stopped and met a dense wooded area, the same one she had travelled through with Lina and Seth the night they died. The thought of travelling that route again was terrifying. Grief still caused her eyes to fill up every time she thought about that night. She mourned Lina’s death. She also thought about Seth, the young man running towards freedom, and the two soldiers she had killed. She could not conjure up remorse for shooting them – she just couldn’t.

The journey with Lina that night had been difficult with the wagon, but it would not be so complicated now, on a horse. There would be plenty of cover should she spot a patrol. It would skirt Warwick Road for a good few miles and, with a bit of luck, would bypass the Federal’s defensive lines altogether. She believed that if she remained in the woods for as long as possible, she might just come out on the northern side of them. Then her only challenge would be not getting shot by Confederacy troops on the outskirts of Yorktown.

Chapter Thirty-One

Mercy approached the south of Yorktown with a cautious air. She looked up at the sky. Sunlight twinkled through the trees’ branches, casting slanting shadows on the ground, yet she shivered with a chill that had seeped right into her bones.

The route had been long and arduous, and it had taken its toll on her and her mount, who was breathing laboriously. She dismounted, removed her hat, and shook out her long hair.

She walked at a steady pace, yet her heart was thumping, her breathing unsteady. She could not be certain, but she sensed the presence of more than one person lurking in the vicinity. They were most probably watching her every move from within the woods that she had just left. They would be debating on whether or not she posed a threat, she thought. If she were not so scared, she would laugh, for what possible threat could she pose to anyone without her Colt? She steadied her breathing and walked on. She’d been vigilant and had avoided the main highway the entire journey. She’d long since passed the Federal lines and was, without a doubt in her mind, close to the Confederate defensive positions.

She had not seen a trench, a dugout, or any heavy weapons yet, but every part of her body tingled with the suspicion that rebels had spotted her and were following her for a reason – and they were closing in on her. A few times now, she had heard the soft swish of reeds and leaves from bushes being pushed aside.

The sound of soft-footed steps on ground lush with brush and vegetation were distinctly different from those of horses’ hooves flattening undergrowth and treading on loose branches, which snapped under heavy weight. There was also an entirely different sound when a wild animal, big or small, was close by. She had learned much this past year, first with Nelson, running and hiding, and then with Charlie, who had taught her how to distinguish every markedly different sound that nature and man provided.

These men were on foot, probably intent on stalking her for the last couple of miles before she met the Confederate Army. She was afraid. The thought of being stopped by men in this area hurled images of Lina and Seth into her mind. She could not go through anything like that again. Should they be hostile, she would probably die of fright. She must calm her fears. After all, she was unarmed, and with her mass of black hair blowing gently in the breeze, she could not be mistaken for a man. She would not be considered a hostile soldier, nor would she be deemed a threat to their hidden positions in the woods. So why would they shoot her?

She came upon a clearing and stopped walking. There were three directions remaining to her. The undergrowth directly north of her position looked as though it had never been trod upon by man or beast. The river sat far to her left, taking travellers westward towards the Richmond area and beyond. She did not want to go west. To the right was east and, most probably, Yorktown. Her journey was almost over. It would make no difference which route she took now, she believed, thinking more deeply about it, for the men tracking her would appear at any minute and would either show her the way or kill her. She strolled towards the other side of the clearing, her throat dry and breath uneven.

“Hold up there, lady,” a man’s voice shouted curtly behind her.

Mercy turned around slowly and put her hands in the air. Directly in front of her were three soldiers in grey uniforms. They stood some ten feet away from her. She remained still, her hands reaching upwards towards the sky. An innocent smile played on her lips. “Oh, thank goodness. Am I happy to see you boys,” she gushed cheerily.

The soldiers returned her friendly gesture with suspicious glares. They looked just as nasty as the men who had taken Lina and Seth’s lives, she thought. She cast aside the panic rising within her. She must not display fear. They would be even more suspicious if they thought she was hiding some secret motive for being alone in the woods.

“Hello,” she mumbled this time. The word sounded pathetic to her ears. “I’m a bit lost,” she added.

“I reckon you are. Where you headed?” one of the soldiers asked.

“I’m going to Yorktown to visit my fiancé. His name is Captain Jacob Stone. Do you know him?”

The three men moved closer. Mercy took a cautious step back, sensing that Jacob’s name meant nothing to them. “He’s a cavalry officer with the Portsmouth Ninth Brigade. I want to surprise him, but I’m not sure where he is exactly.” She pleaded for assistance with her eyes, looking at each soldier in turn. Why were they not talking? Were they struck dumb? “He has a horse called Thor. I would be very grateful if you could take me to him or maybe find someone who knows him …”

“He’s with the Ninth, you say?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Mercy told the soldier.

“Where have you come from?”

“Newport News. I ran away from those Yankees. No one saw me leave the town, thank God. I didn’t go near the main road. I’m very tired – do you think I could have some water?”

A canteen was handed to her. They were still staring at her, she noted, but they were not glaring anymore. She drank the water and wiped her mouth with the back of her bandaged hand. “Thank you,” she said.

“What you done there? That don’t look too good,” one of the soldiers said.

“It’s not. It’s very sore, actually. It was all right this morning, but I think I might have strained it with all this riding today. I might need to see a doctor.”

The soldier nodded sympathetically and said, “Well, don’t you worry none about them Yankees. We’ll keep you real safe and help you find Captain Stone.  The cavalry are set up not far from here. It would be our pleasure to escort you to their encampment, ma’am.”

Mercy allowed a long luxurious sigh to leave her mouth. Blimey, she must have been holding her breath for the longest time, she thought. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s the least we can do, seeing as how you’ve made it this far. This ain’t no place for a pretty lady to be wandering all by herself.”

“I know that, but I just had to come here, and I’m not going back. I don’t like those Yankees. They’re not very gentlemanly – not like Southern men.”

The three men grinned shyly. Mercy took the horse’s reins and smiled again. She could feel the happiness shining from her eyes. She would see Jacob shortly. Her heart was finally going home. “Shall we go, gentlemen? I’m so hungry I could just about eat an entire hog.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

The field, which sat in front of the schoolhouse, had been fenced in to allow horses to graze. A lack of exercise not only for the horses but within the ranks of the Ninth Cavalry was becoming a problem. Boredom had set in like a rotting disease, leaving many in the brigade irritated and on edge. Fights were breaking out between the men, and more often than not, these fights were allowed to play out.

Jacob vigorously brushed Thor’s coat, frowning with worry and dissatisfaction with life in general. He and the horse had ridden in circles around the field’s perimeter, but nothing, not even an hour’s canter, could relax Jacob’s tense muscles. He had awoken this morning in a rotten mood, with the same black cloud of anger and disappointment that had followed him to bed the previous night and every night in the past week. It hung over him, imprisoning him in perpetual gloom.

He wanted to scream his frustrations at God, ask the Almighty to help fix some of his problems. Elizabeth’s situation was giving him nightmares. Mercy was forever on his mind, evoking desire and perplexity at her tomfoolery. His plantation had been abandoned. If he thought for a minute that God would pay him heed, he’d beg him for help. But God no longer listened to him or gave a damn about his troubles.

Jacob heard Sergeant Tybrook’s gruff voice shouting out his name. Damn it, was he to have no time to himself, he cursed. He continued to brush Thor’s mane. If he didn’t turn around, Tybrook might take the hint and deal with whatever it was that brought him here. “What is it, Tybrook?” he finally shouted back impatiently.

“There’s a woman come callin’, sir. She’s asking for you. She’s causing quite a stir in the schoolyard.”

Jacob swung round to face Tybrook. The sergeant stood grinning from ear to ear, his arms resting nonchalantly on top of the fence. “She’s a real looker, Captain,” he said.

Jacob’s belly lurched. “What does she want?” That was a stupid thing to ask, he thought. Was it Mercy? “Did the woman give her name?”

“No, sir, I didn’t think to ask – just got my ass here as quick as I could. I left her in the teacher’s room at the schoolhouse. I didn’t figure she should be coming through this here field with slack-jawed men staring at her the entire way.”

“Sergeant, get my horse back inside the paddock. I’ll be in the schoolhouse if you need me. Can you keep the men under control for an hour or so?”

“You got it, Captain. I’ll make sure no one steps near that schoolhouse door. No, sir, you take all the time you need.”

Jacob held a serious expression. He doubted if there was a man in his brigade that had not heard about his wife being charged with murder or about Mercy being his mistress. Rumours spread like wildfire, and they were impossible to halt once they got out of hand. He had no doubts that Mercy would be waiting for him. No other woman would have made this journey alone, he thought. Only Mercy, and no one but Mercy, had that measure of courage.

Jacob passed two soldiers idling outside the teacher’s room. He waved them away and then stood at the door for a second or two. His heart was thumping. Mercy had come back to him.

Mercy turned from the window. She stared at Jacob’s face. His beard had grown and was untidy. His eyes had pockets of dark shadows underneath them. His lips were slightly parted, and his dark stare was filled with a mixture of anger and sadness. She crossed the room and threw her arms around his neck. “Jacob – oh, Jacob! Thank God I found you!” She clung to him and then lifted her mouth to kiss him.

Jacob loosened her arms from his neck, put them by her side, and stepped back out of her reach. “Mercy, it’s good to see you,” he stated.

She first felt baffled and then afraid. “Jacob, what’s wrong? Please say something more than it’s good to see me…”

“What are you doing here, Mercy?” he asked, as one would a stranger.

“What? I don’t understand. What the bleedin’ hell do you think I’m doing here? I’m here to see you, of course. I missed you – I had to come …”

“Well, maybe you should have stayed in Fort Monroe with the Yankees,” he said curtly. “The letter you sent to Dolly weeks ago with news of your stay in the fort got here eventually. Of course, there was nothing in it to suggest any reason as to why you went there, so I can only imagine you had a need …”

Mercy gasped at Jacob’s hostile tone. She had expected a telling off from him – but not his aloof stare and icy words. “Jacob, I couldn’t say everything I wanted to say in a letter,” she told him. “The Yankees read it before it was sent to Norfolk – and I really didn’t want to go to the fort.”

“So you just stumbled upon it by accident?” he asked. His voice was gruff and laced with sarcasm.

“No …”

“Then why don’t you enlighten me – why were you there?”

“It was because of the … the Underground Railroad,” Mercy stuttered. “I didn’t mean to go that far. I didn’t want to get on the boat. I was only supposed to take the slaves to the wharf, and then I planned on going back to Dolly’s house.”

“Go on.”

Mercy swallowed. “Well, you see, I got shot at and had to run … and a dog killed one of the slaves …”

“Lord have mercy, woman! Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Jacob shouted.

“No, of course not! Things just got out of hand. Before I knew what was happening, I was lying in the boat with a broken wrist and my belly ripped. It was all just a bit of bad luck. I can’t swim – and men were shooting at us. I couldn’t get back to shore …”

Jacob slumped in a chair in front of the desk. He put his elbows sat on his knees. His hands brushed through his hair. He looked up at her and shook his head. “Do you know what you have put me through? I received your letter days ago, yet according to Dolly, you’ve been missing for weeks. When you go on your adventures, do you ever think about those you leave behind? Does it never occur to you that putting your life in danger affects not only you but also everyone who knows and loves you? Tell me why you have no contentment unless you’re risking your damn life.”

Mercy had not been told off like this for a long time. Jacob had never spoken to her in anger – ever. She was tired, and all she wanted was the feel of his arms around her, not a scolding as if she were a child in this schoolhouse! “That’s not fair,” she sobbed. “It’s isn’t always my fault. I admit that Lina’s death might have been avoided had I talked her out of taking Seth that night. But you didn’t know her as I did. There was no talking her out of anything once her mind was made up – and I couldn’t let her go alone. I probably didn’t need to get involved with runaway slaves in Norfolk – but all the other calamities were not of my making … Well, maybe I shouldn’t have run away with Nelson either – and maybe I shouldn’t have crossed that bloody bridge in London!”

Jacob cursed himself. He was a cruel bastard. She was standing before him crying, sunk in misery at the anger and coldness with which he had welcomed her. Maybe it would be better for her if she hated him. God knew he hated himself.

“I know your troubles are not always of your making,” he said, his tone softening, “but the thought of you getting shot at while other women are at home safe and protected is not acceptable to me. Damn it, Mercy! Why can’t you see the danger you invite into your life?” He wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her tears dry, but there was so much more to say. “How is your wrist?”

“It’s getting better,” she said.

“How did they treat you at the fort?” he asked.

“All right – very well. Isaac and Nelson are there. They looked after me,” she murmured like a scolded child.

Jacob’s eyes widened. Isaac was in Virginia? Dear God, she had spent a month with him. He stifled the jealousy he felt. He had no right to be jealous, not anymore. “Is Isaac well?” he asked.

“Yes, he is. Nelson is happy enough too. I have to admit that I quite enjoyed my stay there. I would not have left, but for you.”

“I see.”

Mercy took a step forward. Jacob shifted uncomfortably in the chair, refusing to look at her.

“Jacob, I’ll tell you about Fort Monroe later. I’ll tell you everything you want to know. But will you forgive me? I give you my word that I won’t do anything with the Underground Railroad again. I’ll swear on the Holy Bible that I won’t. No more running with slaves or disappearing. I just want to be near you. Please tell me I can stay with you – don’t send me back to Norfolk.”

Jacob rose from the chair and put his hands gently on her shoulders. He would crush her now, he thought. His heart was being ripped apart. “Mercy, please sit. There’s something I have to tell you.”

“Oh God, what have I done? You don’t love me anymore, do you?”

After she blurted the words out, she put her hands to her mouth to muffle a wretched moan from throwing itself into the air. It was true. She had lost his love. Since the moment he’d walked into this room, she had seen only disappointment in his eyes. There was no spark or passion. He couldn’t even bear her touch. Her fanciful imaginings and visions of her running into his arms, being kissed and crushed to him, were not going to come about. He had tired of her reckless behaviour.

“Sit, Mercy,” he said again.

She slumped into the chair, feeling ridiculous in Eddie’s hat, breeches, and Isaac’s shirt. He was probably ashamed of her as well. She removed the hat and sat it on her lap. “Tell me,” she said, defeated now. “Say the words.”

Jacob nodded. “Mercy, I’ve had time to think about us and our future together. It would seem that I have had a change of heart. Granted, luck has not been on our side. We have suffered disasters and have both made some bad decisions – especially me – but the truth is, I thought our love was strong enough to withstand anything that life had to throw at us … and I was wrong. Love cannot withstand mistrust and lies.”

“I have never lied to you! Not really.”

“But I have lied to you,” Jacob said. “I took your innocence while engaged to another woman. It was my fault that Eddie found you and almost killed you. I lied to you when I told you that nothing could divide us, and I was mistaken about that too.”

“No, stop it! Don’t say that!” Mercy cried.

“Your need to free slaves may be admirable, but I believe your need to help them has more to do with your saving yourself than freeing them. Saving slaves, Mercy, will not take away the horrors that du Pont and Eddie put you through.”

“I know that! Helping slaves has nothing to do with my past. How could you even think that?”

“Because I believe your past is what drives you.”

Mercy felt tears gathering and was ashamed of them. She felt as though Jacob’s hands were inside her, crushing her lungs. She could barely breathe with the force of his scathing attacks. She wanted him to shout at her and then tell her he forgave her – but he was different. He was dismissing her because of reasons which had nothing to do with love. “Have you finished?” she asked.

He lifted her chin and forced her to look at him. “Mercy, the need to keep my slaves is why I stand here willing to lay down my life for the Confederacy. But I know you – you will never be able to live with me at Stone Plantation, watching slaves work my land and take care of my house. And I don’t believe I could trust you not to leave our bed and disappear with some of them in the middle of the night. You, with your wild ideas of freedom for all, and your need to defy the law, cannot stand in my world.”

“Cannot stand in your world? Are you saying goodbye to me?” she whispered.

“Yes, I think it is for the best – for both of us.”

Mercy felt the silent tears caress her cheeks. She stared at him, unable to speak, shift her gaze, or even think about what to say. This was a lie. It was all a lie. He loved her – yes, he did! She now saw that love in his eyes. He was battling with his feelings, but he couldn’t hide his love any more than she could dismiss her incessant need for him.

“Jacob, please don’t do this. Don’t throw me away. I have nowhere to go. You’re the only home I want. There is no future for me without you in it.”

“I’m sorry …”

“You’re sorry? Tell me you don’t love me.”

Jacob turned to stare out of the window.

“Turn around and face me, you coward!” Mercy shouted. “Say you don’t love me and I will walk out of here and never return.”

“Love is very often a luxury we can’t afford,” he said. “Believe me: loving a man like me comes at too great a price, even for you. You will find nothing but misery with it. I am doing this for your sake.”

“You’re doing this because you can’t stand being with a woman who’s despised by your pompous, self-righteous Southern neighbours!” Jacob turned to face her. Hurt and disappointment were evident on his face. She regretted her words. Jacob had been loyal to her. He’d fiercely defended her in Portsmouth. “I’m sorry. That was a mean thing to say. Has your love died? Did I kill it?”

Jacob took a step forward and then checked himself. “No, you didn’t kill it. Life, this war, and mistakes have killed it.”

“Mistakes? I see.” Mercy stood up. Her legs barely held her upright. Her tears were blinding her, but despite her desolation, she forced a weak smile. “So I was a mistake? Well, I still love you. I will always love you. You have been the greatest happiness in my life, and I thank you for that. And just so you know, I don’t believe a word you’re saying. You can’t hide love’s light from me – I can see it in your eyes. I can feel its warmth in this room. Jacob, if you send me away, you will never see or hear from me again.”

“I know. God forgive me for what I’ve done to you.”

“Forgive yourself, if you can, and leave God out of this,” she hissed.

Jacob nodded. “I’ll take you into Yorktown. There’s a boarding house there – you cannot travel back tonight.”

“I’ll do what I bloody well please!” she said haughtily.

Jacob wanted to hold her. Every minute with her dampened his resolve. His chest felt as if it were going to explode. His sorrow was overwhelming. “Go back to the fort tomorrow,” he said reluctantly. “Isaac can give you so much more than I. He’s a good man.”

“I’ll thank you to stop telling me what to do or where to go. I am no longer your responsibility. If you had half a brain, you would have shut up five minutes ago, before trying to push me into the arms of another man like I was fast, flitting about from man to man, like a bloody honey bee!” She looked at him once more. Feeling nauseated, she then forced herself to stagger to the door. She opened it, trying to catch her breath.

“Goodbye, Jacob.” She whispered, and then left without a backwards glance.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Jacob held onto the desk for support, panting and unashamed of the tears that dripped from his eyes. He had just watched his life walk away. He was finished. Every problem that faced him now would be confronted without Mercy, his guiding light. The war, Elizabeth’s situation, his plantation, and even his damn slaves, left to wander his house and land unhindered, had faded into secondary concerns. Jesus, Mercy had only left him a minute ago, and he was already bereft.

His resolve had been strong. He had rehearsed his meeting with Mercy repeatedly. But after finding out that she was at the fort, he had felt the luxury of not having to face her for months to come. Her bravery astounded him. Her resilience and determination was why he loved her so damn much. She was one of a kind, and he had let her walk away.

He heard an anguished growl leave his mouth. He hated himself, but even more, he hated the thought of Mercy being tied to him without marriage, a home, children, or a future together. He hated the goddamn Southern pride and honour that raced through his veins. How he had wanted to kiss her, hold her, and promise her that there would be a solution to the stinking troubles that haunted them. He straightened himself and cursed. “You’re a son of a bitch, Stone!”

He swiped the desk with the back of his hand, sending papers to the floor. He punched the wall, making his knuckles bleed. When he came to his senses, he slumped into the chair. He had allowed her to ride out alone to God only knew where. He had been too cowardly to go after her because he couldn’t hide his grief from her for another minute.

He stood up and rushed to the door. He would never live with himself if anything happened to her. She might not pay him any heed, but he had to try to convince her to stay put, at least for tonight.

As he ran from the room, another thought struck him. She also deserved to know the truth from him, before she heard it from the bastards who would kick her to the ground with cruel words and accusations.

He reached the school’s courtyard. George and Tybrook were staring up the street. He followed their eyes and saw Mercy, hat on, head down, and leading her horse with pitifully slow steps.

He ran, ignoring the curious stares from his men, shoving aside soldier after soldier that got in his way. He caught up with her just as she turned the corner that led out of town.

He grabbed her horse’s reins. She looked up at him, startled. The tears he had seen in the schoolhouse still coursed down her face. “Mercy, stop, please. You can’t. Your horse needs to rest.” He cursed himself again. That was not what he’d wanted to say at all. “If you’re mind is set on leaving, at least hear me out first – please.”

Mercy sat on a flat rock just outside of town and watched Jacob wrap her horse’s reins around a tree branch. She put her head between her knees in an attempt to curb the nausea and dizziness that had come over her. She had refused food, yet she was starving. She had also refused to stay a night in the boarding house, yet she was terrified of taking off in the darkness with no idea of where she wanted to go. Another sob left her mouth. She wiped the tears, begging them to stop but unable to do anything about them except release them as quietly as she could.

She had never prayed, not really, she thought just then. She had said “Please God, help me” many times, but she had never actually spoken to God. She clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. Dear Lord in heaven, I know you have to listen to lots of people every minute of every day – but I would be grateful if you could just give me a minute of your time. Please tell Jacob to change his mind about us. Make him see that we are meant to be together no matter what – and please, if it be your will, make me stop wanting to free slaves. I am so tired, God. I ask you to give me peace and the strength to face what’s to come.

She looked up. Jacob walked out from the shadow of a tree towards her. She had no idea why she had allowed him to bring her here. She had not seen or heard anything to suggest he’d reconsidered, yet here she sat, praying and hoping that he had come to his senses.

“May I sit beside you?” he asked.

Mercy nodded but kept her face averted from his gaze.

He stared at her with unflinching eyes. Her face was red and swollen. Her hair was wild, blowing in the wind. She was shivering with cold. He took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. He gently cupped her face and wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs.

“Mercy, look at you. You’re freezing.”

“No matter. Why did you follow me?” She sniffed and jerked her face out of his grasp. She couldn’t stand to look at him anymore.

He handed her a handkerchief and sighed loudly. “I couldn’t allow you to leave with my words ringing in your ears. They were cruel. They were what I thought you should hear. God forgive me, but I only wanted to spare you from the truth. You have to believe that.” His words were muddled. He didn’t know where to begin. “Help me, Mercy – help me to finish this properly.”

Mercy laughed scornfully. “Help you, you say. You don’t need my help. You said what you said quite nicely, all by yourself. You shouldn’t have followed me.”

“You’re wrong. I should not have let you leave the schoolhouse on your own. I beg you – please stay the night in Yorktown.”

“No.”

Jacob shook his head. “Then at least allow me to tell you the truth before you leave? Lord knows you deserve that.”

“What truth do you speak of? Is it the one where you tell me we are not suited? Or the one where our beliefs are at odds? You don’t know the truth, Jacob. If you did, you would not be here now.”

Jacob took off his hat and brushed his fingers through his hair. He took her limp hand in his. “Might I hold your hand, just for a moment?”

She nodded.

“Darling, we cannot be together, but not for the reasons I gave you,” he said, stroking her fingers. “You were correct in thinking I lied to you. I do love you – of course I do - I love you so very much.”

“Then why … why do you not want me?”

“Believe me, not wanting you has nothing to with this,” he told her. “I wanted you the minute I saw you in Liverpool. I still want you – more, if that’s possible – but the truth is, I’m not willing to ruin your life, and it will be ruined if you stay with me. We’ve been defeated, my love, not because of politics or separations, or you running all over the damn state trying to save people, but because circumstances have made a decent life between us an impossible dream. It seems fate has conspired against us.”

“You talk in riddles. Have you forgotten Newport News? You told me you would always love me and that nothing would divide us. What is this really about – the truth?”

“It’s about du Pont – and Elizabeth.”

Mercy moaned. “Oh no. Has Elizabeth been hurt?”

“No, Elizabeth is alive and well, physically anyway. Madame du Pont is dead.” Jacob stopped there. He had to take this slowly, one shocking piece of news at a time.

“Madame du Pont is dead?”

Jacob nodded and tightened his grip on her hand. “She is.”

Mercy’s breathing quickened. She searched his face. He was telling the truth. She had heard his words correctly. Madame du Pont was dead. She would never threaten or harm her again.

“Mercy, please say something,” Jacob said.

Her small face, blotchy from crying, had paled. Jacob put his arm around her shoulder. She was shivering again. “Speak to me, darling,” he urged her.

“She’s dead. She’s gone - May God forgive me, but this is the only cheery news I have heard all day. I feel relieved. I’m free of her. How did she die?”

“Elizabeth stabbed her … My wife killed her.”

Mercy’s sharp intake of breath was followed by a soft groan of pity, but it also held resentment. “I thought it would be me. It was my job to finish Madame du Pont and live with the knowledge of it. Now I’ll never get to know what it feels like to have ended her life. I wanted to kill her. I should have stuck the knife in her – me! Not Elizabeth.”

“You can’t think like that. You’ve killed, but you’re not a cold blooded murderer – and neither is Elizabeth,” he said, sharply. “Mercy, listen to me. I was at the house in Richmond. I saw du Pont’s dead body, and I saw Elizabeth, mad with the shock of it all. I spoke to her. She didn’t know me. She doesn’t remember du Pont’s death.”

“She doesn’t remember killing?”

Jacob shook his head. “Not a thing about it.”

“Oh, the poor woman. She must have been terrified. She doesn’t deserve this; no one does.”

“There’s more. She’s been arrested for murder. She’s in jail – and they will hang her if the judge thinks for a second that she is aware of her crime.”

Mercy covered her face with her hands. For the moment, her feelings for Jacob would have to take second place to this terrible news. She was beginning to understand why he felt the need to banish her, and more importantly, what this would mean as far as his divorce was concerned. She did not agree with his decision, but she was beginning to accept his reasoning.

“I can’t seem to put my thoughts into words. I know du Pont is dead. I know you must be at your wit’s end – but I can’t understand why the marshal in Richmond wants to hang Elizabeth. He should pin a medal on her.”

“No one wants to hang a woman, Mercy – no one – but the marshal didn’t know du Pont. As far as he’s concerned, two women had a fight and one killed the other. That’s murder, no matter how you look at it. Elizabeth was used in du Pont’s sick, twisted war against me.”

“It seems to me that du Pont got her victory, even in death,” Mercy spat.

“You might be right. The way I see it, either Elizabeth gets her wits back and hangs or she remains in a Richmond jail for God knows how long.”

Mercy uttered a defeated sigh. It was over. She would complicate Jacob’s life even more if she begged him not to end their love affair – that’s what it was, she admitted to herself. He was a married man, and now he would remain married, all because of a cruel twist of fate.

“It seems we are not destined to be together after all,” she sobbed. “You have to go to her. You have to be with your wife.”

There was little comfort in knowing that Jacob loved her, yet she felt a small measure of consolation, for where love still existed, so did hope. The burning desire for another was not easily extinguished. She knew this by her own experience. She was defeated today, but it didn’t mean that all would be lost tomorrow. Fate might yield another twist and turn in her path, leading her home to Jacob.

“When will you leave Yorktown?” she asked.

“I’m leaving for Richmond in the morning. I’ve been transferred to central command until this is sorted out, one way or another. Du Pont’s murder has been reported in all the newspapers. The Confederate government wants this story to go away. I believe there will be a speedy outcome.”

“Do the doctors think Elizabeth will recover?”

“I believe they do. I received a telegram yesterday from her father. He informed me that Elizabeth is already showing signs of improvement. The marshal gave the order to have her transferred to the jailhouse, which means he thinks her fit to stand trial. Darling, believe me: I have looked at this from every angle. I have considered every possible outcome, and not one ends well for us. There is no running away from this. We could hide together on the other side of the world. We could live together as man and wife but that would be a lie. Elizabeth would haunt us both until any happiness we might hope for is ripped to shreds. Darling Mercy, should I desert her now, knowing that I am partly responsible for her situation?”

“No, you have to stand by her.”

Jacob nodded, utterly defeated. “I will always love you. I’ve made terrible mistakes and I will live with regrets for the rest of my life. Knowing that you might be content somewhere with a man who can give you everything I cannot will make my loss bearable – this is the only thing I can hope for now.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Mercy softened her stance after hearing Jacob’s news. She would remain in Yorktown until the morning. To leave now in darkness would be nothing more than prideful stupidity. Anyway, she thought, she was exhausted and far too sad to take herself off into a new unknown.

Mercy’s back rested against Jacob’s chest as they rode her horse back into Yorktown. His arms were wrapped protectively around her waist. They rode in silence and the horse moved as slowly as a sloth in the half mile back to the centre of town, as though sensing the despair and reluctance of the riders.

Mercy wished the mile would multiply by a thousand. Arriving at the boarding house would herald the end of her and Jacob. It would bring to an abrupt halt to her dreams for a future with him, in a world already bound in the fog of war. She had no tears left to cry or words to say. The fear of losing him had been so strong that she had gone back on her word and had implored Jacob to rethink his decision. She had begged him to allow her the choice of remaining by his side, but she had no argument to sway him and no more words to ease his guilt.

He had asked her to imagine a scene whereby she sat in a house alone in Portsmouth, hated, shunned, and with no hope for marriage or children. He would come to her once or maybe twice a week, always in secret, carrying blame on his shoulders like a heavy sack of responsibility. It would eventually become a burden too heavy to abide, he’d told her.

She caressed his bare forearms, unable to deny herself this one last moment of tenderness between them. She was just as much at fault in all of this as he, she thought. It was unfair that he carry this responsibility alone. She was glad Madame du Pont was dead, happy that the cruel, murdering bitch had died at the end of a blade. She deserved more than the death she’d been given – torture and suffering in agony for days would have been more fitting for the likes of her. That’s how she felt about du Pont. She had brought du Pont onto Elizabeth’s path, but Elizabeth should not have been the one to wield the knife and take du Pont’s life. No, she thought again, that should have been her job.

After securing a room, Jacob emerged from the boarding house with a serious and thoughtful expression. They led the horse down the street to the blacksmith. It would be fed, watered, and stabled, the blacksmith assured her. As they walked back to the boarding house, Jacob linked his fingers in hers. Mercy thought it ironic. She and Jacob had just been robbed of a lifetime of conversations, yet she could find nothing to say at this moment.

They stopped in front of the boarding house door. Jacob searched her eyes. “I don’t know how to do this – I don’t know how to say goodbye to you,” he said.

She felt her eyes fill with tears yet again. “Please don’t say goodbye,” she pleaded.

“I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t,” she blurted out. “Will you stay with me tonight? Can we have a few more hours together?”

Jacob’s eyes brightened. He caressed her cheek with his hand and nodded. “Thank you.” His words caught in his throat, making his next words a soft whisper. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, as long as you promise not to say goodbye to me in the morning. When you leave me, kiss me and tell me you’ll see me soon – and believe it when you say it. I won’t let Madame du Pont take all hope from us. She’s stolen everything else. I hate her! Lina believed in fate and destiny, and I do too. God brought us together, and only he can tear us apart, not du Pont – so there must be no talk of farewells or any nasty business, do you hear me? I’m going to stop crying now, and you will not see another single tear from me this night. This must be our night, no one else’s. Promise me.”

“I promise,” he answered.

Mercy lay enfolded in Jacob’s arms. It was black outside. She could see no stars or moon, just a world of darkness. She was covered in it. It was seeping through her skin into her heart, emptying it of joy. She had been staring out of the window for what seemed like hours, searching for answers and trying to imagine a better future than the one that lay ahead.

Fleeting thoughts converged in her mind, but one in their midst was now gaining her full attention. An interesting notion, it was transforming into a coherent idea. Du Pont had wanted to destroy Jacob and, in doing so, destroy Mercy. Should she, Mercy, do nothing to help Jacob now? Could she allow the old cow a victory to accompany her bones in the grave? No, Mercy decided. That was unacceptable, and she was having none of it.

Jacob would be awake soon. She would kiss him, tell him that she loved him, and wish him luck. He would leave immediately for Richmond, but he had asked her to remain awhile longer. Jacob’s colonel had been kind enough to order three of his men to escort her all the way to the Confederate secondary defensive line on Warwick Road. Jacob was not happy about her going anywhere, of course, but last night it had been decided that she would go back to Norfolk.

She gazed lovingly into his face and then gently drew her finger across his lips. She snuggled closer to him and felt her skin burn with desire. She kissed his mouth, parting his lips with her tongue. Jacob stirred, clearly hungry for her even as he roused from sleep. He opened his eyes and in one swift movement rolled her onto her back. He arched his back and looked down at her face. “Mercy …Oh my, Mercy. I love you, my darling,” he said.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Jacob found Mr and Mrs Coulter in their hotel.  As he waited for them to join him for tea, he thought about the telegram that he had received three days earlier in Yorktown: “ELIZABETH IN JAIL STOP RECOVERING STOP GET HERE STOP URGENT.”

His body was drained of energy. He grieved for Mercy, yet upon leaving Yorktown, he had begged her not to return to him. He would always mourn her absence. This was the punishment for his stupidity. But Mercy would love again. A good man would find her and fill her life with happiness. He had to believe this. He despised himself for being a fool and a coward. He dreaded the days to come – yes, feared the outcome of Elizabeth’s trial and his own future.

It was early evening now, just past sundown. Mr Coulter and Jacob sat at a table in the hotel restaurant. Mrs Coulter was in the bedroom upstairs, far too distraught to drink tea in a public place, she had told her husband. Jacob was surprised and deeply worried at the turn in Elizabeth’s condition. Mr Coulter had informed him on his arrival that four days ago she had spoken for the first time in the presence of the marshal and prosecutor. Her words had been damaging, for they had demonstrated conscious thought and were therefore damning enough to make an official arrest possible.

“What exactly happened?” Jacob now asked. “Was there any sign that Elizabeth was coming round beforehand?

“Nope, I never heard a single word fall from her mouth. The doc at the hospital reckons it might have had something to do with her nightmare the previous night. According to him, she was hollering and kicking bedclothes off her all night long. She was screaming the Mallory woman’s name – shouting for you too, I heard tell. I reckon my girl just woke up with a whole lot of mumbo jumbo recollections in her brain. They got her in the bowels of that stinking jailhouse. It’s a dark, dingy hole; hell, I wouldn’t want to see any man in there, never mind my girl.”

“So she’s getting her wits back?” Jacob asked.

“I can’t rightly say one way or the other. She ain’t making much sense – I’d like to think her getting her wits back would be a God-given miracle, but damn it, there ain’t no reason to be happy if she recalls doing murder.”

“I agree. What did she say to the marshal?” Jacob asked.

“Not much. Don’t go thinking this was a long talk between them. She knew where she was. She knew me and her Ma. That slimy prosecution lawyer asked her about you. She said she remembered getting married but couldn’t recall who to – her recollections are still coming and going, far as you are concerned. He asked her about the Mallory woman. She shut up mighty fast, told him she didn’t want to talk about Margaret Mallory, said she was scared of the woman.”

Jacob drank the last of his tea and poured another cup for himself and Mr Coulter. He was not hearing good news. If he were the law, he would figure Elizabeth was lying. Recalling some things and not others did not make much sense to him. She needed her Ma and Pa and had remembered them – but she sure as hell didn’t need to recall Margaret Mallory, and she had conveniently forgotten that she had killed her. He was no legal man, but it sure looked suspicious from where he was sitting. “What exactly does she remember about Margaret Mallory?” Jacob asked.

“Only that they lived together. I do recall her asking the marshal where Mrs Mallory was. Elizabeth said Mallory best be kept away from her – said the house was hers and not to let Mrs Mallory take it from her. I tried to quieten her down. I told the marshal to let her be, but that damn prosecutor came in, and he wouldn’t stop goading her with his damn questions. The son of a bitch ain’t buying Elizabeth’s story. I could see his scepticism – clear as the damn puss pimple on his face.”

Jacob was not surprised at the prosecution’s cynicism. Elizabeth’s shock had obviously worn off, to a certain extent, and her memory could not possibly be selective. Could it? “This doesn’t look good,” he said. “If she knows she’s had a disagreement with Mrs Mallory, that’s motive right there.”

“I blame you for this, Stone!” Mr Coulter lashed out at Jacob, his earlier civility disappearing with his tea. “This probably ain’t the time to call you out, but you put my daughter into this piss pot situation, so I’m tellin’ you right now, you had better figure a way to get her out of it.”

Jacob had wondered when the accusations would come. He would let them slide. Coulter was stricken with grief. He and his wife were beside themselves with worry. His marriage to Elizabeth and subsequent divorce proceedings were exactly why this had come about. Coulter was right about that. “I’m here to help in any way I can, sir. You might be right in saying I got her into a mess, but not this one. I never played a hand in sticking a knife into Mrs Mallory’s belly. I tried my damndest to talk Elizabeth out of coming to Richmond. I gave her what you asked me to give her. She had enough money to live a good life and find a man who’d love her the way I could not.

“You know as well as I do that she didn’t want me any more than I wanted her. Any man who says she did is a damn liar. Your daughter never loved me, and that’s a fact. But I married her all the same.”

“It was your duty to marry her, you son of a bitch! You don’t leave no daughter of mine at the altar – no, sir, not my little girl.”

“That’s not the issue here,” Jacob said. “The point is that I did marry her and I looked after her. Hell, I even went to Mrs Mallory and threatened her to stay away from Elizabeth. No, I didn’t do this. Your daughter got herself into this mess all by herself – and you have to see it that way too.”

“Well, like I said, it don’t mean you ain’t played a part in it,” Mr Coulter insisted. “If my daughter hangs, I swear on all that’s holy, you will follow her to the grave. If the judge gives her a jail sentence or a pardon, I will expect you to tear up them divorce papers. You ain’t never getting that separation finalised ’cause I will make damn sure that never happens.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Jacob had approached Mrs Bartlett and, through her, Senator Bartlett, her husband. His aim had been to convince Mrs Bartlett to testify to Margaret Mallory’s mistreatment towards Elizabeth. Mr Bartlett, however, refused to allow his wife to speak on Elizabeth’s behalf. That, he told him, would not be appropriate given his position in the government.

The slave, Charles, still being detained, had also shocked Jacob with his blatantly false statement, claiming that Mrs Mallory had been a kind and exemplary mistress. He would not be allowed to take the witness stand, of course, but nonetheless, his statement would be read out and admitted into evidence.

Jacob was at an impasse. He had heard from the defence lawyer only two days ago that not one person had offered to come forward to defame du Pont’s character. Jacob had requested that he be allowed to testify to du Pont’s brutality as a whore mistress. He was also amenable to making known the events on the night of the Liverpool mansion’s fire. He was not above degrading his reputation as a damn whore mongrel if it would help Elizabeth’s case. But he was Elizabeth’s husband, and his testimony would not be allowed.

Jacob watched Elizabeth rise from the narrow cot in her cell with sluggish movements. According to the marshal, she had not moved since early evening the previous day. The cell was not much bigger than six feet long and four feet wide. It had only a narrow open slit for a window that looked into another adjacent basement, situated high up in the wall and impossible to see out of.

Jacob was grateful for small mercies. There were no prisoners on either side of Elizabeth. She would not have to endure the stench or talk of vulgar drunks or equally foul-mouthed criminals. Leaving these two cells vacant, however, was the only act of kindness the marshal had afforded Elizabeth. Murder was the most serious of crimes, the marshal had stated again and again, and as such, his wife would be treated the same as all murder suspects, regardless of her vulnerabilities.

After being searched, Jacob was left alone to speak with his wife. Elizabeth came to stand at the bars that separated them. She gave him a contemptuous stare, as though the sight of him annoyed her greatly. Jacob looked into her eyes. They were brighter and clearer. Gone was the wide-eyed vacuous stare present on the night of and subsequent days after the murder. In its place was the habitual haughty and disdainful expression he had come to know.

Her hair hung loose, knotted at the ends and in need of a good wash. Her face was gaunt and ashen. Her pink gown was dirty and covered in dust that had blown in from the glassless slit of a window. Her feet were bare, and her toes were blackened with grime. She was a sorry sight, Jacob thought. Yet she didn’t seem to mind a bit about the state of her appearance or cleanliness.

“Elizabeth, how are you feeling today?” he asked hesitantly.

“How do you think I might be feeling?” She scowled at him.

“The doctor tells me that your memory is coming back. I spoke with him last night. He says you are improving all the time. He thinks you will soon be quite well.”

“What does that fool know?”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Jacob asked her.

“You can get me out of this place – today … now. This is hell! I don’t belong here. I have done nothing wrong, yet everyone is being mean to me.”

“I give you my word that I am going to do my very best to get you released,” Jacob said. “But you do know that you have to go to the courthouse tomorrow? You recall that your trial starts at noon?”

“Yes, I do recall being told that. That horrible marshal said I killed Margaret. Why, that’s the most preposterous thing I have ever heard.”

“So you still don’t remember anything about the night Mrs Mallory died?”

“No! I told you yesterday and the day before that I do not recall any such thing! I’m sure she’s not dead at all. She is hiding because she is angry with me. She wants folks to think she is dead – that’s what she is doing.”

Jacob saw the toss of her head and stubborn pout of her lips. He did not believe her. “You remembered that you and I are married. Do you still recollect our wedding?” he asked.

“Why, yes, that seems to be coming back to me more and more. If I recall correctly, it was snowing … I remember you brought that white trash Mercy Carver to my marital home. We are married – yes, that’s right: you are my husband. I also recall you being spiteful. I declare, I cannot remember one single nice thing about you. You’re a hateful dog of a man, Jacob Stone.”

Jacob felt the pulse in his neck quicken. He stared at her again with a sickening realisation: her eyes were taunting him. His hope plummeted. He had wanted to witness Elizabeth with a vacant confusion and genuine belief in her innocence. Instead he saw a calculating Elizabeth, daring him to call her out. She was mocking him with insults and evidence that she had cleverly manipulated everyone, including him. He felt like a fool. “It appears you remember everything, my dear,” he whispered.

Elizabeth took a step closer to the bars. She looked past Jacob, making sure they were alone. She crossed her arms across her middle and then smiled. “What if I do? It doesn’t mean the judge or anyone else has to find out. You won’t tell on me, will you, husband? You wouldn’t want your wife to hang? Why, I can just imagine what folks in the county will think about you should anything terrible happen to me. After all, you abandoned me for another woman. You tossed me aside like a piece of rotten meat. This is your fault. Everything that has happened to me is because of your cruelty.”

“Dear God, you remember killing Margaret Mallory, don’t you?” Jacob said.

Elizabeth smiled again and ridiculed him with her eyes. “Why, I don’t know what you are talking about. I wouldn’t hurt a fly, much less kill somebody.”

Jacob took an unconscious step backwards but couldn’t tear his eyes away from her face. She felt no remorse, no emotion whatsoever, he thought. He had spent sleepless nights worrying about her. He had lost Mercy because of her!

“Margaret Mallory taught you well, Elizabeth,” he said sarcastically. “But you are playing a dangerous game. You must tell the judge tomorrow that you cannot remember Margaret Mallory’s death. You do not recall your husband’s name. Do you hear me? You fooled me, but that doesn’t mean you’ll hoodwink the judge or the prosecution. These folks know what they are doing. They will bring a doctor to examine you. He will ask questions about your state of mind …”

“I’m not stupid,” she hissed at him. She lifted her eyebrow in disdain, and then her lips spread in another conniving smile. “I fooled my ma and pa. I made you believe me too, and I’ll convince everyone in that courthouse, including that ole judge, who’s probably deaf and dim-witted at his age anyhow. I will be going back to Portsmouth after tomorrow is done. You just wait and see. You will take me to Stone Plantation, and I will remain your loving and dutiful wife. Folks will see me as a vulnerable and pitiful woman, devoted to her husband, and I will be so clever at the game, you will never be able to leave me again. I’ll pray every day that the good Lord sees fit to take your miserable life on the battlefield – and then I’ll have everything.”

Jacob’s eyes widened as a thought struck him like a lash. “When I found you with Margaret Mallory’s body, you were aware of what you had done?”

“That’s enough talking, Captain Stone. Visiting time is over,” the marshal’s voice called out from the top of the stairs.

“Tell me the damn truth!” Jacob whispered to Elizabeth.

“C’mon now, time to leave,” the marshal reiterated, walking down the stairs. “I’ve given you long enough …”

Jacob fingers gripped the bars. He stared at Elizabeth, his eyes flashing with anger. “Tell me,” he whispered again.

“No, I want this nice man to stay!” Elizabeth sobbed loudly, silencing the marshal mid-sentence. “I’m scared! Why, I don’t even know what I’ve done wrong. Mrs Mallory will tell you I’m innocent. Marshal, I’m a victim. This is a miscarriage of justice.” She sobbed again. “I don’t understand why I am here!”

“It’s all right, Mrs Stone,” the marshal said. “Why don’t you lie down and rest up? You’re safe here – ain’t no one going to hurt you.”

Jacob watched Elizabeth return to the cot. She lay on it and turned to face the wall, still weeping like a baby. He climbed the stairs behind the marshal. His footsteps were heavy. His anger was rising. He had just witnessed Elizabeth’s clever ruse. She felt no remorse for the murder she had committed, none whatsoever. His guilt ebbed away and was replaced by regret. He had lost Mercy because of dutiful faithfulness towards a wife who was still intent on bringing him nothing but misery. He cursed himself for his stupidity and misdirected loyalty. He had been duped, as had Elizabeth’s parents. The trial would be swift and decisive, but he now believed his wife to be a competent adversary for the prosecution.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Mercy hid in a doorway just across the street from the Richmond courthouse. She had been standing there for at least an hour, intent on seeing Jacob entering the building before she made her own entrance. Her feet hurt because she was wearing new boots that pinched her toes. Wearing a corset, stays, and fitted royal blue gown for the first time in over a month, she found it difficult to breathe. Her bonnet was uncomfortable, digging into pins that secured her hair, which had been swept back at the front. A mass of ringlets fell softly to the middle of her back and lay on top of the black shawl that hugged her shoulders. She looked the part, she thought, knowing that her words would hold much more sway if she were dressed as a lady.

Mercy believed that her plan to testify was solid and crucial to Elizabeth’s defence. Jacob’s words in Yorktown had embedded themselves in her mind: No one knows Madame du Pont. Not so, she had thought at the time. She, Mercy, knew du Pont better than anyone did. She would tell the judge just what a despicable creature the so-called Margaret Mallory had been. She would make him believe beyond any doubt that Elizabeth had probably acted in self-defence, fearing for her life.

Mercy was well aware that baring her soul to the world in an attempt to save Elizabeth would be like swallowing the foulest of medicines. Elizabeth hated her, and she would continue to despise her. The Coulters and just about everyone else who knew them would not thank her for her testimony, nor would they open their hearts to her. But she had reminded herself repeatedly that the Coulters, Portsmouth’s society, and even Elizabeth were not the reason she was doing this. She was doing it for Jacob, and doing it gladly.

Mercy pushed an image away. It lay sometime in the future. Jacob was a broken man, destroyed, eaten from the inside out by self-recrimination, until he could not bear to live with his tortured feelings any longer – until he could no longer bear to look at her. Whenever she saw this vision, her resolve strengthened.  Elizabeth had to live. She had to be set free or, at the very least, given a short jail sentence. Only then would Jacob allow himself to see a flicker of optimism for a better future.

Mercy was growing increasingly anxious. She looked at the courthouse clock tower and shifted her feet to ease their soreness. Jacob had still not arrived. Mr Rowland would be inside waiting for her, no doubt. She should go in – no, she thought, she must wait exactly where she was until Jacob arrived. Under no circumstances could he see her before her testimony.

She was pleased with her decision to seek out Mr Rowland, the defence lawyer. He had been very confident that her testimony would help the defence’s case. She mulled over Mr Rowland’s instructions one last time. She was to focus on Margaret Mallory only. She was not to give an opinion about what happened the night Mallory was killed, nor was she to speak about her relationship with Elizabeth or Jacob. She was here to assassinate the dead woman’s character, nothing more.

“At last,” Mercy mumbled under her breath. Jacob and Mr Coulter had finally arrived. They were not alone, she noted. Mr Coulter held a woman’s arm. He guided her up the stairs and into the courthouse. It was Mrs Coulter. She looked dreadful, Mercy thought. Behind her was another man, about Jacob’s age. She had never seen him before, and she wondered if he was one of Elizabeth’s brothers.

Mercy waited until Jacob and his party had entered the courthouse and then crossed the street. In a short while, Virginia would know all about Mercy Carver, she thought approaching the doors. Would its people judge her, belittle her, and hate her even more than they did now? She didn’t know. She didn’t really care. She was doing what she had to do.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The hour was late, and Elizabeth’s trial had been adjourned for a twenty-minute recess. On his return, the judge insisted that the proceedings would conclude this very day, due to the interest that Margaret Mallory’s murder had generated. The court had been so full with newspapermen that there was barely space for spectators and jury. The state capitol on Capitol Square had sent a senator who would report back to Congress. This was an important case, probably the biggest in the Confederate capital since its conception, and it could not be allowed to linger.

The presiding judge, Eli Travers, knew the stakes were high. He’d be tested, as would the Confederate Constitution. Hanging a woman evoked universal repulsion, and the very thought of it was abhorrent to all gentile Southerners. The judge had already decided that he would do all he could to sway the jury away from execution and instead suggest a more lenient sentence for the young woman defendant, who had quite clearly lost her wits.

Jacob sat in thoughtful silence, unwilling to engage in hostile conversation with the Coulters, whose number had been bolstered by Nathan Coulter’s arrival. Elizabeth was putting up a good show. Her demeanour was that of a small child, bewildered by her surroundings and innocently ignorant of the charges brought against her. She had not acknowledged Jacob’s presence. She had denied killing Margaret Mallory with a vehement shake of her head. She had sobbed for her ma and had asked to be taken home. She was one hell of a chameleon,   Jacob thought, and she had the jury eating out of the palm of her hand.

The prosecution’s evidence had been harmful to Elizabeth, however. They had demonstrated a vicious murder with a drawing of a body with not one but two wounds on it. They had brought Elizabeth’s blood-soaked clothing into evidence, which also gave a clear indication of the ferocity of the stabbing. The lawyer had asked Elizabeth if the clothing belonged to her. In a resounding way, she had answered, “I cannot recall.” He had then questioned her about her relationship to the dead woman. Elizabeth had answered quite calmly, saying that Margaret Mallory was a dear friend but that she had stolen money and lost her trust. Did you kill Margaret Mallory? she was then asked. “No, I certainly did not.  I could never hurt her – I wouldn’t swat a fly.”

The written testimony of Charles, the slave, had created a possible motive for the murder. He had stated that Mistress Mallory had been the very best of mistresses, but that she and Miss Elizabeth had fought often. When he overheard raised voices coming from the breakfast room, he had not dared to enter. He had been warned never to go into a room until his presence was required. He always waited for the bell to ring.

He had entered the room eventually, after hearing the call bell ring. He found Miss Elizabeth, soaked with blood and staring at Mistress Mallory’s dead body with a macabre curiosity. She had scared him with her crazy eyes.

The slave was covering his own back, Jacob thought, and he couldn’t blame Charles for saying what he did. There was nothing the judge and citizens of Richmond would like better than to pin the murder on a nigger.

Jacob closed his eyes. Newspapermen and citizens alike were staring at him. His privacy had been exposed to prying trespassers now scrounging for the most intimate details of his life.

The defence lawyer had mutilated Jacob’s reputation, blaming him for cruelty and infidelity to his wife: “It’s no wonder Elizabeth Stone went mad,” the lawyer had said. “For what bride could endure such harsh and despicable behaviour from a husband who had so callously abandoned her for a notorious English prostitute?” Elizabeth Stone was a victim of cruelty, theft, and extreme malice, which had desecrated her poor mind to such an extent that it had expelled all memory of her ordeals.

The Coulters had been busy furnishing the defence with a list of Jacob’s shortcomings. Yet Jacob was not overly worried about what had been said about him. He could live with a tarnished reputation if it helped Elizabeth’s case.

Elizabeth was led back into the courtroom after recess. She continued to seem neither conscious of her surroundings nor emotionally attached to the proceedings. Jacob averted his eyes. She was repulsive to him. She reminded him now of du Pont in some ways. She was calculating, driven by a need for power and attention. She had killed and deceived, yet when she had revealed her true nature to him, she had not accepted an ounce of culpability.

“I would like to call Miss Mercy Carver to the stand,” the defence lawyer’s voice boomed.

Jacob’s mouth opened. His eyes, filled with disbelief and fear, stared at the defence lawyer. How was this possible? Why was she here? Why was she putting herself through this? What the hell was his woman getting herself into now?

He looked anxiously towards the door. It opened to reveal Mercy standing there bravely, looking incredibly beautiful.  Mercy could be here for one reason only, he thought. She had come to help the defence. She was going to tarnish du Pont’s reputation and declare to the world that she was just as much a victim as Elizabeth was. There could be no other reason for her appearance.

This was the last thing he wanted for Mercy. She should not have to tell these people why and how she knew du Pont. He threw a scathing look at the defence lawyer, who shrugged his shoulders. Rowland was a bastard for allowing this to happen, he thought. This would go one of two ways. The people in the crowded room would pity Mercy or they would brand her as a whore, lying in an attempt to resurrect her reputation in South Virginia.

Pride rippled through him. He was afraid for Mercy, but he also admired her tenacity. He was comforted and humbled that she thought him worth fighting for. He had been resigned to losing her and losing himself in the process, yet here she was, continuing to show him the truth: the undeniable fact that no matter how ugly life was at times, love stood solid.

He was in awe of her graceful stature as she walked towards the front of the court. When she turned to face the spectators, her eyes were without fear, and when she sat, she did so with poise and elegance. Her eyes caught his, and a soft, reassuring smile played on her mouth. He smiled back and then looked at the shocked faces in the courtroom. To hell with all of you, he thought. This is the woman I love and it’s about time everyone in Virginia knew it!

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Mercy placed her hand on the Bible and swore to tell the truth. Whilst she waited for Mr Rowland to begin, she quickly flicked her eyes to the public gallery. She shifted her gaze to Elizabeth for just a second or two and gasped at the hatred blazing in Elizabeth’s eyes. She looked away, confused and unnerved. How could Elizabeth have such loathing in her expression when seemingly she had trouble remembering her own name? Mercy wondered.

All eyes were upon her. Some were disapproving, whilst others were filled with nothing more than palpable curiosity. It didn’t matter what they thought of her or what they were thinking, Mercy decided. She was here to do a job and do it well.

Once again, she looked across at Jacob. Their eyes met, and he smiled at her. At least he wasn’t angry with her for being here, she thought. As Mr Rowland approached her at the witness stand, she cleared her throat. He asked if she required water. She declined.

“Good afternoon, Miss Carver. You are here to give testimony about your knowledge of Mrs Margaret Mallory. Is this correct?”

“Yes. That’s right.”

“You are not here to give testimony about Mrs Elizabeth Stone or about Mrs Mallory’s murder. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will speak about your own experience with the deceased – nothing else?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. Now, can you tell the court how and why you first met Mrs Mallory?”

“Yes, I can. I was abducted from London by two men who worked in Mrs Mallory’s employ. They put a rag over my mouth, drugged me, bound my hands and feet, and took me to Liverpool, where Mrs Mallory imprisoned me and then tried to force me into prostitution.”

The noise in the courtroom grew to a crescendo. The judge slammed down his gavel until silence prevailed. “Hush up now, folks,” he said. “Let the young lady talk.”

“Please tell us what happened to you while imprisoned by Mrs Mallory,” Mr Rowland said.

“Well, first of all, Mrs Mallory is not the name she went by in Liverpool. She was called Madame du Pont there – I’m sure you will be able to verify this information.”

Murmurs grew louder once again. The judge shouted this time. “All right, folks! All right, simmer down. Any more interruptions and I will hear this testimony without a public audience. Let Miss Carver say her piece.”

“Thank you, Judge,” Mr Rowland said. He moved closer to Mercy and said, “I see. So tell us more about Madame du Pont, if you will.”

“She was not a lady – far from it. She was a whore madam who butchered one of her captives with a knife when the girl tried to escape. I saw her do it with my own eyes. I also saw her beat some of the girls with a stick and a leather belt. She took pleasure in killing and bullying. I was terrified of her. She beat me too, and she abused my body by stripping it naked in full view of the men who had abducted me. She locked me up in a darkened room for weeks. She threatened to kill me if I didn’t do as she ordered.”

“Which was?”

“To have sex with men. She sold aristocratic young girls to her clients for a lot of money. Most of the girls were virgins, like me. She was the most evil creature ever put on this earth – so when I found out she was in Portsmouth, shortly after my arrival in Virginia, I ran away, fearing for my life.”

“Do you have anything else to add?”

“Only that I am sure Mrs Elizabeth Stone narrowly escaped death.”

The prosecution lawyer sprang to his feet and shouted above the sound of raised voices from the gallery. “Judge, this is hearsay. Miss Carver has no evidence to give the court regarding Mrs Mallory’s murder, and I ask that she be silenced on that subject.”

Elizabeth sat stony-faced.

Mrs Bartlett stared in silence at Mercy with a thoughtful expression.

The Coulters glared at Mercy with undisguised hatred.

Jacob nodded at her when she looked at him for approval.

As Mercy listened to the noisy people discussing her, she wondered whether the jury or judge had been impressed enough to consider that Elizabeth had more than likely acted in self-defence. She had made only a brief statement about Madame du Pont, and she had left out so much. Her biggest fear had been that someone might now connect her to Eddie’s murder at du Pont’s farm. But she had not mentioned Eddie as her London abductor, and she was confident that all association with him would remain her secret. She tried to relax in the chair as she waited for the voices and gavel to quieten down.

A man’s voice rang out above the heightened voices. “She’s a spy! This woman is a goddamned Union spy!”

“Who are you?” Judge Travers shouted back angrily.

“Name’s Nathan Coulter, Judge. I have the proof to support my claim. This woman came to Yorktown not four days back, straight from Fort Monroe. She was trying to pick up information on our troop movements.

Jacob gave Nathan a contemptuous stare. “Shut up, Coulter!” he shouted out. This was a low blow, even for Coulter, Jacob thought. Nathan must have read Mercy’s letter, which he had left in Yorktown. He would rip the son of a bitch apart when they got out of here. He looked then at Mercy. Her lips were slightly parted in disbelief. It’s all right, darling, he mouthed to her.

Nathan held a piece of crumpled paper in his hand. He waved it in the air and shouted again, ignoring the judge’s order for silence. “I found this letter beside Captain Stone’s bunk. It was in plain sight, for all to see. His little whore here is a spy for the Yankees, and there ain’t no denying it.”

Mercy was mortified. Being called a whore was bad enough – but a spy! That was a dangerous accusation. She looked at the judge, silently begging him not to believe what was just stated. He looked at her for a second but gave no indication of what he might be thinking or planning to do.

The judge’s face was as red as a ripe tomato. He thumped his gavel down four times in quick succession and then stood up with his fists clenched. “Another outburst, folks, and I will clear this room. I will not warn you again!”

Noise abated until there was silence. “Well, what do you have to say about this, young lady?” Travers finally asked Mercy. “Remember that you are in a court of law and still under oath.”

“I have a lot to say about this accusation,” answered Mercy. “I am not a spy. I wouldn’t know how to be a spy.”

The judge pointed to the marshal and gestured him to approach the bench. “Take her away and lock her up until I decide what to do about this. We have a murder trial to resolve here, and I don’t want it delayed.”

Mercy cowered in the chair as the marshal approached her with two deputies. She looked at Jacob. Jacob stood up. She panicked. She spoke to him with her eyes. No, Jacob, please don’t do anything.

Jacob excused himself to the people sitting on the long bench, blocking his access. When he passed the last person sitting nearest the centre isle, he moved quickly and approached the judge. Two deputies caught and held him just before he reached Travers. Both his arms were pulled and then locked behind his back. He twisted his head around and threw a thunderous look at Nathan Coulter, who seemed to have lost some of his earlier bluster now that Jacob was on his feet.

Jacob turned again to the judge and shouted angrily. “Judge, this is a travesty. Miss Carver came here of her own free will to help my wife! Nathan Coulter is lying through his rotten teeth. You cannot haul an innocent woman off to jail because of that buffoon’s outrageous sham of a story! And more, I demand you question him about his looting of private papers belonging to his commanding officer.”

“I might be a buffoon, but I sure as hell ain’t no traitor, Stone!” Nathan shouted from the gallery.

“Watch your lying mouth, Coulter!” Jacob countered. “I will knock those teeth of yours down the back of your throat!”

The judge slumped in his chair. He had lost control of his courtroom. Even his gavel had no power against the tidal wave of voices filling every corner. The newspapermen were having a field day, scribbling frantically in their notepads.

The senator stood up with a disapproving shake of his head and left the room with his aides. Jacob would hear from him later, no doubt. Mrs Bartlett, an influential woman, was surrounded by her association members, and she appeared to be enjoying the damn circus going on. News of this shambles would be all over Richmond by tonight. The judge clearly decided that it was time to halt this shit fight.

“Marshal, get Miss Carver and Mrs Stone out of here now. I want them both locked up nice and tight. When you have done that, come back here for Captain Stone and the buffoon there.” He pointed to Nathan. “Deputies, take both of them to my office,” he shouted to two of the marshal’s deputies.

“Folks, there won’t be a verdict today. We will adjourn until tomorrow morning. Travers banged his gavel again. “Now all of you clear my courtroom!”

Chapter Forty

Jacob and Nathan were manhandled into Judge Travers’ office. Jacob glanced at the judge, sitting with a scowl on his face, a cigar in his hand, and a shot of whiskey on his desktop. Jacob hung his head. He was embarrassed by his outburst, but his shame was nothing compared to the rage he felt. He was livid with Coulter. Given the chance, he would have punched the bastard. He was fuming at the thought of Mercy being locked up. He hoped to God she was not in a cell next to Elizabeth.

Judge Travers told the deputies to get out. He drank his whiskey, slammed the tumbler on the desk, and then sighed as he bent down to remove his boots. He put his feet on the desk and wriggled his toes, puffing on his cigar and still scowling at the two men. “This is damned inconvenient having to adjourn,” he murmured. “What the hell is going on here, Corporal?” he asked Nathan first.

“There ain’t nothin’ goin’ on, Judge. It’s like I said: that Carver woman shows up in Yorktown on a horse with Union Army saddle markings, dressed like a man and swinging her hips, like she was fast and loose, for every man to see.”

“Talk about her like that again and I’ll rip your filthy tongue out!” Jacob blazed.

“Shut up Captain!” Judge Travers shouted. “Carry on corporal.”

Nathan smirked at Jacob and began again. “I know for a fact that she came from Fort Monroe. I got that information from the men that brought her into town – they found her wandering near our defensive lines. If that ain’t spying, I don’t know what is. And I got this letter to prove she was in the fortress. Now, I don’t know about y’all, but I don’t reckon no spy should be allowed to wander free, picking up information about our army. I had a duty to report her, just like I have a duty to tell you that Captain Stone is more than likely in cahoots with her treason.”

“Coulter, you’re blowing smoke out your ass. There is no treason here, and you know it,” Jacob said dismissively. “And you can say goodbye to your stripes. There’s no way you’re going to keep your rank after this farce of yours. Not in my brigade.”

“That’s enough, Captain.” The judge waved his hand at Nathan. “Show me the letter, Corporal.”

Nathan handed the letter to the judge and said hurriedly. “It’s all true. It’s right in there. Every word.”

Jacob watched Judge Travers’s expression quickly change from impatience to anger. This was bad, he thought. Fort Monroe was mentioned various times in the letter that the judge held in his hands. Mercy clearly wrote that she was there, and she couldn’t deny it.

The judge waved the letter in front of Jacob. “What have got to say about this, Captain?”

“Look, Judge. I will not deny that Mercy – Miss Carver – was at Fort Monroe, but that woman was born with a habit of getting herself into sticky situations. Believe me, I know her. She has a mighty spirited disposition, but she ain’t no spy. I reckon Corporal Coulter is causing trouble because of a personal vendetta against me. It’s plain as day.”

“That might be so, but it doesn’t explain why Miss Carver was cavortin’ with the damn enemy at the fort.”

Jacob shrugged his shoulders in ignorance. “Well, Judge, I can’t rightly say why she was at the fort, but it makes sense, seeing as how she lived for a while in Newport News. She has acquaintances there. I reckon her curiosity about the fort got the better of her. She’s English, God damn it – she has no Yankee leanings. And, Judge, I’m sure the folks in Newport News trade with the fort. There must be comings and goings in and around Hampton and the fortress every day. How else are the folks there going to get their supplies? We have the entire area bottled up.”

Judge Travers sighed loudly. “It’s been a long day, and I’m too old for this baloney. I better not find out that this is a trumped-up charge, Corporal, because I’ll wager Captain Stone might have hit the mark about you bein’ a rabble-rouser looking for payback for your sister’s predicament. This said, it’s still a damned serious accusation. I will have to have a talk with Miss Carver later tonight or tomorrow morning, and I will determine if she is or is not a Union spy.”

“Judge, surely you are not going to keep her locked up in a jail cell all night?” Jacob said.

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do. With the eyes of the South on me, I cannot dismiss a charge of spying. I am duty-bound to look into this. I just hope to God that Miss Carver comes up with a reasonable explanation, similar to your own.

“Boys, take a good look at yourselves. You have both disgraced your uniforms today. It’s bad enough that every damn newsman in South Virginia is lapping up this trial like thirsty gluttons. Captain, your wife is on trial for her life. Your mistress has been accused of spying for the enemy. In a court of law, you threatened to knock a man’s teeth down his throat … I reckon you better quit while you can. I don’t want to hear another word come out of your mouth, you hear?”

He pointed to Nathan. “As for you, Corporal, you’d better not be here come morning. If I ever see you in my courthouse again, I will personally have you incarcerated for as long as it pleases me. Leave Richmond and get back to your brigade. If you disobey me, I’ll haul your ass to jail.

“Captain Stone, I don’t believe you’re a traitor to the Confederacy, but you are a Confederate officer. I have a good mind to report your conduct to the Ninth Brigade commander.”

“I want an apology from this fool here, Judge,” Jacob said stubbornly. “This was a deliberate slur on Miss Carver’s reputation – and theft of my personal possession.”

“I told the goddamn truth, Stone!” Nathan shouted.

“And what truth do you think the jury will recall today? That Mercy was imprisoned by a murdering whore of a woman who might have killed your sister had she not defended herself … or that Mercy is a spy? Tell me, Coulter, why would you jeopardise your sister’s chances just to take a potshot at me?”

The judge abruptly put his hand up to stop the conversation. “That’s enough, Captain. Go cool your heels. Be back here in the morning and do not let me find out that you visited that jailhouse tonight. It’s off limits – understand? Now get out of my sight.”

Jacob nodded and gave Nathan one last lingering look as he left the room. He said not a word, but his thoughts had clarity. Nathan Coulter was finished with the Ninth Cavalry. Jacob needed men he could trust with his life, not people he suspected wanted to stab him in the back on the battlefield.

Chapter Forty-One

The jailhouse was but a couple of blocks from the courthouse, but to Mercy it felt like the longest journey she had ever taken. The inside of the sheriff’s wagon was cramped, with room for no more than two people. Mercy sat opposite Elizabeth, who was wearing the same deadpan eyes that she had in the courthouse. Mercy’s gown, bunched up and spread out in all directions, brushed Elizabeth’s legs, and every now and again, Elizabeth bad-temperedly flicked the material away from her as though it held a disease.

Mercy felt her head spinning with questions. Was the hatred she had witnessed between Nathan Coulter and Jacob so great that Nathan would sacrifice Elizabeth’s chances of an acquittal? She had never seen Jacob so angry. He had put himself in danger with an outburst which in the eyes of most did not befit the proper conduct of a cavalry officer. She couldn’t help but feel a thrill of delight course through her. He had gallantly defended her in front of everyone, including the Coulters, which meant he might be having second thoughts about not wanting her to go back to him. A soft smile played on her lips. She was afraid of the interrogation that would surely come tonight, yet her fear was somewhat dimmed, for all she could think about was Jacob’s love, still burning brightly.

She lifted her eyes and met Elizabeth’s angry scowl. She was not imagining the loathing that sat on Elizabeth’s face, not this time. She smiled tentatively but was still puzzled by the flashes of lucidity in Elizabeth’s eyes. The poor woman was ill, she thought. She looked pitiful and nothing at all like the self-assured Elizabeth that Mercy had met at Stone Plantation almost a year ago. Who knew what the poor demented woman was thinking, she thought. Perhaps she was reliving some nightmare with du Pont in it. In which case, Mercy could only sympathise further with Elizabeth.

“I don’t know if you can understand me, Elizabeth,” Mercy finally said. “I just hope you know how sorry I am about your horrible predicament. I’m sure the jury will find you innocent of murder, I really am. The judge has learned who the real Margaret Mallory was, and I’m convinced he’ll let you go home. I hate the thought of you fighting for your life against that murdering cow. I’m glad she’s dead, and you should be too.”

“I don’t need words of support from a whore,” Elizabeth said calmly.

Mercy gasped with the malice present in Elizabeth’s tone. “Do you know me? Do you remember me?”

“Of course I remember you. You’re the white trash bitch who stole my husband.”

“I don’t understand...”

“No, of course you don’t. All you understand is how to steal what’s not rightfully yours. I hated Margaret Mallory, but you are far beyond my contempt.”

Mercy swallowed painfully. Her throat was as dry as a bone. “I thought you had no memory. I was given to believe you were ill … Have you recovered?”

“I have recovered enough to know you are the sow who ruined my life.”

Mercy was livid. She stared now at the woman with loathing of her own. Elizabeth was a liar, allowing those who loved her to suffer with worry and grief. “This is a cruel trick you are playing on your family. Shame on you!”

“Shame on you, Mercy Carver! Don’t you dare mention my family. You broke my marriage.”

“I’m sorry if you think that. I don’t agree. You broke your marriage because you never loved your husband as a wife should. Let me explain …”

“No! There is nothing I want to hear from your filthy mouth. We’re almost at the jail, and before we arrive, there are two things I want to say to you.”

“Go on, then. Say your piece, ya’ rotten liar,” Mercy said.

“Such common words from a common prostitute,” Elizabeth scorned. “Look at you, all dressed up, trying to look like a lady, when we all know you have no class – well, your fine gown won’t help you get what you want. You have lost, and I have won.”

“Won what?”

“I’ve won everything...Oh, don’t look so surprised. You must have watched the jury today. They pity me, and I will use their pity to get my husband back. I will never give Jacob a divorce – never! I’ll make sure he looks after me as a proper husband should, and you will not see him again. I will have the sympathy of Portsmouth’s most influential folks, whereas you will never be received. You would do better rearing hogs in the swamps.

“I will move back into Jacob’s plantation just as soon as I get out of this city, and I will woo Jacob and bear his children. Yes, I’m sure if I close my eyes and think about my grand life, I will tolerate him in my bed – and I swear on all that is holy, his life will be as miserable as yours.”

Mercy felt the carriage turn a sharp corner. She swayed on the narrow bench, not knowing if Elizabeth’s words or the movement of the wagon was the cause of her dizziness. She righted herself and stared into Elizabeth’s face, which she dearly wanted to slap. “You dare to speak of holiness – you! You are just as conniving and wicked as Madame du Pont. Well, let me tell you something, you deceitful little bitch. You might not agree to divorce Jacob, but he will come away with me regardless. I promise you, he will. I don’t need marriage. I have his love, and that is something you will never get from him!”

Elizabeth slapped Mercy’s cheek. “I hate you, Mercy Carver!” she shouted.

Mercy’s head jerked backwards, hitting the wagon’s wall. Her eyes blazed. She righted herself and threw Elizabeth a scathing look. “Hitting me won’t get you what you want, Elizabeth. You’re full of hatred and greed, and you’ll never be contented. I pity you.”

The wagon halted, and the iron door opened shortly after that. Any lingering sympathy for Elizabeth’s situation had evaporated. Mercy was tired of being bullied by other women who looked down their noses at her. For all she cared, Elizabeth could hang!

Jacob should be told of Elizabeth’s ruse, Mercy thought whilst being marched through the jailhouse office. What would the judge think if he found out? She sighed. Strange, she thought. Here she was, off to jail, and all she could think about was the sneaky wench who had just outsmarted her and everyone else.

The two women were separated. Mercy was taken down a hallway and then ordered to stand perfectly still. She looked at a the cell with its thick, heavy iron bars, front, and sides, and her first thought was that a prison cell was much smaller than she had imagined one to be. The deputy asked her if she was hiding anything under her gown, and she replied, “No, sir. Nothing.” The keys in the keyhole rattled loudly when the bars swung open. Mercy looked behind her. Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen. Good, Mercy thought. At least she didn’t have to put up with her!

The deputy gestured her to step over the cell’s threshold. She held her head high as she walked doggedly into the small confined space that would hold her. She had never been in jail. This would be a new experience.

“I would like to see her … now,” Mercy heard the booming woman’s voice say. “My husband specifically told me to come and check on her treatment. Do you really want to disappoint the senator?”

Mercy craned her neck, peered through the bars, and wondered who the authoritarian voice belonged to. A short, slim woman came into view. She was in her forties, with mousey brown hair which was greying, and she was dressed in finery. She was highly agitated.

“I require only five minutes with Miss Carver,” Mrs Bartlett said to the deputy escorting her. “You may remain if you wish.”

The deputy tipped his hat. “That’s all right, ma’am. I’ll be down the hall. You just holler when you’re done.”

Mrs Bartlett stood for a moment, looking Mercy over with a thoughtful expression. She then surprised Mercy with a friendly smile. “Finally, Miss Carver, we meet. My name is Regina Bartlett,” she said.

“How do you do? You know who I am?” Mercy asked.

“Yes, I most certainly do. Captain Stone holds you in very high regard. I have just left him in conversation with my husband. He’s joining us for supper this evening. He begged me to come here. The poor man is beside himself with worry.”

“Please tell him not to worry about me – or Elizabeth.”

“Oh, he’s not worried about Elizabeth, my dear. And neither am I. She is quite capable of looking out for herself, so I have learned.”

“Mrs Bartlett, you really shouldn’t be here. You must know my reputation?”

Mrs Bartlett laughed softly with amusement. “Oh, fiddlesticks. Why, if I had to take notice of every bad reputation I hear about, I would never meet anyone interesting – and I find you, Miss Carver, very interesting indeed.”

“Thank you.”

“We have something in common, you and I. You see, I detested Margaret Mallory. Oh, not as much as you must have, but enough to not feel the slightest bit sorry that she has been taken from this world. I could see that she was a bad influence on poor Elizabeth, but I declare, I didn’t know how evil she was. I believed every word you said about that bloodsucking Englishwoman, and I think you were very courageous.

“I was led to believe that you were the cause of all Elizabeth’s unhappiness. I now believe she is a very troubled woman who was perfectly happy to marry a man, who clearly didn’t love her. And what’s more, she was happy to take his money when she agreed to divorce him. I declare, Captain Stone has opened my eyes with regards to this entire story. You shouldn’t be in here, my dear, and my husband agrees with me. Men! I declare, they have all gone mad with the passion war brings. I would like to help you get out of here.”

“I’m not a spy, Mrs Bartlett,” Mercy said hurriedly.

“I believe you, my dear. This is such a silly accusation. Why, anyone in his right mind can see that you’re an innocent child. I am here to show my support. I have promised Captain Stone that I am absolutely amenable to you staying with me when they let you out of this jailhouse. How they can put a woman in here is beyond me. I admire your spirit, Miss Carver. You remind me of myself when I was your age. Although I have to say that I never possessed your exquisite beauty. I can quite understand why Captain Stone loves you.”

“He does love me, doesn’t he?” She blushed. “Thank you. You’re very kind.” Tears blurred Mercy’s vision. “I’m sorry. I cry at the slightest thing,” she said. “I do appreciate your coming here – but I’m Jacob’s mistress. Many people believe I’m a prostitute. Of course, it’s not true – but all the same, I would hate to cause you any trouble.”

“Nonsense, my dear! You mustn’t worry about what folks think. Reputations can be mended with a little care and gentle persuasion – you’ll see. The Richmond Ladies Society will like you very much, just as I do. I declare, after one night in my house, your name will be as white and pure as the driven snow. So what do you say? Given that you don’t have anywhere else to go, I expect you to say yes.”

Mercy beamed. Staying in Richmond would be a perfect solution, she believed. “I thank you, Mrs Bartlett. I would like to stay with you very much, providing they don’t hang me for being a spy.” Another tear that slipped from the corner of her eye accompanied Mercy’s grateful smile. She wiped it away and then frowned with a disturbing thought. “What will happen to Elizabeth, do you think?” she asked in a whisper.

“I think she might be incarcerated, but I don’t think it will be a long sentence. There’s something very distasteful about putting a young lady in jail.”

“Yes there is,” Mercy said looking at her surroundings.

“Miss Carver, you don’t know me but when you we are well acquainted you’ll see that I notice everything. I’m known for my astute observations. I wondered in that courthouse how a woman could have such hatred burning in her eyes when apparently she has a damaged mind, which could not be capable of having such loathsome thoughts. I wish her well, but whatever the outcome, she has no say in what I hope will be a flourishing friendship between you and I.”

Chapter Forty-Two

Mercy sat in a windowless room lit only by three candles. The long shadows of the two men present sat on the whitewashed wall behind them, looking like black monsters, curved, deformed, and seeping onto the ceiling. The chair she sat on was hard and uncomfortable, even though her behind was well padded by petticoats and her dress’s copious material. Her stays and corset crushed her lungs and made her feel giddy, and after so many hours in the bleedin’ things, she was surprised she hadn’t stopped breathing entirely.

She shuddered under the men’s penetrating stares. The Confederate officer, wearing a grey uniform sparkling with gold buttons and insignia on his shoulders and lapels, scared Mercy even more than the judge did, for the army man had no kindness in his eyes or sympathy for the pickle in which she had found herself. He carried a sabre attached to a gold sash. It rattled as he shifted his position in the chair. She stared at the sash. It reminded her of the one she had bought Jacob. Jacob had worn it today in the courthouse, and she clung now to the memory of his smile.

She wished for this to be over, but both men seemed intent on intimidating her with their silent glares. Someone had to say something, she thought. She was sure she was going to faint at any moment, sitting as straight as a poker and unable to breathe properly.

“I am not a spy – truly I’m not,” she blurted out without thinking. “This is a mistake.  I love Virginia …” Goodness, why were they not speaking to her? Were they going to sit there and gawk at her all night?

Mercy heard the door behind her open and then close again soon after. A soldier brushed past her, taking a seat in the corner behind the judge and officer. He held a notepad and pencil in his hand, and she presumed he was a clerk, here to take notes.

“Miss Carver, my name is Major John Forrest,” the officer finally said. “Now, Judge Travers and I have read this letter right here, clearly describing your stay in a Union encampment. You can understand our concerns – can you not?”

“Major Forrest, Judge Travers, it’s true that I was at Fort Monroe,” Mercy told them. “I lived there for four weeks, but I never intended on going there. I knew it was a Union fort because my friends told me it was. You see, I had an accident whilst out riding on the outer edge of Newport News. I got a nasty cut on my belly, and I also broke my wrist falling off my horse … Sirs, I know the Yankees are your enemy, but I have to be honest and tell you that they came to my assistance and helped me recover. I can show someone my belly scar if you want me to.”

Mercy drew attention to her injured hand, which had been sitting on her lap. She raised it in the air and then let it fall limply onto the desktop. “This is where I broke my wrist. I thought I was going to die with the agony of it. I got knocked out from the fall, and when I woke up, I was inside the fort. This is the God’s honest truth.”

“Why were you riding near the fort?” the major asked.

“I was visiting my friend Lina in the graveyard. She died, you see. I get so upset when I see her grave – I just took a wrong turn. Do you honestly think I would write a bleedin’ letter letting everyone know where I was if I were a Yankee spy? Gawd blimey, that wouldn’t make me very good at that job, now would it?

“I got out of there as soon as I could. I stole a horse – oh dear, I suppose the Yankees could hang me for that. I just wanted to get to Yorktown as fast as I could. This is all so upsetting.” Mercy sniffed loudly. The major gave her his handkerchief, and she nodded gratefully. “You have to believe me.”

She looked up to see the two men still staring, but without their earlier suspicions. She wiped her eyes. If Southern women could manipulate men with tears and feminine vulnerabilities, she could too. She’d be a right sissy, she thought. “I came here today to give testimony at the courthouse. I never imagined I would be accused of such a heinous crime. I love the South!” she reiterated. “I would never deceive all the kind people I have met here. Never in a million years!”

“Can you tell us what you saw at the fort?” the major asked.

“What do you mean, ‘what I saw’?”

“Can you describe some of the guns you saw, how big they were? How many … and where were they placed? How many soldiers are in the fort and garrison? Can you remember any battle plans being talked about? What ships supply the fort? How many ships?”

“Major, if I were a spy I could probably answer all your questions, but I really don’t know what goes on there. I spent two weeks confined to the infirmary, and after they let me out of there, I was put to work in the kitchens. I saw a lot of soldiers and slaves. There are runaway slaves there – but you probably know that already. As for guns, well I really wouldn’t know one gun from another if they fell on top of me. They all kill and maim, that’s all I know.”

Mercy sighed. A yawn left her mouth, and she apologised. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m very tired. I was so scared, running from the fort, reaching Yorktown, and then getting lost in this big city. I don’t think I’ve slept properly in days.”

The judge and major said nothing. They looked at one another and nodded. Mercy held her breath.

“Miss Carver, I’ll be honest with you. I don’t see any reason to support Corporal Coulter’s claim that you are a spy, but you understand that we need to do some more digging here?” the major said.

“I do. But I don’t know what else you will find unless you talk to the doctor who treated me,” Mercy replied.

The major and judge stood up in unison. Mercy stared up at them teary-eyed. They would leave her alone now to stew, she thought. They would discuss her words and then tell her what was to become of her. “May I have some water, please? I feel quite faint,” she said pitifully.

Judge Travers had not spoken a word up until now. “You just stay put,” he told Mercy. “We won’t leave you here all night. We’ll get this whole mess cleared up in no time …”

Chapter Forty-Three

Midnight bells were ringing in a nearby clock tower. Mercy stepped into the street in front of the jailhouse and shivered in the night air. She looked to her right and then to her left. A lone carriage sat nearby. She hoped it was for hire.

She really was tired now. All she wanted was to take her clothes off, get into a hot bath, and forget this horrible day. Thank God it was over, she thought. The very thought of being hung by the Confederacy sent shivers up and down her spine. Good grief, if they had found out about her involvement with the Underground Railroad, she would have been in even bigger trouble. She sighed with relief and walked towards the carriage.

The carriage door opened. Jacob stepped out and rushed towards her with a grin on his face. Mercy’s shivering body warmed at the sight of him. She ran into his arms and felt his love engulf her. “I’m so glad you’re here – but why have you come?” she asked him.

Jacob smiled and brushed an errant strand of hair from her face. “I wanted to be here to watch you walk down those steps. I don’t want another minute to go by without telling you what a fool I was in Yorktown. He kissed her soundly and said, “Where’s that comely bonnet you were wearing today?”

Mercy frowned. “I left in the jail cell. I was so happy to get out of that place that I forgot all about it.”

“To hell with it. I’ll buy you another. I’m just glad this is over for you. I thought they were going to keep you in there all night.”

“How long have you been sitting here?”

“A couple of hours,” Jacob said. “Mrs Bartlett gave me her carriage. She insists you go straight to her house. She vouched for you, Mercy. She told the judge that she would keep her eye on you. This means you cannot go running off on another one of your adventures. You have to remain in Richmond. This is an order. You will heed this, won’t you?”

“Yes, the major made it quite clear that I was not to leave the city for the foreseeable future. Does this mean they still suspect me?”

“It means they have taken this charge very seriously, and I would expect nothing less in a time of war. We’ll talk about this some more tomorrow, but right now, I need to get you to Mrs Bartlett’s house. You must be exhausted.”

“Mrs Bartlett came to see me today. She was very kind.”

“She’s taken quite a shine to you, but I knew she would. It seems you have yourself a very powerful ally, and for the first time in a year, I finally feel happy about your safety.”

Mercy halted mid-step. “You mentioned Yorktown. What about our talk?” she asked him. “Are you here as a friend or as … or because …”

“Hush. I am here for whatever you need. You are looking at the biggest idiot on God’s green earth. We’ll talk before I drop you off at Mrs Bartlett’s house.”

The carriage called at Mercy’s lodgings on the way to Mrs Bartlett’s house. Mercy picked up her sparse belongings, whilst Jacob paid the night clerk outstanding monies.

How wonderful it would be if they could spend this night together, she thought, getting back into the carriage. On the journey to the boarding house, Jacob had made it clear that he didn’t care who saw them or what people thought, but Mercy did. Elizabeth was on trial for her life, she told him. It wouldn’t be proper to flaunt their love for each other or to behave inappropriately.

They arrived at Mrs Bartlett’s house. Before they left the carriage, Jacob kissed Mercy and held her in his arms. He cupped her chin and stared into her eyes, shaking his head in wonder. He was one lucky son of a bitch to have been given another chance. “Mercy, there’s something you have to know before you go in there.”

“Jacob …?”

“No, no, it’s not what you think. I almost lost you. I sent you away. I want you to know that I will never, ever ask you to leave me again. On my most solemn oath, no matter what the outcome with Elizabeth, I will be at your side. When this war is over, and if I survive it, I will take you anywhere you want to go. I cannot offer you marriage, as I had hoped, but we will live together as man and wife. We will, and no man or woman will stop us.

“I broke my promise to you. I destroyed your trust. I want you to know that I will not take your love for granted again. You have my full commitment, my heart, and my possessions – you hold my future in your hands, because without you, there are no expectations of happiness. I have not been deserving of your love, but I ask you, my darling, to believe in me one more time.”

Mercy kissed him and sighed with contentment. Jacob had displayed weakness in the face of adversity, yet she had never doubted his love, she thought. He had been willing to give up on them, yet she knew their paths, though tenuously joined at times, were solid. He had married for honour and duty, the weakest of foundations, yet he now promised Mercy love and devotion, the strongest of bonds.

Jacob had made so many mistakes, but so had she, Mercy thought. The past year had taught her many things. She believed it had also taught Jacob how to honour love. Her eyes widened, and she smiled. “Jacob, it’s my birthday today. I’m another year older. I just hope to God, I have gained a bit more wisdom.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Elizabeth slumped in the hard chair provided for her and briefly cast her eyes around the courtroom. She had been enraged after overhearing loose-tongued deputies talk about Mercy Carver being released without charge. The deputies’ incessant chatter about the tramp had left her feeling completely ignored. Mercy Carver had come along and stolen all the sympathy that should have been given to her. She was so livid that she could barely maintain the pathetic innocent expression that she had been forced to wear on her face for weeks. Lord above, it seemed like months since she had had any fun, she thought. She was tired, miserable, and at the end of her patience.

She looked out from beneath half-closed eyelids at her parents, who were sitting next to Jacob. Nathan wasn’t there. No matter, she thought. She would thank him in a letter for all his efforts to get rid of the Carver woman. She would make the letter a priority the moment she walked through the doors of Stone Plantation.

She was happy about one thing at least: her ordeal would be over this very day. She thanked the Lord in silent prayer. She had not the strength to face another night in jail, listening to vulgar deputies who’d treated her like a common criminal. Killing Margaret Mallory had caused her no end of bother, and the ugliness of it would live with her forever. She had asked God’s forgiveness, for Margaret’s blood was on her hands, and there was no denying that. But she had suffered enough.

The judge entered the courtroom. The jury rose to their feet. Elizabeth glanced at the twelve members with a pitiable expression and decided they were going to proclaim her innocent. She would go home today and put all this behind her. She would take up the mantle of good wife and would even suffer Jacob’s hands on her to conceive a child. She checked a smile with thoughts of revenge. She would spend all his money; whup that nigger, Handel; and pray to the good Lord for a Yankee’s bullet in Jacob’s gut. She had only a few more hours to get through, and then all would be right.

Two hours passed. The defence lawyer followed the prosecution lawyer in summation, and the judge had already given the jury some guidelines to help them in their deliberations. The tension in the courtroom was palpable. There was barely a whisper amongst the spectators.

Judge Travers signalled to the jurors that their moment for deliberation had arrived. When the courtroom was cleared, Mrs Bartlett joined Jacob in the hallway. There had been no indication of how long it would take the jury to reach a verdict. It was decided, therefore, that they would remain inside the courthouse until the jury came back, whenever that might be.

Mrs Coulter sat farther down the hall, wringing her hands and sobbing into her delicate white handkerchief. Her face was swollen with tears. She had declared on more than one occasion that her heart was ready to stop. She was finished, she had told her husband. She would be done with life if she were not able to take her daughter home this very day. Mr Coulter, who was still seething with anger at Mercy’s appearance the previous day, scowled at every passer-by, probably wondering how the hell he was going to support a dim-witted daughter who had ruined their family’s name.

Jacob was not sure which way this verdict would go. Elizabeth had committed murder, but he believed that should the jury decide to free her, it would be because of their Christian consciences or repugnance of Margaret Mallory. He had studied the jury’s faces during testimony. He had seen eyes filled with pity for Elizabeth, but confusion had also been present. Right now, the twelve jurors would be asking, “Did Elizabeth intentionally kill or did she stab Mallory to death in self-defence?” Damn it, he thought, if only he knew the answer to that question.

“I am of the opinion that Elizabeth will receive a period of incarceration,” Mrs Bartlett pronounced in a whisper.

Jacob stirred from his thoughts and nodded in agreement. “You might be right, Mrs Bartlett. They won’t hang her and I don’t think the judge will let her go home.”

Jacob wanted to smile at the world this morning. He was happy, despite the daunting thought of his wife’s fate being decided. Mercy had looked radiant at Mrs Bartlett’s breakfast table. After being invited to join the ladies, Jacob had tentatively asked Mrs Bartlett’s permission to call on Mercy every day until he received orders to leave Richmond. She had granted his request.

He looked at the throng of people waiting to be called back into the courtroom, wishing that he could conjure up a measure of sympathy for his wife. He would probably go to hell for his lacklustre support for Elizabeth, but she had brought herself to this, and he no longer wanted to bear the guilt of her actions. The only thing he desired now was a bright future with Mercy.

“You’d better get back in, folks. Go take your seats now,” a voice rang down the hallway. “Verdict’s in.”

Jacob was surprised. He had expected the jury to take longer. He took Mrs Bartlett’s arm and followed Mr and Mrs Coulter back into the courtroom. Was this a good sign or a bad sign? he wondered.

Elizabeth stood in the dock. Her body trembled, and her hands were clenched in tight balls by her sides. Jacob once again felt a measure of compassion. No woman should have to abide this, he thought. He prayed silently for the best possible outcome. Whatever happened would not affect his resolve to leave Elizabeth and go to Mercy, but an acquittal for Elizabeth would certainly ease tensions with the Coulter family.

“Do you have a verdict?” Judge Travers asked the jury’s representative.

“We do, Judge.”

A deputy took the jury’s written verdict and passed it to the judge. The judge glanced at it without comment or expression and passed it back. “Read it aloud to the court,” he ordered.

The jury representative cleared his throat. “We the jury find the defendant, Mrs Elizabeth Stone, guilty of the crime of murder.”

“No!” Mrs Coulter screamed above the tide of noise filling the room. “No, my daughter is a victim!”

“That’s enough, folks!” the judge shouted above the thumping noise of his gavel.

“Simmer down. This is not a debate. This is a court of law!”

Jacob was shocked. Mercy’s testimony should have, at the very least, lessened the verdict to a crime of self-defence – but murder? She was guilty of a capital offence. He watched, stunned with fear, as Judge Travers shifted papers in front of him.

He looked at Elizabeth. She sat with her hands covering her face, muffling her wretched weeping. The judge would want this over with as soon as possible, Jacob thought. Travers would not adjourn again to deliberate on sentencing. He had to end this now, before he lost control of this riled-up mob. He recalled the marshal’s statement and groaned. Murder is murder, regardless of circumstances.

“Silence!” Judge Travers shouted.

The noise receded. Jacob held his breath. He looked again at Elizabeth, who now stared with unquestionable contempt at the jury. “I don’t think Travers knows what to do with her,” he whispered irately to Mrs Bartlett.

“This has been a difficult and distasteful case,” the judge said. “I have listened to the evidence and find that I cannot and will not overturn the jury’s verdict. The verdict of murder stands, just as it should. However, I have taken into consideration Mrs Stone’s state of mind and Miss Carver’s testimony, and I have to say that I do not believe this was a premeditated killing.

“The facts surrounding Mrs Mallory’s murder are sorely lacking here. The jury has determined that Mrs Stone did unlawfully kill the deceased, but we can only speculate as to why she did it. The mind is a mighty complex piece of equipment, and as the doctors have stated, amnesia is a condition we have yet to understand.

“Mrs Stone, given your poor health, I believe that an undetermined period of incarceration in one of our fine mental institutions here in the capital would be in your best interest—”

“What?” Elizabeth shouted. “I am not going to a mental asylum. I want to go home! Judge, you cannot do this to me. I am not a bad woman – and I am not mad! Ma, Pa, take me back to Portsmouth!”

“Hush now, Mrs Stone. This is for your own good,” the judge said soothingly. “You will not be going home for a very long time. Do you understand what I’m telling you? You committed murder, Mrs Stone.”

“I did not! Margaret stole my money. She took everything away from me. She was heartless and cruel. Had I not killed her when I did, she would have killed me. I only did what any terrified woman would do! I am not guilty – I am not!”

Voices rose once again. Jacob covered his face and shook his head. Mrs Bartlett whispered in his ear, locking out the surrounding voices. “What is she saying, Captain? I knew she was lying. Oh my.”

“God help her,” Jacob said.

Elizabeth and the judge locked their eyes together in a silent battle. She begged him for leniency as tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’ll just die if you put me in a madhouse with all those crazy people,” she cried. “I can’t abide the thought of it. Oh God, help me! I’m good – I’m good!”

Travers’s livid red face continued to stare at Elizabeth. “Stand up, Mrs Stone! I have not finished with you. If you interrupt me again, I will have you removed. I will not tolerate any more contempt in my courtroom!

“As I said, you are hereby sentenced to a period of psychiatric care, and as you appear to have regained your memory and your wits, I don’t believe you will be in the mental institution for long. With this in mind, I sentence you to fifteen years in a women’s  penitentiary, to begin as soon as you are released from the asylum. That is all. I thank the jury for their service. Now get the prisoner out of my sight!” Judge Travers thumped his gavel for the last time. He stood, turned, and walked out of the courtroom.

Jacob watched Elizabeth being dragged roughly by the arms by deputies. A distraught Mrs Coulter tried to follow her daughter, but her husband pulled her back. Newspapermen descended from the gallery and rushed towards the Coulters for statements. Jacob guided Elizabeth’s parents towards the door, which was blocked by a swarm of excited onlookers.

“I am so sorry,” Jacob said to Mrs Coulter. The Coulters reached the hallway, and Jacob led them into a vacant unlocked room. “Mrs Coulter, I am at your service. Tell me what you want to do. My funds are at your disposal should you want to appeal this verdict. We’ll do everything we can to get her released. You have my full support.”

Mr Coulter’s face was red with rage. He let go of his wife’s arm, clenched his fist, and threw a punch.

Jacob staggered backwards, feeling Coulter’s tight fist’s full force on his jawline. He regained his footing, rubbed his jaw, and said, “I will let that pass, sir, but if you ever touch me again, I will strike you back. Your daughter hoodwinked you both. You saw her. You heard her confession. She’s not suffering from amnesia. She never did. She lied to both of you!

“I reckon you should deal with Elizabeth’s deception, sir, instead of lashing out at me. I will take no more of your family’s meddling into my affairs and cussing me to the world. My marriage is over. It was over months ago, with Elizabeth’s full agreement, yet I am prepared to call on her later today, and every day to come, for as long as I am able, if that is what you want.”

“I don’t want you anywhere near my daughter, you godamn son of a bitch!” Mr Coulter yelled. “May God forgive your black soul from hell! You ain’t no man – you ain’t got no decency!”

Jacob put his hat on and walked to the door. He had done what he could. There was nothing else to say, except goodbye to this sordid affair. He tipped his hat to Mrs Coulter. “Ma’am, you have my condolences,” he said. “My offer stands. You know where to find me.”

Chapter Forty-Five

May 1862

Mercy forced herself to remain in bed on this sunny May morning. On the very night she arrived here, Mrs Bartlett had insisted on giving her a slave called Anna. Mercy had argued against the idea and had said no thank you repeatedly, but every morning Anna appeared, standing at the foot of the bed with a cup of tea and newspapers. During the winter, she had   found the courage to ask Mrs Bartlett to sell Anna to her. Mrs Bartlett had been surprised at Mercy’s request, but after a few weeks, she realised that Mercy had her heart set on it, and the deal had been struck. “Thank you, Anna. Why don’t you go find some breakfast. I can bathe and dress myself,” Mercy said, wanting to be alone.

Mercy fluffed up the pillows and rested her head against them. Looking out of the window at another glorious day, she couldn’t help but release a contemplative sigh. She held her teacup with both hands and sipped the cup dry.

She had recently heard from the marshal that her parole had finally ended, and every day since then, she’d felt a growing urge to leave the capital. She had waited a long time for her freedoms to be returned to her. They had been unlawfully taken away in the first place, as far as she was concerned. She had actually come to think that the marshal, judge, and army had completely forgotten about her and what she had supposedly done. The accusation had been serious, but had they thought her guilty, they would have locked her up, not left her stranded with Mrs Bartlett’s never-ending Richmond Ladies Society meetings. God’s truth, she thought, jail might have been preferable!

The stifling atmosphere of the capital, crowded with gloomy faces complaining about the blockade, which was beginning to damage the Richmond’s elite’s perfect lives, was worsening by the day, and so was her own disposition. She was suffocating from a lack of worthwhile activity. She missed Jacob terribly and had not clapped eyes on him for almost seven weeks. She was melancholic, and nothing would ease her black mood, bar seeing Jacob and getting out of Richmond.

She lifted the newspaper and noticed an envelope hidden underneath it. She sat up, excited and delighted. It was from Belle. Belle was a ferocious writer, and her long, detailed correspondences had given Mercy welcome relief in the past months. Inside the envelope was a smaller envelope, along with Belle’s letter. She put the small envelope aside for the moment and lay her head once more against the pillows.

Dear Mercy,

I am sorry it has taken me so long to write, but I fear I will sour your mood with my news. I declare, I am quite beside myself with worry. Poor Hendry went back to sea awhile back, and this time I have no clue as to when he will return. I know what a good sea captain my husband is, but I find myself in a highly agitated state. I am consumed with terrible thoughts and premonitions of doom, Mercy, and no matter how much I try, I cannot lift my spirits.

The battle of Hampton Roads has left me feeling that war is on Norfolk’s and Portsmouth’s doorsteps, as if it were not bad enough that the Union’s soldiers and Navy skulk like wolves across the James at Fort Monroe.

That battle will live in my memory forever. I have never seen such a congregation of ships, barring Liverpool’s fleets, of course. I stood on one of Norfolk’s highest points to get the very best of views, and though I couldn’t see everything, I do know that, the James, Elizabeth, and Nanesmond rivers were overflowing with vessels.

Our brave Confederate Navy sent the ironclad CSS Virginia into Hampton Roads with a flotilla of five supply ships. The Virginia is a magnificent sight, Mercy, and one I could never have imagined seeing with my own eyes. Why, she is an iron floating fortress! To have her ready for battle was a wonderful feat. I have never seen such determination and loyalty of men.

I know you have probably read about that day on Hampton Roads, but I wanted to tell it to you in my own way. Can you imagine how wonderful it was to learn that the Virginia had managed to sink two Yankee ships! Unfortunately, darkness fell and she had to retire back to Gosport Navy Yard. I do believe had she remained in the Hampton Roads to fight on, she might just have routed the Union Navy and forced their bully of an army back to the North, where they belong.

I do wish we had been successful, but of course, the good Lord seldom makes our trials easy for us, does he? We lost almost eighty men, and there were many others injured. The dead died valiantly and for a cause worth fighting and bleeding for.

My Hendry has been asked to risk his life and the lives of his crew by a navy who has no experience in blockade running, but I remind myself every day that he is not the only man being asked to lay his life on the line. Still, I am so very afraid for him.

I have decided to visit Dolly in Norfolk. Grace and I have such little consolation to find, but I do believe that a change of air will do us good. From the Norfolk wharfs, one can now see the ships on the James and at the edge of the Atlantic. I would give anything to be with Hendry at sea, I really would.

I visited Stone Plantation and must say that guilt lays heavy with me. I do hope Jacob forgives me for abandoning his land. I am sure he understands why I wanted to be near Hendry for as long as he was home … and we are at war, in a situation that is ever changing.

The plantation slaves are still there in great number. A few have run away, but most do not seem to have much interest in leaving or encountering an unknown future that may be worse than their present situation. They are passing their days idly sitting around, looking for guidance. They are quite the pitiful sight and seem incapable of making any decisions or in being productive with their time. I have sent a wagon with supplies to the slaves and will make sure they are fed until Jacob comes home on leave.

Not such a long letter this time, my darling Mercy. I am far too upset even to think about burdening myself with gossip, although I do have some news. The Coulters are moving south. They want to be closer to Elizabeth. Mrs Coulter has become a fragile shadow of her former self. Elizabeth, from what I can gather, does not fare well in that terrible prison. Why she was sent all the way to North Carolina, I will never know. It is a cruel blow for her family.

I’m not fond of Elizabeth, but she was a childhood friend. I am not happy that she remains Jacob’s wife, but I can’t help but feel great sadness at her plight. May the good Lord above watch over her and grant his benevolence upon her, for I fear she will not leave that penitentiary alive.

I pray that you will soon join me in Norfolk. I am sure that those bullheaded politicians and army folks no longer think of you as a threat and have already given you back your freedoms. My goodness, Mercy, the thought of you ever betraying the Confederacy is preposterous!

You will have noticed the other envelope. This was given to me by Dolly. I promise you, it has not been read. It is as it was found … Oh, but, Mercy, you must tell me who is writing you. Promise, you will?

Do write me back. Pray for my Hendry as I do for your Jacob. What news do you have of my brother-in-law? I do worry so about the blue coats advancing on Richmond, but I cannot bring myself to imagine defeat.

Once again, I implore you to come visit me in Norfolk. I am in sore need of your company.

Your friend,

Belle

Mercy folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, which she then placed in the drawer beside the bed. She picked up the other envelope and looked at the postmark. It was from Fort Monroe. It had to be from Isaac. It had to be.

November 2, 1861

My dear Mercy,

With no other means available to me, I write to this address in Norfolk in the hope of reaching you and finding you well. I will never understand why you left your friends without a word or proper farewell. You were not a prisoner, as you imagined, nor were you led to believe that your only escape from me was by secretly escaping on the back of a horse belonging to the Union army.

I am deeply perplexed at your lack of consideration towards Nelson, a man that loves you with all the goodness in his heart. He has suffered greatly, and it took all my persuasion to convince him not to take off after you. As for me, I expected more from you … I also deserved your trust and your honesty.

Somehow I know you are safe. You have a spirited soul, and you are as hardy as any man. If I am guessing correctly, you are probably off on another one of your adventures. I only wish with all my heart that you could have seen fit to share these adventures with me.

I love you, my Mercy. I will not deny this, not until the day I draw my last breath. I presume that your flight from the fort means that you do not return my high regard for you, but I will never give up. No, I resolve to make you my wife one day.

Please do not journey back to the fort. My commanding officer is not as understanding as I am regarding your theft of a horse. Write to me, I beg of you, if not for my sake, then for Nelson’s.

Isaac

Mercy’s cheeks were flushed. “Shame on you, Mercy Carver,” she murmured. This letter had brought back the awful guilt she had felt after leaving the fort. Isaac was right about her. There was no justification for what she did to him and Nelson. The letter had been written over six months ago, she noted as she looked at it again. Isaac and Nelson could be anywhere by now. They might even be with the great Union Army, marching on the peninsula. She would write back this morning. Everyone knew that there were many ways of sending mail between the North and South. Smugglers could take mail almost anywhere when paid well.

She thought again. Her eyes widened. She frowned, staring at the letter. No, she couldn’t write to Fort Monroe. Bloody hell, she would be arrested again if she were caught with a letter to the Union fort. “Think, Mercy, think before you do anything stupid!” she whispered angrily.

She creased her brow and thought again about the past six months. Mrs Bartlett had been a wonderful hostess. She was a kind soul, albeit the biggest gossip Mercy had ever laid eyes on. Her husband, the senator, had introduced Mercy to the annals of government, and she had learned much from visiting dignitaries passing through the Bartlett house. She had spent time with Jacob, something she would never have been blessed with had it not been for Mrs Bartlett. Overall, her stay had not been wasted – but it was time for her to leave.

Chapter Forty-Six

The open ground stretched for a mile. Jacob and his men rode at a gallop towards the forest at the edge of the clearing. The top half of Jacob’s body lay low across the saddle. His two hands gripped the reins, and every now and again, he flicked them across Thor’s flanks. He was fatigued beyond words. He was so drained that he could barely think straight. He had scarcely recovered from the battle, and he felt as though he had not lifted his behind off the saddle since the Williamsburg retreat.

He could feel the dried mud on his face and neck crack like broken skin. His head and hair were drenched in sweat. His right coat sleeve was scorched by continuous rifle fire, and his arm stung like the devil. He had not bathed in days, and his uniform still bore the stench of death and gunpowder. His grey coat was covered in dark blood patches, and even his buttons had turned red in colour.

They had left the bulk of the Confederate Army days ago, after it had begun its withdrawal from Williamsburg. The Southern army had amassed thirty-two thousand men in an attempt to hold that town and push the Union back. It had suffered over fifteen hundred casualties and losses, including cavalrymen involved in skirmishes.

There had been no outright victor in the bloody Williamsburg battle that had taken so many lives. At one point, Jacob had been convinced they would triumph over the larger Yankee army, but after coming close to overrunning the Union’s flank, they failed at the last minute to break through it. The Union army then took two Confederate abandoned redoubts in a counter-attack, and though the Confederates persistently tried to take back lost ground,   they were unsuccessful.

Jacob and his exhausted men had ridden hard since leaving the town of Oak Grove, some fifty miles north-east of Richmond. They had just completed a reconnaissance mission, but they had also been tasked with escorting engineers and a logistics team to Oak Grove, with the aim of erecting telegraph lines. Their aim now was to meet the Ninth Virginia Cavalry Regiment, picketing Union lines around Fredericksburg before nightfall.

Jacob slowed his horse to a gentle canter and finally a walk as they came upon an area of swamp. Behind Jacob were twenty men from Portsmouth, including George Coulter and Sergeant Tybrook. The remnants of their unit were to be transferred into the newly formed Ninth Virginia Cavalry Regiment. Having been part of a rearguard force during the retreat from Yorktown, they were late in joining the regiment’s ranks. Their job had been to give the bulk of the army time to get away.

Jacob waded through the forest’s swampy slime floor, pushing his tired legs forward whilst leading Thor by the reins. His mind flashed with grisly images and sounds of the Williamsburg battle. He would never forget the dying screams of men, blood spurting out of chests, limbs being shattered and torn off. He had ridden on that day through smoke so thick that his mouth had tasted gunpowder, and he had not been able to see his hand at the end of his outstretched arm. Six of his men had been killed. He had left their bodies behind on the ground. He’d barely kept himself in the saddle as Thor swerved and jumped to miss downed horses and injured men. He would never see his dead men again, but their faces were still emblazoned in his mind.

He finally knew war, its ugliness and undignified effect on the hearts of men willing to kill a body for a slither of ground. He was not sure how many men he had killed. He had not counted the shots he had fired or how many times he had thrust his bayonet through the enemy’s skin and bone.

He turned to see his men staggering in the knee-high bog. They still had a way to go before reaching the Ninth. He was sure the commanders could do without them for another few hours. His men needed sleep and so did he. “I reckon we should rest up a while at the next creek or river we come across. I don’t know about y’all, but I refuse to go another day without bathing this stench off me.”

“We’re not far from a bunch of streams. I saw them on the way up here,” Sergeant Tybrook said. “They must be close. I figure they must be just east of this swamp.”

“You sure, Sergeant?”

“You know me, sir. When have I ever steered you wrong?” Sergeant Tybrook grinned.

“We got coffee, Captain,” George Coulter said.

Jacob nodded. Coffee sounded good. “I say we hunker down for a few hours. I figure it’s about a three-hour ride till we meet our new comrades. I reckon they won’t find cause to miss us for an hour or two. I got a powerful need for food. We got victuals?”

“Some cornbread and dried pork,” another man said. “We got enough to go around, I reckon.”

“Let’s get to it. Find us those streams, Tybrook. Cornbread and coffee sounds mighty fine.”

They came upon a stream still swollen from recent rains. The ground was muddy in patches, but there was a cluster of trees nearby with a bed of grass surrounding it. It would suit their purpose, Jacob decided. He gave the order to dismount.

A fire was set. Tybrook revealed a handful of coffee beans and grinned at Jacob. “I took these off a dead Yankee. Figured he wouldn’t have no more need of them. Next battle, I’ll hang an extra satchel over my shoulder. Might get enough coffee to last a week.

Jacob strode towards the edge of the stream, taking off his coat and shirt before he’d even reached it. He winced as he pulled the coarse shirtsleeves over his arms and head. He looked at his right arm. It was battered and bruised, red and blue from his wrist to his shoulder. It was not a wonder that it had stung like hellfire these past three days. It felt as though the entire arm was blistered. His damn rifle had done this. It had become so hot that the powder had flashed before he’d had a chance to ram the ball home. Twice he had picked another rifle belonging to a dead comrade.

He sat, undid his boots, and sighed with the luxury of moving his toes. When he was fully naked, he stepped into the water, just a couple of feet deep, and sat down. It wasn’t exactly the bath he’d had in mind, but it would do, he thought.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Mercy read the newspaper with her mouth open in shock and horror. She gulped down her tea, scarcely believing the words that met her eyes; she felt a rare moment of pessimism enfold her. On the morning of 10 May, thousands of Union soldiers had landed on Willoughby Spit and within hours had arrived in Norfolk. Mayor William Lamb was named in the article. She remembered him well – he was Jacob’s friend. She continued reading and sighed with relief. Mayor Lamb had apparently surrendered the city to the Yankees without firing a shot. Mercy was grateful for that at least.

Portsmouth had also been handed over to the Federals. Confederate forces had run, burning the Gosport Navy Yard before they left and taking all the weapons and arms they could get their hands on. Mercy closed her eyes. She could just imagine the retreating army in and around Portsmouth, with wagons filled with weapons, running to God only knew where. At least the poor men would have something to fight with, she thought.

Private and public houses had been confiscated, Plantations were being seized, and slaves were already running into the city asking for refuge.              “Dear God,” Mercy said to Anna, “my friends live there – poor Belle and Dolly. What if they have lost their homes? And what about Stone Plantation and all its slaves? I can’t believe what I’m reading – Norfolk and Portsmouth gone?” Mercy read on. The Confederate ships based in Gosport Navy Yard had also lost their home base. How would Hendry get back? she wondered. If he had made it into the Atlantic and was crossing it with cargo, he wouldn’t know anything about this.

She dressed quickly. She had purchased new breeches, boots, and a shirt only days ago, in anticipation of a day like today. They had been made especially for her. She had even managed to find leather braces to fit her small figure. She gazed at herself in the long mirror. Every time she wore breeches, memories of past triumphs and failures flooded back, but with them also came thoughts of adventure. She could already feel her energy and passion for life returning to her. She was thrilled to be on the move again, she admitted, for she had sat around for far too long wishing for change.

Mrs Bartlett was her greatest obstacle, she thought, lacing up her boots. Over a week ago, she had spoken with her hostess at length about her desire to leave the city, and she had faced a barrage of reasons that she shouldn’t. Mrs Bartlett was against the idea of Mercy going anywhere, and she had made her feelings known. But Mercy’s mind had been set on it then, and she was even more determined now.

Her heart was racing. She needed a gun – a good one. She should also get a few supplies together. She had to find a decent horse too, and there were not that many of those lying around for the taking. The army was snapping up all the horses it could get its hands on.

She combed her hair and then grabbed her satchel. She put a comb, some soap, and her bone-handled toothbrush inside it. She didn’t have room to pack clothes; a few undergarments would suffice. She looked in the wardrobe at all the fine gowns she had accumulated and shrugged. They would be here waiting for her when and if she returned. Her finery was the last thing she was worried about, or even cared about, for that matter.

Mercy found Mrs Bartlett in the drawing room. She was reading a newspaper with her small spectacles sitting on the bridge of her nose. She looked unusually pale, Mercy observed, as though she had the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Mercy stood in the centre of the room and coughed nervously. She was going to appear very ungrateful and selfish in Mrs Bartlett’s eyes, but this was her life, no one else’s, and her mind was truly set on its course. “Good morning, Mrs Bartlett. Did you sleep well?” she asked.

Mrs Bartlett’s eyes left the newspaper, and her face froze in shock. “Lord have mercy. Whatever are you wearing? Why in heaven’s name are you in those ridiculous garments? I declare, at first glance I almost mistook you for a boy! You cannot possibly go out looking like that. Why, my dear, what will folks think? I forbid it.”

Mercy swallowed hard. She shifted her feet nervously, slowly feeling the power she had felt earlier ebb away. “Mrs Bartlett, I am wearing these garments today because I am going on a journey.”

“I don’t understand – what kind of journey?” Mrs Bartlett asked her.

Mercy shuffled her feet again and said, “I’ve come to love you very much. You know that, don’t you?”

“Why, thank you. What a lovely thing to say. But what journey?”

“I’m leaving Richmond today. Please believe me: I’ve tried not to disappoint you, I really have, but my heart is not in this city. It’s with Belle and Dolly. I have to go to them.”

“My dear Mercy, we’ve talked about this. You cannot leave the safety of Richmond. Why, its madness. There are marauding Yankees roaming all over South Virginia. Look, Norfolk and Portsmouth have fallen!”

“I know. I read about that. I still can’t believe it. I’m so desperately sad, but this is why you have to understand my need to leave. I have had a wonderful time with you and your family, but I can’t sit here doing nothing when Belle and Dolly might be in danger. I know you’re set against my leaving but please give me your consent. ” Mercy watched Mrs Bartlett fold the newspaper. Her face was filled with unhappiness. “Please, Mrs Bartlett. Give me your blessing.”

“The day I met you, I knew you were far too spirited for your own good. Captain Stone will find no pleasure in this. He begged me to keep you safe, and I have fulfilled my promise to him. What is he going to make of your leaving? You do know he thinks you highly irresponsible at times?”

“I know he does. Jacob knows me better than anyone, but it’s not as if I’ll be in danger.”

“Of course you will! Do you think these blue coats will bid you a good morning like fine upstanding gentlemen? No, there are stories about their cruelty and rough behaviour. They’re taking or destroying everything in their path. They’re like a bunch of bloodthirsty heathens, and they won’t think twice about taking a woman’s innocence!”

“Well, we both know I’m not innocent, and anyway, I don’t believe half the stories I’ve read. There are good and bad men on both sides. I don’t think war changes the measure of a man’s character … or kindness of heart … or cruelty of soul.”

“Have you thought about what this will do to Captain Stone’s mood? Doesn’t he have enough to think about? You are being very selfish.”

“You might be right, but I will truly be selfish if I remain here whilst the people I love are being occupied by the enemy, and possibly living on the street,” Mercy said stubbornly.

“My dear, I can see your youthful passion for life and adventure. It shines through you. It’s part of who you are. I declare, there are times when I’m of a mind for setting off on an adventure of my own, but this really is very foolish of you.”

“I promise I’ll be very careful,” Mercy said.

Mrs Bartlett nodded absently, as though her mind had already moved on to an entirely different matter. “I suppose I could direct my talents towards medical issues. There are bound to be casualties among our gallant soldiers – what a dreadful thought. Whatever am I going to do without you? You make my life less tedious.”

“Does this mean I have your permission?” Mercy asked.

“You are not my prisoner. You do not need my permission. Have you thought about how you are going to arrive in Norfolk?”

“Yes,” Mercy told her. “I would like to buy a horse.”

“No, no, you will go by train.”

“No, Mrs Bartlett, I want to ride. I know how to get to Norfolk from here. I won’t be in any danger. I don’t like trains.”

“Are you going to be obstinate?”

“Yes, I am afraid I am.” Mercy smiled.

Later that day in the stable, Mercy mounted the horse she had just purchased and stroked its mane. “Well now, what am I going to call you?” she said. “You’re as black as coal. How about that? Do you like the name Coal? Yes, that’ll do nicely.”

She smiled at Anna, saddened to leave her and still perplexed with the young slave, who had earlier refused her freedom papers. Anna had stood before Mercy in the bedroom and had frowned at Mercy’s declaration that she, Anna, was a free woman. Mercy had hidden the freedom papers for weeks and had looked forward to giving Anna a gift that most slaves could only dream about. “Anna, I don’t understand,” she had said. “Are you telling me that you don’t want to have the choices that free people have? Is there nothing you want to do with your life apart from looking after white women and being told what to do?”

Anna had been unable to read a single word written on the piece of paper that Mercy had handed her, but she’d understood its meaning, and it had made her miserable. “Oh, Miss Mercy, I ain’t got no use being a free woman,” she’d sobbed. “I’s doing just fine with my life right here. I’s real happy in this house, and I’s scared to be free.”

Mercy tightened the leather belted gun holster and made sure that her new Colt was sitting firmly in place. Her satchel and a rolled-up blanket were attached to her stiff newly bought saddle with rope straps. She also had a map, a canteen, and some dried bacon. She was ready. She looked again at Anna, who was staring up at her. The girl looked terrified.  The sight of the Colt had scared the life out of her. “Are you sure you don’t want to be free, Anna?”

Anna nodded vigorously. “I’s sure, Miss Mercy – I’s real sure. I don’ like no streets an’ no guns, an’ white folks scare me.”

Mercy shook her head. “All right, then, but when I come back, you might change your mind, and that’s all right too.” She would be mystified about Anna’s choice until the day she died. She had seen Seth lose his life, trying to grasp the freedom that Anna was refusing. She would never understand anyone not wanting to strive towards one’s God-given right to choose and aspire to be something bigger and better.

She rode out of the stable and sighed with happiness. She was free to do what she wanted – and what she wanted was for Norfolk to wait awhile longer. She had an important stop to make before her journey southwards.

Chapter Forty-Eight

The Union had taken over the hospital in Norfolk almost as soon as its army descended on the city. Isaac had not received a warm welcome on his arrival there and was disappointed that staff he already knew, from his years with Jacob and Hendry, had greeted him with silence or a begrudging nod of recognition, at best. The remaining hospital staff, refusing to work with the Union, had been thrown out of their jobs. Isaac had wasted no time in telling those that had remained that they would be wise to keep their rebel hatred to themselves. It was bad enough that he’d been posted here, never mind having to keep the locals in line.

In a somewhat pensive mood, he unpacked his medical instruments and medicines. He couldn’t rightly say if was happy or not about being back in Norfolk. His feelings were conflicted. He was exhausted and still reeling from the gruesome Williamsburg battle that he had just lived though. Being back here with old neighbours and friends who were now the enemy was not a comforting thought; it was a daunting one. He would not be received in homes once frequented, and his days of poker and drinking in Norfolk’s lively centre would remain a memory. The only good that might come from this posting would be the sight of Mercy, but even if she was in the city, he wasn’t sure if his heart could take another beating from her.

He hadn’t much cared for soldiering, that he did know. He had witnessed too much death at Williamsburg and had not slept easy since. He’d seen enough blood to last a lifetime. He’d amputated legs and arms under the most unsterile of situations. There had been no time to think, let alone prepare instruments, not when a man’s life was at stake.

He’d been as surprised as the next man when he’d heard about General McClellan’s decision not to follow the retreating rebels. At the time, he’d not been aware of the actual details of the battle raging, but he sure as hell heard it rumbling outside his tent when he was operating on injured men. He’d grasped a few bits and pieces of information from soldiers, and as far as they had known, the Union was winning. Isaac had been convinced that he would be heading towards Richmond, chasing rebels the entire way. It made sense to destroy the rebel army before it had time to regroup, he’d thought at the time. The general, however, had not seen it that way.

Isaac found Nelson sitting on a low wall just outside the hospital entrance and couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. He sat down, put his hand on Nelson’s shoulder, and said, “You know you can’t sit here worrying all day. You need to be working, not filling your head with troubling thoughts. You got a job to do, and there’s no use in you tormenting yourself about things that ain’t goin’ to happen.”

“It might happen, Mr Isaac,” Nelson said moodily.

“Nelson, it won’t. You’re under the protection of the army you serve in. No sheriff or marshal is going to come looking for you for murders committed over a year ago. No one knows what you look like. I recall seeing the wanted poster of you back when we were looking for Miss Mercy, and it looked nothing like your handsome facial features. C’mon now, I reckon lawmen have better things to turn their minds to – and you have too.” Isaac sighed with growing impatience. His words were not appeasing Nelson.

“Look, I don’t reckon we’ll be here for long. We’re too valuable to the army, and I know for a fact that they ain’t done with us on the peninsula.”

“I hears you, Mr Isaac,” Nelson said. “How long we got to stay here?” I’s real scared of gittin’ hung. I don’t want to be back here, south of that James River. There ain’t nothing in this world gives me more concern than coming to the place where white men are just itchin’ to hang me. The white people here still want to kill me. I knows it. I’s bettin’ they ain’t forgotten ole Nelson. Nope, Mr Isaac, I reckon even seeing Miss Mercy again ain’t gonna  stop me hankerin’ for the fort. How long?” he asked again.

“Not long, my friend, but until we get our marching orders, I expect you to do your job. We’ll know soon enough.”

“I ain’t leaving this hospital. No, sir, I ain’t setting one foot outside them gates there.”

Isaac shook his head. Nelson was as stubborn as a mule. Mercy had more patience with the fellow than he ever would. “Get my horse, Nelson. I have a lady to call on.”

“You goin’ to see, Miss Mercy?  You see her, you tell her from ole Nelson that she did wrong by you.”

“I’ll tell her if I see her. Now go on and get my horse; then get back to work. Patients need tending, and they sure as hell don’t want to see your cheerless face.”

As Isaac waited for Nelson to come back with the horse, he thought again about his decision to call on Dolly. He wanted to pay his respects to her. She was a fine woman. He also wanted to put his mind at ease regarding Mercy. Six months and not a word or explanation for disappearing led him to think she was in even more trouble now than when he last found her. She had cursed him. She’d put a damn spell on him, for he wanted no other woman but her.

The Norfolk mansions belonging to ships’ captains looked the same as they had on the day Isaac left for Boston. However, as he rode towards Jack’s sprawling house, he noticed a few grand houses with poles flying the Union flag. It hadn’t taken his army long to make itself at home, he thought. A thought struck him. What if Jack’s house had been confiscated? If that was the case, he’d have a devil of a time tracking Dolly down.

He walked through the carriage arch connected to Jack and Dolly’s house and found a Negro slave tending to a carriage. He recognised the boy and gave him the horse to look after. He smiled. Dolly was still here, thank God.

Dolly stared at the Union officer for a second or two with suspicion and fear etched clearly on her face. She took a closer look at Isaac and then gasped with surprise. She stared again at his uniform, this time with condemnation, and said brusquely, “Isaac, so you’re a Yankee soldier. I might have known you’d join with your Northern folks. Have you come to steal the house that used to welcome you? It wouldn’t surprise me. Why, you Yankees have been going door to door these past days, throwing poor Norfolk folks out onto the street.”

“Ma’am,” Isaac said. He tipped his hat and stood with an awkward smile. “I have no such thing in mind. I figured I would call on you to ask if you need any assistance. Is this an inconvenience?”

“Your entire army is an inconvenience. Why, I don’t know how you can show your face here after what those nasty blue coat war mongrels have done to our glorious city.”

“This war ain’t of the Union’s choosing, Miss Dolly,” Isaac said lamely. “Folks here in Virginia and all across the South asked for it. I reckon they just didn’t believe we’d fight them inch for inch, mile for mile with wholeheartedness.” He was not going to be invited in, he thought. “I have come to ask after your situation. Do you need anything? Anything at all?”

“From a damn Yankee – never!”

“What about Jack and Mercy? Do you have news of them? It would ease my mind to know they’re safe.”

“I ain’t telling you nothing about my poor husband’s situation – or Mercy’s – and I won’t have you in my house, Isaac,” she stated. “I’m not your friend. No decent Confederate wants a friendship with you occupiers so you best be running along.”

Isaac had endured the terrible strain of battle, but this here, he thought, was cutting his nerves to pieces. She hadn’t answered the question about Mercy and Jack. He tried again. “It saddens me to hear you say these harsh words, Miss Dolly. Now, I understand why you think it best to send me away, but, ma’am, for the sake of past friendship, will you not grant me a measure of peace before I take my leave? I just need a word about Jack and Mercy – that’s all.”

Dolly’s expression softened. Tears settled on her lashes. She pulled out a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and sniffed loudly. “Isaac, you know I love you like a son, but I cannot invite you in. What would my neighbours think? How will our poor Confederate soldiers feel when they come back and find I had cavorted with a Yankee in my livin’ room without being forced into it? ,

“I’ll tell you what you need to know, but only ’cause you look like a lovesick puppy dog. Mercy has not been here for some time, but I do believe she may be in Richmond with Jacob Stone. She loves Jacob, Isaac, so you take the last piece of advice you’ll ever get from me. You best be forgetting her. She wants Jacob, that’s a fact, and there’s no use in you wasting your time thinking she’ll ever have affections for you.”

“I see,” Isaac said. He felt as though he’d just been punched in the gut.

“My husband is with Hendry. That’s all you need to know about him. Why, I don’t even know how they’ll find their way home now that your army has gone and taken every inch of the navy yard. May the good Lord forgive you, Isaac Bernstein, because I will not!”

“Please don’t upset yourself,” Isaac said. Damn it, he had made her cry. He should not have come here. He’d been a goddamn fool to look for Mercy. She had hoodwinked him, and like a damn blind man, he’d believed her.

“Take your Yankee blue coat off my porch and don’t you dare come back here,” Dolly said, shocking him out of his thoughts.

Isaac nodded. Dolly’s words hurt him, but she was hurting just as much as he was. He could see regret in her eyes, not to mention her anxiousness about Jack and Hendry. He was deeply saddened beyond words to have such a fine woman like Dolly turn him away.

He couldn’t get the news of Mercy being with Jacob out of his head. He was angry and sickened by Mercy’s subterfuge. “I am at the hospital, ma’am. If you ever need anything, you just come see me,” he said.

“I would rather die of yellow fever than have a damn Yankee doctor minister to me,” she told him.

“My apologies for the intrusion. I will sorely miss our friendship …”

The door was slammed in his face before he had finished the sentence. He stumbled towards the stable and felt the empty space in his heart grow bigger with every step. “You’re a dull-witted ass, Isaac,” he mumbled. “There is no more Mercy Carver – enough!”

Chapter Forty-Nine

Mercy crossed a stone arched bridge sitting over a brook. When she reached the other side, she dismounted and led Coal to the water’s edge. She would rest here. The horse was weary and so was she. The map was unfolded. She spread it out on damp grass. She’d been travelling for hours today, or so it seemed to her stinging behind.

In the past week, she had searched for Jacob, without success. It seemed that on this occasion, fate was not on her side. On the journey, she’d come across a few homesteads where she had begged for food. She had seen dilapidated cabins through the trees from a distance but had not approached them, afraid of who might be in them. She had heard stories of deserters hiding out and being discovered in abandoned buildings.

She’d crossed over a river, and the water had been so deep that it had lapped against her waist. She had seen Confederate infantry marching in the opposite direction, towards Richmond, on her way north, and she’d even ridden into a Confederate encampment in the hopes of seeing Jacob there. Demoralised, she now accepted that looking for Jacob had been like searching for one particular mouse in a wheat field.

She traced the map with her finger and thought about where she’d searched and where she should be looking next. She had gone as far as Fredericksburg, some fifty-eight miles north of Richmond. The cavalry regiment was still there in part, but Jacob had left a week earlier with his company, and he had not returned. Whilst in Fredericksburg, she had been able to take a good look at the Union Army, moving along the north bank of the Rappahannock River. What she had seen had terrified her. Long columns of wagons escorted by blue coat cavalry had been like a blue ribbon stretching for miles. The wagons had probably been filled with food and supplies, sorely lacking now in the capital and in every Virginia household, she had thought at the time.

She had sat on the south bank, looking across at the enemy’s cavalry horses quietly grazing upon the grass-covered fields, and she had shuddered as the fear of God rippled through her. Jacob had already faced this invasion of blue coats, and he was probably going to have to strike at them repeatedly and face death every time. What must soldiers feel when they see tens of thousands of men and weapons determined to take rebel held ground. How did Jacob and his men find the courage to face this giant army and their cannons? The answer to that question was beyond her comprehension, for she had found courage sorely lacking in her at the sight of the swaggering, confident Union army.

She lay now on soft grass, listening to the hurried water splashing against small rocks and a gravel floor, and she relived her journey in her mind. After Fredericksburg, she had gone to Hick’s Hill. There she had found a couple of companies belonging to the Ninth Regiment. She had seen sickness amongst the men – dysentery, she had been told. The conditions in the camp were far worse than anything she had seen up until now. Makeshift graves had been dug for the dead, too weak to fight the sickness. The encampment smelled of putrid waste and brought to mind the Thames River and London’s great stink. Men had lain in their own filth, listless and helpless under the hot sun. God help them, she thought now, for if they were lucky enough to survive, they would have the enemy to look forward to. She thought it fortuitous that Jacob had not been in that encampment.

She could not give up her search, she thought. She was not more than fifteen miles north of Richmond, and she felt sure that she was closing in on Jacob. She had missed him by two days at Hicks Hill. A nice sergeant there had informed her that Jacob and his men were on the march behind an infantry brigade heading towards Richmond. He had not specified which road they were taking, but Mercy had been studying this map for weeks, and she was convinced that the major road, called Telegraph Road, would be the most sensible road for an army of men, wagons, and horses to take.

She had to find that road, but it would not be easy. There were dense forests and hilly ground between here and Richmond, and she could easily get lost, as she was apt to do from time to time. She believed she was trailing Jacob, for she had certainly not overtaken him. The ground was thick with mud after three days of heavy rains. The infantry was probably walking at a snail’s pace. This was good news, for she calculated that they couldn’t be more than a couple of hours ahead of her.

Mercy dismounted within the boundary of a thick treeline. She was on elevated ground. She had been aware of shallow inclines a mile back, but she hadn’t realised that she had taken such high ground after skirting a steep and muddy ditch.

She sighed at her stupidity. She had lost valuable time, which would probably mean another night alone in the open, listening to wolves howling and foxes growling. She tied the horse’s reins to a trunk and walked towards the farthest trees on the ridge. Hopefully, she would get a good view of what was beyond this vantage point, she thought, and with a bit of luck, she might even spot the road she was looking for.

She reached a thick tree trunk and stopped. A horse was whinnying in the distance – possibly more than one. She pressed her back against the trunk and held her breath. She exhaled sharply and snuck a peek around the edge of the trunk, first to the left and then to the right of it. There was a flash of blue moving around some distance away. She gasped and looked again. There was no mistaking what she saw. There were at least eight blue coats hunkered down farther up the ridge, intently studying something or someone beyond the hill’s brow. She would like to know what they were so ardently watching, for it could be the very thing she was looking for.

They were only about seventy-five yards from where she hid. She had seen them. Had they spied her? The first surge of panic hit her. Dear God, this was wartime. This was not like Fort Monroe, full of friendly soldiers and dinner parties. This was a battlefield – Virginia was being invaded. What would the Yankees do with her ? They would bloody shoot her, she decided.

She slithered on her belly like a snake to the very edge of the hill, glad of the thick foliage for cover, even though it scraped and cut her arms. When she reached the last trees and the edge of the hill, she looked down and saw an infantry column and cavalry. Grey coats. She had found Jacob at last.

She could hear the column now too. The boots on wet, muddy ground were almost silent, but the horses’ hooves’ thumped like the soft beat of a drum as they hit hard ground underneath the mud. This had to be the column she was looking for. This was Telegraph Road. Why else would poles and wire be lining the route?

She panicked again. One whinny from Coal and the Yankees along the ridge would certainly notice her presence. How could Yankees get so close to Richmond? she wondered.  They must be scouts. They had to be. They didn’t seem to want to attack the strong force of men below, she determined, but they could certainly take away valuable information about Confederate troop movements and weapons. They might even want to destroy the telegraph poles, cutting off the South’s communication with Richmond and the northern towns surrounding it. She had to warn someone. She had to move right now, before the blue coats had a chance to get away or the Confederate column walked on, ignorant of the menace behind them.

She crawled back to Coal, who was happily grazing. She stroked his neck and kept him hushed with soothing whispers, and she included some invigorating prayers to God. There was no easy or direct route down that hill – no way to ride out to its ridge without being seen by the enemy. She pictured the Yankees hearing Coal’s hooves and then seeing her swerving in and out of the trees heading towards the brow of the hill. Her intent would be obvious to them, and their instincts would be to kill her before she reached the column. She was no soldier, but she was sure they wouldn’t want her to give away their position.

No more debating, she thought. Down she must go, regardless of danger and her vision of being shot in the back as she rode. She mounted Coal, clicked her tongue, gripped the reins, kicked the horse’s flanks, and hunched her body across the saddle. “Come on,boy …ride!” she whispered fiercely. The trees danced before her as her head bobbed up and down. Her nose was almost touching Coal’s mane, but every few seconds, she raised it to catch glimpses of the Yankees. She didn’t really want to see a rifle pointed in her direction, but she couldn’t help herself from finding out if she had been seen.

An errant branch pulled Eddie’s hat from her head, leaving it hanging around her neck by the leather strap. The bloody thing was choking the life out of her! She came to the ridge, moaning with the effort that it took to stay in the saddle. As he stumbled onto the hill’s steep incline, she was sure she was going to slip down Coal’s neck. She shuddered with fear, feeling her throat dry and blocked. She was in the open, exposed and in the Yankees’ sights. They must be able to see her, she thought. They might be aiming at her back right at this very moment. She would feel the bullet strike her, and she would fall to the ground and roll down the hill like a barrel.

She galloped across an expanse of grass bordering the road. Within seconds, she was on the muddy thoroughfare with the Confederacy in her sights but still within range of the Yankees’ rifles. She had not heard any gunshots. Maybe the Yankees didn’t want to give away their position by firing guns. “Come on! Come on!” she urged Coal. She was within striking distance of the column. “Faster, Coal!” she shouted this time.

She screamed at the cavalry to stop. They were about a hundred and fifty yards ahead of her now and would soon hear Coal’s racing hooves.

The horsemen at the rear of the column turned. Sergeant Tybrook stopped and waited for the horse to catch up. The other horsemen had their rifles pointed straight at Mercy. When Sergeant Tybrook saw the rider’s mass of black hair fanning out like a cloak and billowing in the wind, he said, “Lower your guns, boys. I reckon I might know who this is. It’s Captain Stone’s woman.”

Mercy caught up with the horses and riders. Their guns were still pointing in her direction, but they had been lowered. She hadn’t thought about being shot by them, she realised. “Don’t shoot!” she shouted, finally reaching them. “Don’t shoot me!” Her throat felt as though it were full of gravel. She tried desperately to catch her breath and speak at the same time but found herself uttering hoarse whispers. “Yankees – Yankee soldiers behind you, up there in the trees!” she managed to say to Tybrook and the others. She pointed in the direction of where she thought she had seen them. “They’re about three hundred yards behind you, on that hill. They didn’t shoot at me, but they must have seen me. They’ve been watching you for a while.”

When Tybrook spoke, his voice was calm, but it also held urgency. “Ma’am, how many are there?”

“I counted seven, maybe eight. I couldn’t see them clearly. It’s thick with bushes up there, so there could be a lot more lying low. It’s also dense with trees and bleedin’ hard to get through them. Bloody ’ell, I thought I was going to fall off my horse!”

“Come with me,” Tybrook told her. “You need to tell Captain Stone exactly what you’ve just told me.”

Mercy followed the sergeant, riding at a canter towards the head of the line, still scared but grinning from ear to ear at the sound of Jacob’s name. When they reached the front of the long infantry column, Tybrook pulled up sharply. Mercy and Coal came alongside him. She looked past him, and her heart lurched at the sight of Jacob. She would know that profile and black unruly hair anywhere.

“Captain Stone, sir!” Tybrook shouted as he drew up beside Jacob.

Jacob’s body swayed gently in the saddle. He had one hand resting casually on his thigh and the other one holding the reins loosely. He turned his head at the sound of Tybrook’s voice, and upon seeing Mercy beside his sergeant, he blurted out in surprise, “Mercy, what the hell …?”

“My apologies, Captain, but we ain’t got no time for niceties,” Tybrook butted in. “The lady here has just informed me that we’ve got Yankees up there on that hill. I reckon they’re waiting for us to git before cutting the telegraph poles farther up the road. Been watching us for a while, the lady reckons.”

“How many did you see, Mercy?” Jacob asked.

“She reckons about seven or eight,” Tybrook told Jacob. “We could get up there and take them.”

“I agree,” Jacob said. “Mercy, point out where you think you saw them.”

Mercy pointed. “Back down the road and up on the ridge. I didn’t see horses but I heard them. I didn’t stick around up there to see what they were up to. But I can tell you, they were interested in your column.”

Jacob nodded, staring up at the hill, clearly deep in thought. He turned and grinned at her, saying hurriedly, “I’ll look forward to hearing all about the reason you are here when I get back.” Jacob then addressed one of his men. “Corporal, she stays put. Do not let this lady out of your sight. Guard her with your life.”  Jacob rode to her, kissed her soundly, grinned, and then he was gone at a gallop, with dust kicking up behind him.

Chapter Fifty

Jacob rode down the line, ordering twenty cavalrymen to ride with him. As they cantered towards the rear of the column, Jacob told the horsemen to gather around. “Tybrook, we don’t have much time. The Yankees might have left their position by now, but if they are still there, they’ll know we’re coming for them. With a bit of luck, we might get one or two, if we get up there. I don’t know about y’all, but I would like to know what the hell they’re doing so far behind our lines.

“We need to take as many of them as we can alive, but if we have to kill them all, that’s what we’ll do. I’m not leaving them here to snap those wires just erected.” Jacob directed his next order at Tybrook. “Sergeant, take ten men with you. We’ll have a better chance of cutting the enemy off if we split up. Get across the field at this point here as quickly as you can and climb the hill. Take your men along the ridge towards the spot the lady pointed out. You might be looking at a three-hundred-yard run before you come across the Yankees. When you get to the treeline up there, ride like the blazes and keep firing until the bastards reveal their position.”

Jacob and his ten men took the most dangerous route. He spurred his men on, knowing that this would be a good capture, especially if they got a live Union soldier to interrogate. He and his men crossed the field; upon coming to the foot of the hill, they turned their horses north. They rode at a gallop, parallel now to the road that the column had just travelled. Jacob was aware of the risk as he rode. He and his men were probably in the Yankees’ line of fire and might be picked off one by one when passing below the enemy’s position.

“Open fire up at the treeline on my say so!” he shouted, kicking Thor into a gallop. If he blasted all the way along the hill’s ridge until he was past the Yankees, he might be able to divert their attention and give Tybrook the opportunity to take them before they had time to get away …

Mercy watched Jacob take the longer route along the foot of the hill and immediately heard the first shots being fired. She looked about her. The infantry and remaining cavalrymen had rifles pointing towards the hill and treeline. Infantry on foot, horsemen, and wagons were bunched together like a herd of cows being corralled. A rough pair of hands unseated Mercy from her horse. She found herself on the ground, surrounded by a dozen men, and shouted at them to let her up. “I can’t breathe down here. Blimey, I can’t even see daylight!” she told them angrily. Would you mind letting me stand up?”

Men were shouting, ignoring her pleas. She wanted to see what was going on, but it seemed that Jacob’s orders to keep her safe had been taken very seriously.

She prayed for Jacob whilst still trembling with fear from her own dash for safety. Gunfire was echoing all around her. She had never heard so many guns explode with bullets at the same time. “Let me stand up!” Mercy shouted. “I have to see what’s happening.”

“Stay put!” a voice shouted down at her. “Ain’t nothin’ to see, lady. Captain Stone’s disappeared up the hill. Tybrook and his men are out of sight.”

“Is anybody hurt – can you tell me that at least?”

“Ain’t nobody come off their horse yet. Guess that’s a good sign. You just sit tight till we get the all clear. Don’t you worry none. I reckon Captain Stone will be on his way back soon enough, and he’ll be draggin’ one of them blue self-righteous behinds with him.”

It seemed to Mercy as if an hour had gone by, yet it had probably only been a few minutes. The gunfire in the distance continued to sound like thunder in the sky. It sounded so close that Mercy was convinced they were being fired upon. She asked God, his saints, and his angels to keep Jacob and his men safe, and then she stopped halfway through her requests to wonder if she done the right thing by reporting the Yankees and putting Jacob and his men in danger in the first place.

Jacob might get killed. His men might die. The Yankees could be shot dead too – all of them. Blood on her hands – that’s what she would have, even more blood on her hands. Dear God in heaven, how could she live with that knowledge?

“For goodness’ sake, let me stand up. I have to see!” Mercy begged. She would go crazy if she were forced to sit in this cocoon any longer.

“Boys, help the lady to her feet,” she heard a soldier say. “Them Yankees ain’t firing in our direction. I reckon our men are keeping them nice and busy. They ain’t got no time to be taking any notice of what’s going on here.”

The men moved back. Mercy stood and dusted herself off. The gunfire continued. She looked around her, jumping skittishly every time a shot was fired. Many of the infantry had all but disappeared. They had left the road and now took defensive positions in a cluster of trees and a shallow ditch behind her. She led Coal and joined them, happy to be away from the open road and threat of bullets. She found a tree trunk and sat down, with her back against it, grateful for the chance to get off her trembling legs.

Seconds seemed like minutes, minutes like hours, as she waited for silence. Eventually, after a long while, the gunfire became more sporadic and then stopped completely. She was now not sure what was worse, hearing shots or hearing nothing. She stood, thankful that she no longer wobbled like jelly. The remaining cavalry were still on the road in front of her. They had spread out like a fan, protecting the infantry whilst still watching the hill.

Finally, a horseman shouted, “They’re back!” The Confederate yell rang out. Mercy wondered at the strange sound. She had heard it often by enthusiastic soldiers and civilians alike. It seemed to be quite the rage.

She ran onto the road and felt her heart fill up with pure joy. At the front of the line, Jacob and Thor looked magnificently noble and proud. Both horse and rider held their heads high, and as they cantered towards her, she felt tears of happiness well up her eyes. There were horses and men behind Jacob. She couldn’t possibly count them all, but it looked as though all that she saw were unscathed. She waited for the riders to reach the column, longing for the comfort of Jacob’s loving arms and the feel of his mouth on hers. He might be mad at her, she thought, but she didn’t care if he gave her a telling off. She had witnessed him in action, and she had never been so terrified of losing him.

Chapter Fifty-One

Jacob finally found a moment to go to Mercy. He was desperate to speak to her and to hold her, but until now, there had been no time for a proper reunion. He watched her for a moment and thirstily drank in the sight of her. He had not realised how much he had missed her until earlier, when he’d first seen her sitting on that horse, panting for breath and fearing for her life.

A body was consumed with the everyday drudgery of war, he realised. Only in rare moments of solitude did sweet thoughts of home and loved ones surge in the mind like crashing waves. These moments were beautiful reminders of what he was fighting for, but they also brought with them a melancholy which clung to a body, making the grind of war even more unbearable.

The death of his men today had hit him hard. There had been moments when climbing that hill, charging on the Yankees’ position, that he had expected a bullet to hit him. He was still shaking with the fear that had gripped him on that hill, blinded by smoke and deafened by the noise of firing guns.

Mercy sensed Jacob’s presence and turned to face him. She stared, not daring to smile or to speak. He was either going to be very angry with her or very happy to see her, she thought. Still, he said nothing. He was staring at her as though it were the first time he had ever seen her. She had caused no end of bother today. She had been responsible for the death of good men – Jacob’s men –and she felt wretched.

Jacob searched Mercy’s face, wondering how to handle this situation. Should he be angry with her for almost getting killed yet again? Or should he comfort her because she had just gone through a deeply horrific experience in which no woman should have to be involved? He decided to lead with a bit of both. He extended his arm, and she took his hand. He pulled her to his chest, kissed the top of her head, and then held her in silence.

She raised her face and looked into his eyes, bright with remnants of fear still evident. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about your men,” she said.

“Thank you – I am too.”

“Don’t be angry, my love. I have a very good reason for being here,” she told him.

Jacob raised an eyebrow. He was mighty curious as to what that reason could be. He wanted to kiss her into submission and hear her most sincere promise not to put herself in danger again. But he had come to realise awhile back that Mercy Carver did not take kindly to orders, nor would she ever listen to a damn thing he said. “Love, Mercy, makes fools of us all, but I don’t believe you are here because of your high regard for me, and I cannot imagine what other reason would be so important to induce you out here alone, on a horse, in the middle of a damn war zone – so enlighten me,” he said.

“Right now?”

“Yep, right now,” he told her.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t talk about my problems right now – not after what I’ve just seen and heard. I would rather you tell me what those Yankees had to say. I saw more than the five that you brought back. I’m sure I did. What happened to the others?”

“Damn it, Mercy, can you not give me a straight answer to a straight question for once?”

“I will, but I can’t think about anything else right now. I feel like a fool for being here, and your men must hate me for getting them shot at. Those poor men of yours – oh God, they would still be alive if it weren’t for me.”

“Hush. War killed them, not you, so get that out of your pretty little head right now. Warning us about those Yankees was a very brave thing to do, and you have the grateful thanks of the Confederacy for doing the right thing. But I want to know why you are here and how you managed to persuade Mrs Bartlett to let you leave Richmond. Oh, my love, why are you so hell-bent on getting yourself killed? Am I to have no peace of mind?”

“Jacob, will you stop telling me off! Do you know how hard it was to find you?” Mercy said angrily. “I didn’t come all this way to get killed or to be scolded like a child. I’ve been searching everywhere for you. You made me promise not to leave Richmond without telling you where I was going. Well, here I am, telling you that I’m going to Norfolk to find Belle and Dolly because the bloody Yankees are there and have probably thrown them out of their homes. And I’m going to visit your plantation to make sure it’s still yours – what’s so wrong with that?

“I can’t sit still in Richmond any longer. I’m sick of wearing corsets and gowns and painting my lips to please Mrs Bartlett and her husband. I don’t like living in a city surrounded by people who are talking about the war whilst carrying on with parties and silly gossip as though war doesn’t exist. I swear to God, I have more chance of dying of boredom than I have at the tip of a bullet!”

Jacob was unable to stop the laughter from bubbling up inside him. Her language was coarse at times, and she would never be a Southern lady, he thought, but she was the most amusing, infuriating, stubborn, and reckless female he’d ever encountered, and he wouldn’t have her any other way. “Well, you’ve made your feelings known, so how about you listen to mine – can you do that?”

“Yes, I think I can …”

“Captain Stone, sir, the major wants you. He ain’t gettin’ nothing out of them Yankees,” Tybrook said, appearing next to him.

Jacob nodded and turned back to Mercy. “Ma’am, I have not finished with you,” he told her playfully. “Tybrook, it’ll be dark soon. I want to get a few more miles down that road before we make camp. Tell the men to get ready.”

“Sergeant Tybrook, will you tell me what happened on the hill?” Mercy asked.

Jacob smiled and shook his head. “Tell her what she wants to know,” Jacob told Tybrook. “She’s like a dog with a cow’s carcass. She won’t give up till she’s satisfied. Is your wife as stubborn as this lady right here?”

“Sir, I reckon all women are born obstinate and there ain’t nothin’ we men can do about that.”

Mercy stretched her legs out on the ground and rested her back against the tree trunk she had found earlier. She watched the five Union soldiers being interrogated by Jacob and an infantry major and thought about what had happened earlier. She had not seen the Union prisoners at first. She had seen Jacob returning safely, his cavalry behind him, leading the enemy’s horses, and behind them the bodies of two dead cavalrymen draped over their horses’ backs. A few minutes later, five Yankee prisoners, flanked by four Confederate horsemen brandishing rifles, had been marched up the road. This had caused quite a stir amongst the cavalrymen, reeling from the death of their comrades.

She had stumbled away from the scene, unable to watch the bodies of the dead men being laid gently on the ground and the Union soldiers being forced onto their knees, spat at, and insulted. She had not the stomach to watch the hatred emblazoned in Confederate eyes or the look of despair on the faces of the Union soldiers.

She looked at the prisoners now. They sat on the ground, legs crossed and arms tied behind their backs. They looked pitiful, with their heads hanging in defeat. They were dirty and looked as though they had not eaten in days. One of them had been injured. A bandage was wrapped around his head and was stained with blood, still wet in patches. She had done this to these poor men, she thought. Her actions had mapped out their fate. She had halted their plans and had changed their futures with one act.

She closed her eyes and laid her head against the ragged splinters of the tree trunk. She took her hat and placed it behind her head. What she wouldn’t do for a soft bed right now, she thought.

Immeasurable guilt and sadness struck her. Sergeant Tybrook had told her earlier that they had seen nine Yankees. By the time they reached the top of the hill, the Union soldiers were already fleeing for their lives. Tybrook had chased the Yankees, shooting at them the entire time. Jacob and his men had circled around them and had cut off their escape. The Yankees fired, bolting for the cover of trees. Four of them were killed in the ensuing gunfight, hence the reason she had only seen five in the camp.

Tybrook also told her that he didn’t think any Yankees had gotten away. Mercy couldn’t stop wondering now why they had not fled the moment they had seen her make a dash down the hill. She was also mystified as to their reasons for not shooting her.

“On your feet, men! We march!”

Mercy’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the booming voice belonging to an infantry sergeant. She had dozed off. It was strange how the body could block out noise and sleep in the most uncomfortable positions, she thought. She had become very good at finding rest when and where she could. Even her lumpy old mattress in the Elephant and Castle had been more luxurious compared with some of the hard ground she had slept on in Virginia. She picked herself up and swiped the dirt off her breeches. Onwards, she thought, onwards with Jacob.

Chapter Fifty-Two

An encampment had been set up five miles from where Mercy had encountered Jacob and the Yankees. A few tents sat in a muddy field, which had at one time flourished with wheat. The recent rains had turned the soil into a watery brown slime, but the mud was also so thick in places that the wagons had to be pulled and pushed by men from behind to stop the wheels from getting bogged down.

Mercy had heard the talk of invasion abound in Richmond. There, the Yankee army had been likened to a striding giant with pounding boots shaking Virginia’s hallowed ground and devouring the miles between Alexandria and Yorktown. She wondered what Richmond’s population would think if they found out that nine Yankee soldiers had been but fifteen miles outside the capital.

Darkness had fallen, and there was an atmosphere of good-natured banter amongst the tired men. Throughout the evening, many approached Mercy to thank her for her service to the Confederacy. Much obliged, ma’am, she had heard all night.

The smell of coffee sifted into the air. Cooking pots had been fired up for a dinner of rice and beans. Some soldiers were singing a Confederate song, and they were accompanied by a harmonica and flute. Mercy listened to the impassioned voices, spreading in number throughout the camp.

Virginia, land of blazin’ sunsets over rivers flowin’.

Cotton fields like clouds of glory, sweepin’ ’cross the land.

Virginia, Virginia, my life is in your keepin’.

Hush now, li’l child, and don’t you go a weepin’.

Virginia, Virginia, the battle drum will roll.

Virginia, Virginia, I’ll die to save your soul ….

Jacob and Mercy sat within a clump of trees, gulping down some hot coffee and sharing a comfortable silence. Mercy braced herself for Jacob’s attack. It would come any minute, she thought. She had already determined that he would forbid her to go to Norfolk, but she was also firm in her resolve to disobey him. “Jacob, what a beautiful song,” she said. “Who wrote it?”

“Interesting question … and one I cannot answer, “Jacob told her. “I reckon we just needed a song of our own. I first heard it in Yorktown. The men seemed quite taken by it, and if they are happy to sing it, I’m all for it. God knows they don’t have a lot of pleasures in their lives.”

Finishing his coffee, Jacob looked closely at Mercy, ready now to speak his mind. “My love, will you pay me heed if I ask you not to go to Norfolk? There are a lot of reasons why you shouldn’t go there,” he said tentatively.

“I can’t think of a single one,” Mercy answered defiantly.

“Then why don’t we start with the one where you stole a Yankee horse and ran away from the fort? Have you thought that maybe, just maybe, you will be recognised by a Union soldier who might not take kindly to your being a horse thief? Your face is not easily forgotten.”

“Jacob, stop. What do you want me to do – live my life being afraid and watch my wits dull in Richmond? I spent the first eighteen years of my life being told not to go out, not to explore, and not to make friends, and I will never again become the sad, frustrated, bitter girl I once was. I love you with my whole heart, but not even you can dissuade me from doing what I must. You understand me better than anyone else in the world, so you should know that I won’t be trapped by your Southern traditions and live a meaningless life sipping mint juleps whilst embroidering napkins!

“Belle is asking for me. She needs me, and I will not disappoint her. You should be glad I’m taking up this cause. Anyway, why should you have the right to choose my life for me? You left your home, your slaves, and me to enlist in this bloody war. You have a wife because you decided you should marry her – and look at what a big fat mess that turned out to be. I am not your wife, and I’m not beholden to social rules made by men. Gawd’s truth, I would rather be shot tomorrow than watch my life unfold with nothing but trivial pursuits!”

Jacob sighed with frustration. He deserved that rebuke, yet his gut told him she was putting herself in danger. He’d been trying to figure out what it really was that scared him the most. Was it her thinking she was invincible and didn’t need to pay no mind to men who knew best or the thought of Isaac being in Norfolk? It was only a stone’s throw from Hampton, and there was every chance that Isaac had crossed the James. The thought of Mercy seeing him and spending time with him was a damn nightmare.

He had noticed pity in her eyes earlier, when she’d watched the Yankees being interrogated. He’d sensed her sympathy for the Union cause, even though she had been the one to alert him and his men about the Yankees. Damn it, she still puzzled him. He needed to give her something – some news which would make her change her mind about going to Norfolk. Drastic measures were needed, he decided, for he sure as hell wasn’t going to lose what little sleep he got every night, worrying about her shenanigans.

“You’re the most obstinate woman I have ever known, but I reckon your stubborn heart just might have saved some lives today. I found out that those Yankees were planning to cut the telegraph lines that we had just finished erecting up the road. Had you not warned us, our army might have been cut off from the command stations – leads me to believe you’re living a worthwhile life already.”

“I’m glad I could be of service,” Mercy said.

Jacob sighed again. She was still all riled up. “My love, what if I told you that the government is bringing in a law that will see me going home? Would this change your mind about Norfolk? They’re going to exempt plantation owners from the army and allow them to tend to their land. It’s not a rumour. The bill will be passed.”

Mercy’s eyes brightened with a rush of happiness. “Are you speaking the truth?”

“I am,” he said.

“Oh, Jacob, this is wonderful news. When will you go home?”

“As soon as I get my discharge papers. I figure this bill will become legislation in September or October, but they might let me go before that. Seems the government sees things the same way I do. There ain’t no use fighting a war if what you’re fighting for gets destroyed while you’re on the battlefield. This war might continue for some time, but it will end eventually, and when it’s over, the South will want to rebuild as fast as it can.

“I want you to be by my side. You make me do things I never thought I’d do for any woman. You torment me at times, but the truth is, I cannot imagine my life without you. I don’t want to lose you. Hell, I don’t want you out of my sight for a single day. I want you to come with me to Stone Plantation and live there, as you should have done from the beginning. We will have to do this at some point, so it may as well be now. I’ve seen men die and their hopes and dreams die with them. I want to wake up with you every morning and watch you sleep with your soft little hand on your cheek every night. We’ve been punished enough.”

Mercy was giddy with happiness. Was it possible? she wondered. Was fate finally being kind to them? “I always hoped for this, but I never imagined it would happen so soon. I suddenly feel as though everything will be all right. Living with you will be my biggest and best adventure.” A disturbing thought then struck Mercy. “But, Jacob, what if the Yankees have already taken Stone Plantation?”

“Word is the Union left it pretty much alone after ransacking it. They didn’t burn it to the ground. Sheriff Manning has been there recently. I got his letter only four days ago, saying that every brick is still in place and that Handel is too. My house is far from Portsmouth and even farther from Norfolk. It leads nowhere but into the swamp and forest. I doubt the Yankees will have a use for it or care about lookin’ after the slaves still living there.”

“What about your cavalry? Will you really leave it to fight on without you?”

“I will. I don’t want to back out of battle or desert my men, but the South has a powerful need for food, and I aim to supply its army. I figure I’ll be more useful feeding the men than leading them.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this before now,” Mercy said. “This is the best news you could have given me.”

“I didn’t have the chance to talk to you earlier or to kiss you properly, and to be honest, that’s the only thing I want to do right now. I want to hold you in my arms and love you. Will you let me love you tonight? Can we forget about the war till morning?”

Mercy nodded and smiled. “I can forget every bad thing that’s ever happened when I’m with you. When you hold me, there’s only light and love. Hold me tight tonight and sleep easy, for I give you my word that I will return to Richmond to wait for you.”

Jacob sighed with relief and pleasure. In three short months, they would begin a life together. The war would probably rage on, but he and Mercy were finally beating all the odds that had been stacked against them. When the three months were over, he would not let her go again, not for a single day or night.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Isaac and Belle ate lunch on the hospital grounds, beneath the leafy branches of an oak tree and hidden from the disapproving stares of Southerners. Isaac had tracked Belle down to her town house a couple of weeks previously, ignoring his gut feeling that she would turn him away just as Dolly had. He’d been pleasantly surprised by her welcome and even more delighted that their friendship had flourished. He had been wrong even to think that Belle would shun him, he’d thought after their first meeting.

Belle was not a typical Southern lady, feigning vulnerabilities and weakness of spirit. She had grown up spoilt and adored by a mammy and an overindulgent father, but she was made of sturdy stock, much like Southern women who did not have privileged upbringings. She was a woman of the world, often shirking convention and opinion for a life of her choosing.

The conversation today had turned away from talk of war to subjects of a more personal nature. Belle was deeply concerned about Hendry, but she was also optimistic in her belief that he and the Carrabelle had broken through the Union blockade. No ship with the Carrabelle’s description had been reported sunk, and the sinking of a Confederate Merchant ship was an event the Yankees just loved to brag about.

“Where do you think the Carrabelle might be?” she asked Isaac.

“I’m hoping she’s in Liverpool, and I pray she stays there. I know you miss him, Belle, and I can only imagine how hard this must be for you, but I think it best that he stays put in England. You tell him I said so in your next letter to him. I’m sure you’ll get one across to England somehow – I wish I could post it for you.”

“Why, thank you, Isaac, but I couldn’t possibly allow you to do that for me. I’ll keep trying; that’s all I can do.”

Isaac smiled, but he thought that there was a slim chance of Belle being successful in contacting Hendry. “What about Jacob? Have you heard from him?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I have, actually. He wrote me only last week to tell me that Elizabeth’s sentence is being appealed. I think he believes that his only chance for a divorce is if she is free. I think  Jacob would give her every penny he has for her signature on that last legal document. Of course, he pities her, as I do. It’s a dreadful situation, and not one I would wish on my worst enemy. I hear that Mrs Coulter is ill with worry. She’s convinced her daughter will die in that rat-infested prison.”

“I won’t lie –I can’t abide Elizabeth, but she did us all a favour when she killed Madame du Pont. Seems unfair that she should be punished for killing that damn whore of a woman.”

“I agree, but if we all killed folks we detested and got away with it, we’d be turning the South into a horde of savages.”

“We’re doin’ plenty of killin’ now. Maybe we’ve all become savages,” Isaac said sadly.

“Let’s not talk about the war. It’s such a glorious day. Isaac, Jacob also wrote that there is a chance he will be coming home to Stone Plantation. I shouldn’t be telling you this, with you being the enemy and all, but I thought you should know.”

Isaac cut into a loaf of bread. As always, his expression was sad and deeply pensive. “Hush now. You know me better than that. I won’t risk losing your friendship; it’s too   important, and so are our private conversations.”

Belle sighed, “I do wish you could be here when Jacob returns. You were such good friends until …”

“Mercy – until Mercy came into our lives.”

“Yes.”

“What news of her?” Isaac asked.

“Do you really want to know?”

“I do.”

“Well, she’s still in Richmond. She was with Jacob some weeks ago at his encampment. I declare, Isaac, she will give me a heart attack one of these days. She’s hopeless. Why, there’s more chance of corralling a herd of wild stallions than getting Mercy to stay put.”

“Is she returning to Norfolk?” Isaac asked.

“Yes, she’s coming home with Jacob. They have decided to live together. I’m sorry, Isaac. I know this is not what you want to hear.”

Isaac shrugged off the heavy weight of unrequited love. “I reckon I shouldn’t be surprised. I suppose it was only a matter of time, but damn it, it’s not right. She deserves marriage and children – not this.”

“We are all prisoners of love.”

“I know that – God knows I do. She loves him so much that she lied to me. She gave me hope where there should have been none, yet even now I adore her.”

“I’m so sorry, truly I am.”

“Me too. I go to sleep every night emptying my heart of her, but in the morning, she’s back, filling it again. I’m a doctor, but there’s no medicine to cure what ails me and no end to this hell in sight.”

“Isaac dear, time will heal your heart – you might not believe it, but it will.”

“I hope you’re right, Belle, but it seems unlikely …”

Norfolk harbour and the Elizabeth River bustled with Union soldiers. Martial law had come into effect, much to the chagrin of the Southern population. There was no way in or out of Portsmouth and Norfolk nowadays without going through checkpoints, put in place in an attempt to strangle the flow of weapons and any commodities that might aid the Confederacy.

The mundane daily searches of wagons and carriages had caused numerous underground movements to spring up in Norfolk and Portsmouth. Contraband was hidden in the basements of private homes by loyal Confederates intent on supplying medicines, victuals, and weapons to rebel army units and militias hiding in the area. Items were smuggled out of the city through a variety of well-thought-out routes by people willing to take risks. Many were caught, but nothing seemed to deter the rebels from seeking new and even more inventive ways to get supplies to their army.

Isaac waited at the dockside until Belle was safely aboard the ferry. He waved to her just as it pulled away, floating slowly in the calm glassy water. He smiled with the aftermath of pleasure and walked his horse to the road beyond the harbour checkpoint. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun slanted through the trees, brightening the leaves and making them shimmer with light.

The street was quiet bar soldiers walking to and from the harbour and a few Union supply wagons being pulled by jaded horses. The atmosphere in Norfolk had become dreary. Isaac recalled these streets, once full of life, with great fondness. He’d visited just about every restaurant, saloon, and music hall filled to the brim with sailors, tradesmen, and businessmen, and he had often woken up the next morning to a thumping headache caused by too many libations. Those were good days.

He continued to maintain a slow pace, with no real desire to return to the hospital. A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he thought about his afternoon with Belle. He enjoyed his meetings with her. Their conversations reignited memories of a happier period in his life and caused him, for just a little while, to forget the war, hatred, and bigotry that went with it. These pleasurable outings were the best part of his week, and he was resolved not to give them up. The news of Jacob’s impending return to Stone Plantation with Mercy had affected Isaac more than he’d let on to Belle. Jacob might have something to say about this friendship, Isaac thought, but Jacob could go to hell.

The noise of gunfire snapped in the air, sending Isaac’s horse into a panic. As it reared and whinnied, he felt a sharp burning sensation shooting through his leg, as though all the blood in his veins had rushed to that one spot just above his knee. He screamed in agony, clinging to the horse’s mane as it sped off down the street. His head spun with the shock of being shot and the searing pain that worsened with every movement his body was forced to make to stop from falling off the horse’s back. His ears were ringing, but despite the chaos in his mind and flashes of light affecting his vision, he still managed to hear his own voice scream the word no …

His feet came loose from the stirrups, making his body bounce awkwardly in the saddle. He tried to draw the reins, sawing at the horse’s mouth, but his strength and senses were dulled, so much so that even the pain in his leg had receded into a cold numbness. He lifted his heavy stupefied head to see misty outlines of trees and houses just before he slid off the lathered horse and hit the ground with a sickening thump. He stared up at the sky and then closed his eyes. He was going to die, he determined, and no one but Belle and Nelson would give a damn.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Isaac lay on the hard wooden floor of an army cart, squirming with pain and trying to speak through chattering lips. Three Union soldiers sat in the back of the cart with him. One was binding Isaac’s wound, whilst the other two trained their eyes and rifles on the street. The cart swayed from side to side, travelling faster than it should on this narrow street leading to the hospital, but speed was of the essence.

Snipers had been active in two areas near the harbour, taking shots at any blue coat that happened to pass the rebel positions. These Confederates marksmen were like ghosts, hiding in the shadows throughout the city at any time of day or night. The Union had been unsuccessful in rooting them out, and their new policy of sweeping civilian houses at random had not achieved anything, bar an ever-growing hatred that spewed from the eyes of the civilian population. Isaac had been unlucky to catch a bullet, but fortunately the sniper had not been a particularly good shot, one of the soldiers commented.

The cart drew up outside the hospital. Isaac moaned loudly as he was carried by two men with fumbling arms, racing through the entrance and down the hallway to the operating rooms.

Inside an empty surgical room, Isaac tried to stop the panic and fear that had risen up quite suddenly at the sight of the wooden table that would probably see him lose his leg. He prayed that the rebel doctors, who shunned him every day, would look kindly on him now and do everything they could to leave him with two limbs. He was sure he could repair the damage without cutting through flesh and bone. If the leg was attached to another man, he would show the doctors all that he had learned at Williamsburg, where speed and nimbleness of hand were requisites for any measure of success, and where limbs could be saved with good surgical skills.

The surgeon arrived. He took a split-second look at Isaac’s leg and then gave him a shot of opium. Isaac had craved the drug all the way here. He would have killed for it or paid any price to get it into his veins on that short agonising journey.

He looked up with glazed eyes, feeling a luxurious floating sensation fill his body and mind. He had to say something quick, he thought, watching the surgeon gather his tools around him. Isaac could hear the man barking orders to a couple of nurses, yet not one of them was paying attention to their patient on the table. He panicked again, but thanks to the opium, he quickly quelled the fright. There was no time for fear right now. He was falling asleep, and he was more concerned with urging the surgeon to save his leg than giving in to the fear of losing it.

“Listen to me. You need to clean out the wound – make sure you get all the fragments out of there. Use use quinine and iodine and bind it well …”

“I’m sorry, son, but it has to come off. There ain’t no saving it – bones are shattered, and there’s a chance marrow will poison your leg as quick as a bird can shit on you. I ain’t got nothing that’ll put this knee back together.”

Isaac had said these very same words to soldiers. They had begged him to leave the limb be, until their begging was all his ears could hear. “I beg you – I’m begging you – don’t take it. Just don’t,” he mumbled. Isaac saw the mask descend. It covered his nose and mouth, and he immediately smelled the chloroform that would drip onto it. God no! he screamed silently.

Nelson sat by Isaac’s bedside, tears brightening his eyes and anger staining his good heart. Isaac’s face was ashen and his head dotted with perspiration. He slept soundly with the remnants of chloroform in his body and enough opium to ease his pain for a good long while. Mr Isaac was a kind and gentle soul, Nelson mused. He never did harm to nobody. Mr Isaac’s war was over. He would go home to Boston when he was better, and ole Nelson would be by his side.

He stared at the white sheet and the shape of the body underneath it. A full left leg, long of bone, was stretched down the length of the mattress. The other, stumped mid thigh, was thick with bandages and propped up slightly atop a pillow. Nelson had seen this sight before, but never had he felt this raging anguish that was ripping his heart to shreds. “Don’t you worry none, Mr Isaac, sir. Ole Nelson here will nurse you like a newborn babe and help you walk again,” he whispered. “There ain’t no shame in havin’ one leg – ain’t no shame at all. You be as good as new soon. That’s a promise I aim to keep.”

He hated the Southern slavers, those damned self-lovin’ men and women that stole a body of its decency and rights. He despised them even more now, after doin’ what they’d just done to Mr Isaac. He even hated Miss Mercy today, for leaving the major to find that Massa Jacob, who was not half the man as the one in this bed right here …

Isaac opened his eyes and was struck instantly by the question of his leg. He sensed a presence and turned his head to see Nelson’s black face, paled and taut with grief. He hadn’t the strength to lift his head to look at the lower part of his body, but his wounded leg was still burning like a poker, and that was a good sign. Maybe he still had it. “Nelson, my leg … Is it there?”

“Hush now, Mr Isaac, you needs to rest awhile.”

“Answer me – my leg?” Isaac insisted. “I need to know – I can’t see the damn thing.”

“They took it off you, Mr Isaac. They took that leg right off you. I was there, right outside. The doctor saved your life. You was struck real hard, like some men we saw in Williamsburg, with them bullets they call, minieballs, crashin’ in and breakin’ everything like a crushed hen’s body. Now, I knows you’s a great doctor, Mr Isaac. You knows it too, but not even you could have done saved that broken ole leg.”

Isaac turned away and closed his eyes, unable to face Nelson’s pitiful eyes brimming with tears. He had his answer. The bastard Reb doctor had taken his leg. He was alive but less of a man. He was a one-legged cripple and would be for the rest of his days. As a doctor, he knew exactly what would happen to him now. It would be life or death, depending on whether marrow had seeped into his bloodstream or not. There was risk of infection and catching some other disease that roamed the hospital. There was the agony of learning to walk again with the aid of a wooden limb. He’d witnessed the pain that hardy fellows went through when trying to come to terms with the cumbersome new prosthetics, made with wood and steel. Jesus, he would rather use crutches than put one of those on. His mind drifted to Mercy. Thank God she had run from him. She had saved herself from a hell of a life with half a man.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Towards the end of June, an eerie quiet descended upon Richmond. The noise of soldiers’ thumping boots on the capital’s streets had subsided into the soft tiptoeing whispers of a population gripped in fear. The dreadful news of battles right on the capital’s doorstep had not been surprising to most, but no one had been fully prepared for the massive Yankee army advancing on the capital.

Reality struck hard. The South was in peril, its people fighting to save its fledgling constitution and their dreams of a prosperous future free of Lincoln’s and Washington’s iron grips. The zest for fundraising balls and parties waned and was replaced by an even greater enthusiasm to build and stock hospitals. The surgeon general’s requests had come through the capital building and into the ears of Richmond’s elite with startling speed, and the rich set out to accommodate his needs with equal pace.

All the wondering about if or when the enemy would advance towards the capital was over. The Yankees had gained ground, sweeping across the countryside like an unstoppable swarm of locusts, just waiting for the right time to devour Virginia’s hallowed soil.

The conversation in the Bartlett household of late had been focussed on the newly erected Chimborazo Military Hospital, a sprawling maze of buildings earmarked to treat wounded Confederate soldiers. Mrs Bartlett, with her usual zeal, was determined to offer the services of the Richmond society ladies, no matter how distasteful the task of nursing might be, she informed the surgeon general upon her arrival at the facility.

Mercy had heard that the hospital was a great achievement, but as she stood staring at the long framed buildings stretching from the edge of a ravine for as far as she could see, she believed the only great thing about it was its sheer size. When the women inspected the interior of the buildings, Mercy noticed that many of the male attendants were walking aimlessly around, paying little or no heed to sick or wounded patients. She was not impressed by what she was seeing, but she defended the attendants to the other women. It was obvious to her that these so-called nurses were, for the most part, Confederate soldiers, injured or sick themselves and now determined not to return to their armies’ front lines.

Mercy watched Mrs Bartlett’s mouth clucking away with her chicks in the far corner of the ward. As she watched the ladies shake their heads, cover their mouths and noses with handkerchiefs, and then leave the ward one by one, she instinctively knew full well that not one of them was planning to give her time to nursing these poor unkempt men lying between dirty sheets and threadbare pillows.

God’s truth, what a mess, Mercy thought, after the women had left her alone in the ward. Brimming chamber pots sat on the floor. Dirty and bloodied rags lay where they had been carelessly dropped, and untidy trolleys were scattered in the aisles. The poor patients were moaning out to attendants, who scurried away like frightened mice, as though afraid to get their hands dirty. If this was the hospital being readied for the fundraisers’ inspection, what would it be like when it was full to capacity, with injured men coming through the doors in droves? Mercy thought. The state of the place was apt to kill men just as soon as cure them. She couldn’t think of a worse place to work, yet she was excited by the idea of doing just that.

She spotted a doctor talking with a patient at the end of a long row of beds. She stared at the sick man between the sheets, and for just a second, she felt her pulse race wildly. At first glance, he had looked remarkably like Jacob, with the same dark beard and unruly coal-coloured hair, but as she walked closer, she decided that the resemblance ended there. Jacob was handsome. He could almost stop her heart just by looking at her. This man’s face was older, gaunt, with sharp uneven features. He was nothing like her Jacob.

Her breathing steadied, but her thoughts were now filled with Jacob and the terrible danger he was in right now on the front lines. She cursed the thought but imagined Jacob here, wounded or sick. Wouldn’t she want him to have the best possible care? Just thinking about him ending up here in a bed ignored, without a comforting word or proper nursing care, was enough to give her the impetus she needed to speak her mind. She was going to start working here right now, and no amount of dissuasion from the women would stop her.

She took a quick look into the hallway and saw that the women were still there talking to the surgeon general and no doubt offering money instead of their hands. It was not money that would improve this place, Mercy thought; it would be hard-working people with a mind to scrub floors and surfaces, boil sheets and pillowcases, and tend to these poor soldiers as best as possible. There was nothing worse than a body lying in a bed and smelling like a sewer, unable to wash itself.

The doctor noticed Mercy standing alone at the doorway. He approached her and smiled. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“Actually, Doctor, I believe I can help you. My name is Mercy Carver. I grew up in London, in a cesspit of filth and disease. I’m no stranger to hard work or sickness, and I’ve seen my share of bloodied men. I would like to offer you my services starting right now. This place needs a good clean, and I believe that’s a job I’m good at.

“I’m sure the other ladies will be more than happy to put their hands in their deep pockets and shovel their money into this hospital, but I don’t think they’re so keen on working here – so this is why you need me.” Mercy took a deep breath and looked at him expectantly.

The doctor smiled and studied Mercy’s determined expression. He took her arm, walked her into the hallway, and then stopped just out of earshot of the other women. “Young ladies shouldn’t have to see the terrible sights in a hospital,” he said, “but even the surgeon general’s begging for help. You will be working hard and seeing things you won’t like. We have a few men down with fever and dysentery, and there will probably be a lot more in the coming days or weeks. Do you want some time to think about your offer?”

“Time? I don’t think there is any time. I’m not an expert in war, but even I’m guessing that you will be overflowing with damaged bodies very soon. I know all about sickness, Doctor, and this is why you can’t turn me away. Our brave soldiers are defending the city. For all we know, the battle has already begun and they are going to turn up here like a rip tide any minute. I have a very strong constitution, and a place like this doesn’t scare me. It just makes me want to make it better.”

Mercy heard Mrs Bartlett’s shrill voice and waved at her impatiently. “Doctor, I have to leave now. So shall I come back this afternoon?” She looked hopefully at him, raising her eyebrow enquiringly. “Well, Doctor?”

“Yes, please come back as soon as you can. I’m much obliged and so are the patients.” He smiled again and gave her a lingering look before walking away. He turned again to face her, clearly having had an afterthought, and said, “Miss Carver, wear an old gown. Whatever you wear, it won’t stay clean for long.”

Mercy walked briskly towards the little crowd of elegantly dressed socialites just exiting the building and issued her apologies when she caught up with them. “Mrs Bartlett, I’m going to start work this afternoon. It looks to me as though they could use some help, and I have submitted my services.” She stared at the faces one by one, and just as she’d thought, not one of them stood with her.

“You cannot work here, my dear. Why, you’ll make yourself sick in no time, and you’ll look as filthy as an old rag doll,” Mrs Bartlett told her. “I’ve never seen such a dire sight. I declare, I’m quite overcome – I can hardly breathe.”

“It is dire, and that’s exactly why we should aid these poor men. All it will take is a good scrub and a few boiled washes to get this place cleaned up. I am working here. My heart’s set on it, and you know me: there’s no talking me out of something I’m set on doing. Do you really mind, Mrs Bartlett?”

Mrs Bartlett was annoyed. A disapproving scowl sat on her narrow lips, pressed so tightly together that they almost disappeared completely. Mercy stood her ground. She was defying Mrs Bartlett in front of the women, but she couldn’t care less. She was bloody angry with the lot of them. They had skulked around this place, unable to abide the coarse smells that had hit their delicate nostrils and unwilling to go within six feet of a patient crying out for help. Then they’d had the cheek to give their seal of approval, when in reality not even the surgeon general cared what these women thought, as long as he got some money off them.

“I did think about nursing, but I decided against the idea,” Mrs Bartlett declared. “I believe it will take a particular type of woman to deal with the sick, perhaps one who is used to poverty and disease herself. I’m sure she would be well used to emptying chamber pots and wiping brows. The ladies and I will raise money for our gallant army, and that is a glorious cause of which we can be very proud. You, Mercy, must do what you feel is best, but if you are going to work here, you must promise me that you will not bring any sickness or awful smells into my house. The last thing the senator needs is to take ill while he’s trying to save the Confederacy. Don’t you agree, ladies?” she asked them. The women nodded, entirely in agreement …

Chapter Fifty-Six

Jacob lay his head down on a makeshift bed on the side of the road, his horse’s bridle held loosely in his hand. His saddle as a pillow, unrolled blanket for a mattress, and his grey coat covering his shoulders seemed particularly comfortable tonight after the past couple of saddle-sore weeks. He was exhausted, body and mind, yet sleep was as evasive as it had been the last fourteen nights.

They had broken camp earlier, somewhere up the road leading to Mechanicsville, just as darkness had fallen, and they had marched within sight of campfires belonging to General Jackson’s command. He stared up at the cloudless sky with a scattering of stars and an almost full moon and thought back to his days in Yorktown, where boredom had crushed his spirit. Those days were long gone, he thought. Lately, there had been no sitting around a campfire wondering why the hell nothing was happening and feeling useless. Ever since the battle of Williamsburg, he and his men had gone on one mission after another, rarely spending more than one night in the same place, and it had felt good.

Jacob also felt optimistic about the way the Army of Northern Virginia was shaping up. General Lee, now in command, had lengthened the Confederate defensive positions around Richmond, deciding in his wisdom that the South was not of a mind to defend the capital in a long-drawn-out siege or war of attrition but instead would attack the Yankees and drive them back to where they had come from.

Jacob already knew what was going to happen in the morning. The Yankees had more than a hundred thousand well supplied men poised on its eastern flank,while his army had tenuous lines along the swampy Chickahominy River. It was going to be a brutal, pivotal action, leaving the battle of Williamsburg looking like a small skirmish in comparison.

He paled just thinking about the day ahead. Dawn was only an hour or so away, but he could already feel the adrenaline pumping and racing through his veins, giving him a burst of energy that he didn’t want until the very moment he needed it. There were no formulas or rules to keeping a body safe and alive in battle, he thought. He could lie here for the next hour and plan how he was going to avoid cannon fire, bullets, or sabres, but the truth in his mind was that God himself, with all-seeing eyes, chose who would live or die.

He shivered and pulled his grey coat around his neck. He had seen the enemy up close not two weeks ago, straddling the Chickahominy’s northern and southern banks. Under General Jeb Stuart’s orders, he and his men had circumnavigated the entire Union army’s position, getting away free and clear without being pursued back to Richmond. It had been a daring four-day ride, but they had managed to get a good look at the enemy’s weaknesses and had reported this vital information on their return.

Jacob smiled with a sweet memory. The Yankees hadn’t seen them riding like night devils, not even when he and his men had burned a couple of Union supply ships while they were right under tens of thousands of Union noses. The Yankees had a massive army poised to take what wasn’t theirs to own, but they were not unbeatable. No, sir, he thought, they could be licked.

He sat up, trying to settle his nerves and relax his tense muscles. If only he could have one damn night without filling his mind with fearsome thoughts of guns, cannons, blood, and death, he thought. He looked at young George lying not five feet away, staring wide-eyed at the night sky. In the moonlight, his face was as white as chalk, and no doubt his mind was filled with imagined horrors. Jacob instinctively knew what the boy was thinking about. There was not a man here who wasn’t thinking the same thing.

“George, get some sleep,” Jacob told him. “It’ll be dawn soon enough.”

“Heck, Captain, I ain’t seeing me having more than a couple of minutes shut-eye at best.  I got the shits. I reckon if a bullet don’t get me tomorrow, the cramps will.”

“Well, keep it in your pants, George, ’cause there ain’t no Yankee going to be waiting for you to wipe your grey behind,” Jacob said.

“I’m lying here thinking about my ma and pa. Gosh darn it, I’d hate to get myself killed, for their sakes. They already lost Elizabeth, and Nathan’s gone to the wind. It would cut them up real bad if anything happened to me. You ever think about dying?”

“Nope, I don’t reckon I do,” Jacob lied. “I think about going home and planting cotton. Dying will mess up all my plans. It ain’t in the cards for me, George, and it ain’t in yours neither.”

“All the same, I got a letter in my pocket for my ma and pa. I wrote it earlier, just in case I don’t make it tomorrow. I’d hate it if they didn’t find where I was buried. Will you keep it for me?”

Jacob sighed, awash with sadness. He had a letter in his pocket too. He had written it to Mercy earlier on a scrap of paper. There was never enough paper to go around, especially earlier today, after the orders had come down the line. He’d watched his men frantically writing to family and friends as though their very lives depended on the hurried words. He had done the same, writing to Mercy, telling her how much he loved her and hoping it wouldn’t be the last time he told her.

The men were taking advantage of an army postal service that delivered mail just about every day to Richmond and its suburbs. Getting letters to Portsmouth wasn’t so easy or quick, but this was one of the reasons he’d wanted Mercy nearby, in the capital. She’d get this letter by midday, and it would set her mind at ease. She was curious and stubborn. From Senator Bartlett, she would already have weeded out all the information she needed regarding his whereabouts. Knowing her, she’d ride out to watch the battle and get a couple of potshots off at the Union army at the same time.

He shifted his thoughts, remembering that George was still waiting for an answer. “George, give your letter to the post wagon. It’ll be here in about an hour.”

“I got one too,” Tybrook said in the darkness. “I can’t sleep neither. I keep thinking about what we have to face in the morning. I heard tell the Yankees have got twice as many men as us.”

“Tybrook, don’t worry about what they have. You just keep thinking about how strong we are. We’ll lick them ’cause they’re on our ground. We’ll do our jobs, and we’ll do them well. No Yankee officer or soldier is going to march into Richmond, and that’s a fact. I reckon we have the stronger army with better men, and when the Yankees see us in a few hours, they’ll be the ones shitting themselves. We’ll be the ones yelling at their backs when they run away.”

Jacob wished he believed completely in what he was saying, but doubt and dread resided in the back of his mind. He wished the battle to begin. He wanted to believe that the fear he felt now would be replaced with passion and courage in the face of the enemy.

“I reckon we should get ourselves some coffee and see to the horses; there ain’t no point lying here any longer with damn ants in our pants. It’s almost time, boys. Wake the men …”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

The sun’s boiling rays beat down on the Confederate force advancing towards Mechanicsville. Their task was to clear the town of Union pickets in order for General Lee’s forces to press ahead to Beaver Dam Creek, at present being held by the Yankees. General Stonewall Jackson, as the men now called him, was in command, and it had been his decision to use the Ninth Cavalry as the force’s vanguard.

Jacob led his long column of horsemen at a painstakingly slow pace behind Jackson’s foot soldiers, who were dragging their lethargic feet as though they had all the time in the world to reach the battlefield and join the fight. They had been marching for a good few hours, and as the midday sun began slanting to the west, Jacob wondered if they would reach their destination in time to reinforce the main Confederate lines or if some quirk of fate would see them sleeping another night on the road, wondering what this battle had looked like at close quarters.

By mid-afternoon, the sound of heavy volleys of small arms and artillery roaring into the air confirmed Jacob’s suspicions that a general advance by the Confederates had been ordered, without Jackson’s men. The horses had grown used to the noise of battle, but for the last mile or so, they had become jumpy and impatient with the languid walking pace of the soldiers.

General Jackson’s intention was to deal with the Union pickets, but he was still of a mind to join the major battle going on around Beaver Dam Creek when he had secured Mechanicsville. Thus he ordered a cavalry scouting party to find out where he could punch a hole in the Union lines and whether it was worthwhile joining the fight at this late hour. Jacob was relieved to be chosen for this reconnaissance duty.

Jacob ordered rifle and sabre checks, took thirty cavalrymen from the column, and rode at a gallop’s pace towards the sound of conflict. He debated whether to take to the open fields that bordered the road or to stream into the dense woods far beyond the column’s left flank. The woods would mean a longer and less comfortable ride, he thought, but they were on a mission to observe the enemy, not engage with it. The trees would also give them good cover and diminish the sound of hooves.

A smoky veil hovering within a thick cluster of trees smelled of recently fired gunpowder. It settled above the undergrowth and licked its way around thick trunks and low-hanging tree limbs. The late afternoon sun slanted diagonally through branches, coating pine needles with a golden hue and turning the smoky air and dust particles into bright floating crystal specs.

The cavalrymen picked their way carefully through the dense undergrowth, mindful  of sharp splintered twigs which could rip a man’s face and arms to shreds. They listened with heightened senses for movement within the wood. It was difficult to tell if they were alone or not, for the batteries and guns beyond the treeline shook the ground beneath them, causing leaves to flutter gently downwards.

Jacob’s nervousness increased as thoughts of Williamsburg surfaced. He tried to squash the flashing images, but when he and his men remounted and climbed a steep embankment, they came flooding back to him. The cannon fire that they’d heard in the wood had abated, but the sound of cracking muskets had swelled. Jacob suspected that when they reached the top of the grassy bank, they would see one hell of a fight still going on right in front of them. He halted the men once again and tentatively looked over the ridge of the hilly bank before moving on.

Below, he saw a Confederate regiment. They held a field, thick with smoke and smouldering fires. Dead and wounded men from both armies lay side by side or partially on top of each other. Medical teams were assessing the living, and doctors were wasting no time in doing what was necessary to keep the injured bodies alive until they could get them to the field hospital.

A long line of Confederate infantrymen took a rear defensive position, with rifles at the ready. Confederate battle flags in the hands of the flag bearers hung limp in the still air. Above the noise of fire, Jacob heard the high-pitched rebel yell and then saw the forward rebel line chasing Union soldiers off the field. The Yankees were outnumbered, but as Jacob watched, he could feel the Confederate determination to kill every blue coat in sight. He thought, That’s exactly what I would do if I were down there. He lifted his hand, gestured his men forward, and sped down the bank into the field below.

“Cap’n, you got to go git them Yankees!” a lieutenant on the field shouted when Jacob’s cavalry approached. “We ran them off, but we don’t know if there’s more of them farther up the road, and I don’t reckon I should commit all my men to the chase till I find out.”

Jacob nodded. There were a couple of hundred men here. They were blind beyond this field. The lieutenant was right. He, Jacob, should look beyond the treeline up ahead before streaming in to God only knew what. “Lieutenant, take your men and injured to the embankment behind you. Keep cover until I get back with my men. I’ll let you know what you’re going into.”

The lieutenant nodded. “Much obliged, sir. We ain’t got no commanding officer. He was killed about an hour ago – blown to bits by cannon fire. I ain’t rightly sure where I’m supposed to be going now. We got cut off from the rest of the regiments. We were waiting for General Jackson to reinforce us, but then our major told us to advance – I figured that that weren’t such a good idea without General Stonewall’s men.”

Jacob gave the man a quick nod, looked once more at the casualties, and then silently cursed General Jackson’s lackadaisical stroll, which should have seen him here hours ago. “Be back soon,” he shouted as he rode off.

He kicked Thor’s flanks and waved his men onwards towards a second belt of woodland. The thirty horses kicked up dust and became hazy outlines as they disappeared into the fog they had produced. They thundered through the Confederate forward lines, swerving past the running men with masterful precision. Jacob screamed at the soldiers on the ground to stop firing and heard their cheering cries: “Go git them!” They swept through a line of trees and came out into another open cornfield beyond them.

The sight of blue coats running for their lives spurred Jacob’s men on to an even greater speed. They had just seen hundreds of dead Confederate comrades in the field behind them, and none of them were of a mind to let any of the Yankees escape. Jacob took the first shot at the retreating backs, signalling to his men to open fire.

The Union soldiers fell one by one as the gap between horses and enemy narrowed, but the Yankees were getting harder to find. Jacob, low-bodied in the saddle, glanced quickly to his left and right, up ahead, and finally behind him. In this field, the opaque corn stalks were taller than the field they had first been in. The Union soldiers were disappearing in front of the cavalry’s eyes.

The flat land stretched far into the distance, the setting sun making it look like a gold and orange blanket stretching towards the western horizon. Jacob’s heart was pounding as they raced deeper into a field that could hide a thousand crouching soldiers. They were putting distance between themselves and any other Confederate troops. They were the hunters, Jacob thought, but they might become the hunted should they ride onwards.

He slowed Thor, raised his gloved hand in the air, and brought the rest of the men and horses to a halt. He did not want to be out in the open like this. For all he knew, the retreating Yankees could be encircling them right at this minute, and he and his men wouldn’t know a damn thing about it. “Men, we’re going back. There’s nothing here to see, and I ain’t taking the chance of getting entangled in a Yankee trap. It’ll be sundown soon, and General Jackson will probably want to bivouac us for the night. There’s no battle for his command today.”

Jacob pivoted Thor around and headed back in the direction of the Confederate regiment. There wouldn’t be another attack until morning, he thought. The sun was sinking rapidly. Visibility was decreasing, and judging from all the casualties he’d seen, both sides would be looking for a respite before they got to killing even more men in the morning.

Young George rode up from the rear to join Jacob at the front of the line. His face was flushed with energy and fervour. He grinned at Jacob and said, “Well, Capt’n, seems we’ve had ourselves a good day out today. I ain’t never felt nothin’ like this. I sure hope they’ve got some food for us when we git back to camp. I’m mighty hungry.”

“I’m sure we’ll have a feast, George. I heard tell Jackson’s men were some of the best looters around. They marched all the way from the Shenandoah Valley, and I’m betting they didn’t do it on an empty belly. Wouldn’t surprise me if they had a whole damn side of cow waiting for us when we get there.”

The cracking sound of a rifle shot echoed in the air for a fraction of a second. Jacob’s head snapped to his left and then back to George. He watched in horror as George’s bloodied face jerked backwards and then forwards again. His eyes were open, but he had a gaping hole on the bridge of his nose, which had detached from its socket and now hung loose and shredded.

Jacob’s face was red with George’s blood. It stuck to his eyelids and covered his lips and beard. His mind was filled with chaotic thoughts as a volley of gunfire struck his men from the front, left, and right sides of the field. “Get to the trees and don’t look back!” he screamed.

They galloped surrounded by a deafening noise that masked the thunder of hooves. Jacob concentrated on his front, but out of the corner of his eyes, he saw his men falling one by one. Horses were struck too and fell like bricks, with riders grimly clinging on to their backs.

Jacob whipped Thor’s neck with the reins. There was nowhere to dismount and take cover. There was nothing but the long open field of corn with stalks as high as a man’s shoulders. He rode on, his mind screaming with prayers. Some of them had to make it, he thought. They only had to get to the trees. Beyond that coppice, the Confederate infantry waited. “C’mon, men!” he screamed.

He felt his shoulder shudder and jerk forwards with the force of a bullet. His arm lost strength, his fingers lost feeling, and his rifle fell out of his hand. He turned to see some of his men also being struck, blood bursting through their grey coats and breeches. He fought the burning pain and tried to lift his arm onto the saddle, but the useless limb swung at his side as though it didn’t even belong to him.

He was still alive, and the trees were only a hundred and fifty yards away. He could still make it. He could get there and live to tell the tale. Another bullet hit him in the back. His eyes stared at the trees behind a veil of thin mist. He felt himself falling to the ground, and when he hit it, it was with a force that took his raspy breath away completely. He lifted his head and caught his last sight of Thor riding on without him. He looked up at the sky and felt no pain, other than that coming from his broken heart …

Chapter Fifty-Eight

The lethargic mood at Chimborazo hospital had transformed overnight into a frantic rush of activity involving every man and woman able and fit enough to ready the hospital for the wounded that were just about to arrive in droves. A great battle had begun in Richmond’s outer suburbs, involving tens of thousands of men, some of whom would be inflicted with terrible injuries caused by heavy weapons, the likes of which had never been seen before. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the war had finally started in earnest and that two colossal armies were at this very moment tearing each other limb from limb like rabid dogs, unwilling to stop until blood ran through Virginia’s rivers, brooks, and streams.

Mercy had deposited Mrs Bartlett at home the previous afternoon and, whilst there, had changed her clothes, packed a bag, and not wasted one second of her time listening to Mrs Bartlett’s protests about Mercy’s decision to ride Coal back to the hospital. Taking a carriage was a bad idea, Mercy had insisted, for it would make the journey twice as long would be far too tedious.

The first ambulances arrived just as the blood-red sun was setting. Mercy watched in horror as men were laid on the ground and left screaming in agony, and in those minutes, she regretted her decision to come back here. She had never seen or could have imagined the scale of carnage and utter despair that met her eyes. She was not equipped to deal with all these dying men. The only dead men she had ever seen were the men she had killed, and she’d hated them!

This was so different from anything she had witnessed in her lifetime. The smell of blood and sulphur, rotting flesh, and wounds that had been cauterised with burning iron assaulted her nostrils and left her gasping for breath. This was a living hell, she thought, and it had only just begun.

As one ambulance after another unloaded their wounded, Mercy turned her attention to the ambulance drivers. Their eyes held disbelief in faces that were the colour of cold white ash. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for them, risking their lives in battlefields filled with smoke from cannon and musket fire. They were just as brave as the soldiers they had pulled from the arms of death, she thought, but they were probably wishing, like her and everyone else here, that this bloody war had never come about in the first place.

Mercy assisted a doctor attending to soldiers outside the building. Men who were not deemed saveable were given opium to ease their suffering and to quieten them as they left the world. Other men with any chance of survival were taken to operating rooms. She kept her mind fixed on her tasks, yet she couldn’t stop the nausea from rising or the need to cry from abating as she watched one man after another die.

She was beset with thoughts of Jacob. His last letter had arrived three days ago. He had been able to correspond with her at least once a week in the past month, but she doubted very much that he would have time or energy to let her know where he was now. She imagined him bloodied and dusty, pleading for help, just like all these poor souls in front of her. She followed every order, completed every chore, but she could not silence a voice in her mind, praying to God that he keep Jacob safe and away from this terrible place. Where was he?

As midnight approached, more help arrived from Richmond. Women and men past fighting age, upon hearing about the mounting casualties, had not hesitated to offer their services. Mercy sighed with relief. She was dead on her feet, looked like a dead cat in a dustbin, and just couldn’t stay on her feet a moment longer. These new nurses could take over, she thought. She needed to sleep, even if it was just for an hour or two.

She left the main building and walked past an ambulance which was just about to leave. She hadn’t managed to speak to any of the drivers before now, but this, she thought, would be the perfect opportunity to ask these men if they knew where the Ninth Cavalry was. The men looked as filthy, bloodied, and worn out as she. The poor souls were staggering on their feet. She caught their attention just as the wagon pulled away. “Stop, stop, please. I know this might be a silly question, but do you know where the Ninth Cavalry is? Did you see them?” she asked.

The taller of the two men took off his cap and looked at her with impatience. “Lady, we had our heads down pickin’ up bodies all night, and come morning, we’ll be picking up some more. We ain’t got no time to wonder where a bunch of horsemen are. If they weren’t on the battlefield where we was at, they could be anywhere from here to the James River.”

Mercy felt the strain in his voice. She was sure she sounded vague and pesky, but there was no harm in asking again, was there? “Will you ask about the Ninth tomorrow? It would mean so much to me.” She quickly wrote Captain Jacob Stone on a scrap of paper which she had used to take wounded soldiers’ names. She rested her hand on the man’s sleeve and looked at him with eyes bright with tears. Lina would be proud of her, she thought, for if charm and vulnerability were needed here to get information, then charm and tears she would display in spades.

“I’m just worried to death. Here I am nursing these poor gallant men and all the time worrying about my beloved – I’m just filling up with misery. Please … I need to know where the cavalry was last seen. Surely someone must know. Won’t you take pity on me?” Mercy sighed with relief when she saw the tall man’s sympathetic nod. She might look like a pathetic woman, she thought, but acting like one occasionally certainly got things done.

“All right, lady, we’ll be back here tomorrow, I reckon, if the good Lord wills it. I’ll ask around, but you gotta know that it ain’t easy keeping up with the cavalry.”

Mercy smiled. “Oh, thank you! Thank you so much. You come find me and I’ll make sure you brave fellows get some coffee and cornbread. Ask for Mercy Carver.”

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Mercy rode under the stable arch at Mrs Bartlett’s house and jumped off her horse without saying a word to the stable boy. She was blinded by tears and fighting to catch her breath between sobs. She had not stopped crying from the minute she’d found out, even though she had willed herself to calm down, to take deep breaths, and to believe that the ambulance men must be mistaken.

She ran inside the house, through the kitchen, and into the hallway. Anna was there, sitting outside the drawing room door. She was humming a tune, and she jumped in fright at the sight of Mercy standing before her with blood on her once-white shirt. “Anna, tell me Mister Bartlett’s awake.”

“He’s awake. Dey in the drawing room,” Anna said.

Mercy noted Anna’s frightened expression, and she looked down at herself. “I look a mess. I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to change … Anna, will you please bring me a cup of tea? I could drink a bucket of the stuff.” She attempted a smile, but she couldn’t control her trembling lips. She pulled up her braces strap and put her hand on the door handle. She thought better of marching in unannounced looking like a ragged London orphan, deciding to knock first and wait for an answer. She hoped to God that Mrs Bartlett was in a sympathetic mood. If anyone could get the senator to do something, she could.

The comfortable sitting room looked peaceful and far away from the reality of war, she thought. Mrs Bartlett had an air of perfect contentment, which sickened Mercy, who was sure she was going die of grief at any moment. “Mrs Bartlett – Senator – please tell me you have not heard that Jacob is missing,” she blurted out, sobbing between words. “I think something terrible has happened to him. There were ambulance men – they told me …” Mercy stopped speaking. Mrs Bartlett was not contented at all, she saw at second glance. She looked miserable. Senator Bartlett wore a worried frown, wrinkling his brow. “Oh God, no, please don’t tell me …”

“Mercy, you look frightful – and that blood!” Mrs Bartlett exclaimed.

“Oh, it’s not mine,” Mercy sobbed. “I apologise to both of you for running in here like this. I know you weren’t expecting me tonight, but I had to come.”

“Hush, child,” Mr Bartlett said. “Tell us exactly what you have heard – and for God’s sake, sit down.”

“But the blood!” his wife’s booming voice rang out.

“That blood belongs to Confederate soldiers, if I’m not mistaken, and I say Mercy should sit.”

Mercy sat, wringing her hands and taking deep throaty breaths. Her pain and grief were choking her words, but she had to make herself sound sensible, for she had so many questions to ask. “An ambulance driver told me tonight that the Ninth Cavalry is with General Jackson.”

“That’s right,” the senator said.

“But he also said that thirty cavalrymen from the Ninth scouted near Beaver Dam Creek yesterday. Some infantry saw them there and sent them to chase down some Yankees. They said that only twelve went back their way.” Mercy couldn’t continue. She looked at the senator and for the first time in her life wanted someone other than Jacob to hold her. “Please, Senator, do you know anything?” She looked then at Mrs Bartlett, whose face told a tale. “You know, don’t you?” Mercy whispered.

Mrs Bartlett shook her head in denial, but Senator Bartlett was more open to the truth as he saw it. “I received dispatches this morning from General Jackson. He sent out a thirty-man scouting party. Thirteen, not twelve, made it back to the encampment. Jacob led the mission – he didn’t return.”

“No! It can’t be true!”

“Mercy, I’m not done. According to the report, they rode right into an ambush. They were outnumbered and cut down by rifle fire coming at them from all sides. They never saw the Yankees coming, and they didn’t have time to defend themselves. They were slaughtered, plain and simple.”

“I can’t – I can’t …”

“You can and you will believe it,” Mrs Bartlett said.

Mercy gave her a hateful look, but Mrs Bartlett was not being cruel, Mercy thought scolding herself for being mean. There was only kindness and sympathy in the eyes that stared back at her. “But Jacob is clever. He would never put himself or his men in danger like that,” she said. She was still determined not to believe that her beloved was gone.

“Mercy, child, there are many men dying in this war, and not one of them thought himself a fool when he took to the battlefield. This is a tragedy – a terrible calamity that took Jacob from you. For our glorious cause, you must be brave and accept what so many families must accept.”

Mercy’s furious intake of breath was highly audible in the now-quiet room. Glorious!  War was not glorious, especially not this one, which had come about because of Southern pride and greed to hold on to what was never rightfully theirs in the first place! God’s truth, was she to hear that word repeatedly every time a man was killed, leaving a wife and children behind, clinging to nothing but the memory of his glorious passing?

“Is he reported dead or missing?” she asked, now in control of her temper.

Senator Bartlett took Mercy’s hand in a rare gesture of affection. She pulled it away, no longer wanting affection from people who had no understanding of the way she thought or of what she believed in. “Please just tell me and be done with it,” she said.

“He was reported dead by his sergeant – but that’s not to say he is dead. Unlike Mrs Bartlett, I believe you should have hope, if it makes you feel better.”

“He might have survived. The ambulance drivers said they had not cleared that field yet,” she responded.

Jacob couldn’t be dead – he couldn’t be! Mercy’s mind screamed. She would know, would feel his passing from the world. Her heart would have stopped beating at the exact same second as his, for their souls were twins, their hearts beat in tandem, and one couldn’t survive without the other!

She was finally getting her thoughts in order after shock and then the strange sensation of cold bewilderment. She couldn’t bear to think about Jacob lying in a field dead and alone, and she didn’t want to hear details that would suggest he was. But she had to know more. “Where exactly did this happen?”

“Why do you want to know that?” Mrs Bartlett asked her. “Oh dear Lord, you’re not going to do anything silly, are you?”

Anna brought some tea. Senator Bartlett picked up a decanter of brandy and offered it to his wife and then to Mercy.

“Yes, I will have a drop, thank you. I feel so cold – I can’t stop shivering,” Mercy said, accepting the brandy. “Please continue, Senator. Please tell me everything you know.”

“There’s not much more I do know. There are seventeen officers and men dead or missing, including Jacob. I have their names. There was chaos yesterday, and I’m surprised to have received the information so quickly. It happened yesterday evening, but you’re right in saying that the army has been unable to get into that field to retrieve the bodies or to help the wounded. You have to understand there were casualties piled high in that area.”

“Did any of Jacob’s men see him fall?” Mercy held her breath for the answer.

“Yes, Jacob did fall. His horse raced back to the encampment behind the others, sadly rider-less.”

Mercy looked at the Bartletts’ faces in turn and concluded that both were convinced Jacob was dead. She just knew that’s what they were thinking. But her instincts told her otherwise. Sometimes a gut feeling was much stronger than reason or knowledge, and every part of her told her that he was alive.

“I’m so sorry, Mercy. He was shot, and he’s probably dead. You have to face it,” Mrs Bartlett said.

“That might well be the case, but I’m going to that place at first light, Yankees or no Yankees. I have to find out the truth. I have to see where he fell with my own eyes.”

“This is madness,” Mr Bartlett said with unusual gruffness. “No woman has any business going near a battlefield. For once, I’m saying no to you, not my wife.”

“I’m going,” Mercy insisted. Being told not to do something in the Bartlett household had become exceedingly boring. If Jacob was dead, she had nothing to live for – better a Yankee’s bullet got her than a life without the man she loved. “Don’t try to stop me,” she said quite calmly. “You see, I don’t have the strength to give up. To admit defeat now, after everything I have done and all that I’ve seen, well, I just can’t. Jacob never gave up on me when I went missing, and I won’t give up on him. Help me – tell me where he fell.”

“And what if you do find him?” Mrs Bartlett snapped.

“Well, if he’s injured, I’ll nurse him back to health, and if he’s dead, I’ll give him the burial he deserves.” Her eyes were now clear and probing as she stared at the senator. “Will you help me, sir, or will you allow me to go, blind and lost?”

“I’ll help you. I won’t tie you down or forbid you to do what your heart is set on doing – I will help you, my dear,” he answered.

Chapter Sixty

The household slept bar Anna, who had risen early, insisting that Mercy drink coffee before she left the house. Mercy washed quickly. Her clothes, including hat and gloves, were laid out, as were her gun and holster. She was also armed with a map of the Richmond area, just a stone’s throw from where a battle had taken the lives of thousands near Beaver Dam Creek.

Senator Bartlett had assured Mercy that the fighting was over, but he had also warned her that her safety in such a place could not be guaranteed. It was a redundant statement as far as Mercy was concerned, for stray Yankees could be just about anywhere in the Richmond suburbs these days.

Mercy felt an icy coldness sweep over her entire body, as though miserable ghostly hands were clawing at her. It was late June, and the air was warm and balmy. The heavens were full of pink ribbons rippling through a deep blue sky tinged with the golden hue of sunrise. She found it quite beautiful and peaceful to look at, unlike the burnt-out and well-trodden ground she was seeing all around her.

After leaving a wooded area, she came upon a stretch of road, more difficult to ride along than the fields and copses she had just left. This main thoroughfare was well trampled, judging by its dire condition. She had followed the senator’s directions to the letter, and she was convinced that she was now entering what had been the outskirts of the main battlefield only two days ago. The deep brown Virginian soil looked black and morbidly dim. Coal’s hooves dug in deep to find solid ground under the thick black layer of watery dirt, and the early morning silence made her eerie shivers even more pronounced.

Farther along the road, she passed an earthenware dugout, abandoned apart from spent bullets glinting in the dawn’s golden rays and a couple of grey caps left behind. She looked to the left and right of the pathway she was now taking. Fields stretching all the way to the horizon were not yet brightened by the sun. There were no dead or wounded in sight, not one body or red puddle of blood. The rain had soaked the earth, but it had also cleansed all signs of death.

When she reached a dilapidated farmhouse and barns, the first thing she saw were horseless army wagons with their two wooden arms reaching towards the sky and the bottom parts of the wheels buried in mire. Soldiers lying on the ground or sitting against the house’s tumbledown walls lifted their heads at Mercy’s arrival. Their expressions were a mixture of surprise, admiration of her beauty, and in some, outright curiosity.

As she got closer, she noticed that most of these particular soldiers were wounded. There was also a group of Union prisoners sitting inside a split-fenced paddock that was guarded by grey coats. Poor souls, she thought. They should not be blamed or punished for the actions of spiteful politicians. Mercy felt her mood grow ever darker just thinking about the futility of war.

Every man’s uniform was caked in dark brown hardened muck, making it almost impossible to tell the rebels and Yankees apart. Every blackened mud-layered face told the same story of exhaustion, shock, loss, and confusion, as though none of the men could quite believe what had happened.

She asked the first group of soldiers if she could speak to the commanding officer or sergeant, after no one seemed to know anything about the cavalrymen killed in an ambush in a cornfield. An officer eventually came outside. She didn’t ask his name, nor did he seem interested in giving it to her, but he did offer her an answer to her question, albeit a casual one without substance. “These cornfields go on for miles. Your captain may still be lying where he fell. There are many casualties we have not gotten to yet. The Yankees were entrenched around the entire Beaver Dam river area, and parts of our army at the front got hit real hard. We’re still trying to get to some parts where men from both sides were left behind.              “Can you tell me how to get to the battlefields from here?”

“Lady, just follow your nose. There was fightin’ all over this place, but if you don’t find what you’re lookin’ for straight away, you’ll smell it. They’re burning horses up that there road …and doin’ some burials.”

Mercy’s heart was pounding at the mention of horses and, more importantly, burials. What if someone had already laid Jacob to rest in a grave with countless other men, Confederate and Union. How would she ever know unless she got to the place before the burial party started covering the bodies?

“If you want my advice, lady, don’t go,” she heard the soldier say. “Turn your horse around and go back to where you came from. What you’ll see up there will live with your innocent womanly heart forever.”

“Thank you, but my heart can abide whatever tragic scene I find,” she told him pointedly. “What it wouldn’t bear is not finding out what happened to my fiancé.”

She left the man and rode on, eventually reaching a crossroads. She halted there and caught a glimpse of bedraggled Confederates in a flattened cornfield beyond the road. She gasped in horror as she neared the men. She had spent time with Jacob in his encampment. She had seen death and sickening cruelty, but nothing in her life so far could compare to what she was witnessing in this field, where a raging battle had taken place only two days earlier.

A light morning mist still hovered above the ground, like a blanket covering the dead. Grey coat soldiers, staggering with tiredness, were picking through the debris left behind after the battle. Some of the men carried baskets, looking as though they were on a shopping expedition.

She sat on her horse, mesmerised at the terrible scene and panting heavily at the powerful stench of death and burning horseflesh. Rebels were whooping with delight at finding shoes, rifles, canteens, and half-used cartridge boxes, even though dead bodies were still being removed. This field had been partially cleared, Mercy thought, but Union and Confederate dead were still being laid to rest.

“Excuse me, Corporal, might I speak with you for just a minute?” she asked a soldier with two cotton stripes on his sleeves. The soldier stared at her for a second. He was angry, Mercy thought. He was very angry at her presence.

“Lady, where in hell’s fire did you come from?”

“I’ve come from Richmond.”

“Well, it ain’t safe for no woman here, on account of this still bein’ a battle zone,” he told her. “I reckon you should turn around right about now – you can’t go no farther. What’s a little lady like you doin’ here, anyhow, dressed like a man and carrying a Colt. You wanna git yourself shot and killed by a damn Yankee?”

“No, I don’t want to get shot or killed.” Mercy’s lips pouted with annoyance. She didn’t like this man’s tone of voice at all. “What I want is for everyone I meet to stop telling me to turn around when my only intention is to move forward and finish what I started. May I please ask my question now?”

“I reckon.” The corporal took off his cap and scratched his balding head.

Mercy realised that her nervous, antagonistic state was not going to get her anywhere. She dismounted and stood a foot from the soldier. A memory surfaced of Lina sitting on a wagon’s driver’s seat, urging her to use charm. “Charm is the most potent power a woman has, alongside womanly tears,” Mercy recalled Lina saying. “There ain’t nothin’ a man loves more than to puff out his manly chest in front of a vulnerable woman.”

“I’m sorry, Corporal. I’m ashamed of myself for talking to you like that – I really am. You must be exhausted after all that fighting. You and you men are so brave, and I’m just overcome with gratitude. She took her handkerchief from her breeches pocket and dabbed her eyes. “I prayed for every single one of you. I can’t stop praying.”

“We’re just doin’ our duty, ma’am.”

“Oh, I know that. It’s so comforting to know that you and your comrades are defending us poor civilians, but you see I’ve come all this way to find out what’s happened to my fiancé. He was with the Ninth Cavalry Regiment. Captain Jacob Stone’s his name. He and his men were in this very field – or maybe the one over there. I’m not sure. Do you know anything about them? Did you hear anything about the Ninth?”

“I weren’t here, so I don’t rightly know what to tell you. I don’t know much about what went on, except there was a lot of fightin’ and dyin’. That squad over there, sitting by the trees – they might know somethin’. They’ve been here for a couple of days. Lost their regiment, by all accounts.”

Mercy’s eyes followed the soldier’s pointed finger and smiled. “Thank you so much, corporal. You’ve been very kind.”

“Take my advice and go back to the capital!” he shouted after her.

She reached the squad and asked the same question about Jacob, expecting much the same answer. Her heart missed a beat, however, when a sergeant nodded that he had seen the Ninth.

“Yep, I recall them coming here, late for the fight but not too late to chase them Yankees to the other side of them far-off trees. We heard rifle shots in the distance, but we didn’t have no horses and them trees are almost a mile from here. Next thing we knew, them cavalry boys came gallopin’ back here like the devil was chasin’ their horses’ tails. Some of them men were cut up real bad.”

“Did you see a Captain Stone?”

“Nope.”

“Did you go into the field afterwards?” Mercy found herself once again trembling, choking back wretched sobs and imagining the scene, as though she too had been there. The soldier looked at her quizzically.

“I don’t know no Cap’n Stone, ma’am, and we didn’t get the chance to look and see what had happened. The cavalry boys that made it out said the field was crawling with Yankees, and they was riding back to General Jackson. Then them Union soldiers came back in here counter-attacking, with four times the number we’d chased off earlier. We lost many good men. The Yankees held the ground in there till early this mornin’ and then upped and left. They all gone now, but we’re scouting the area, just in case there’s some wounded live Yankees with a mind for shootin’ before dyin’.”

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful,” Mercy sniffed. “I’ll just go take a look.”

“My apologies, ma’am, but I can’t be lettin’ you do that. Like I said, it ain’t safe. Anyhow, we got men in there clearing the field. There ain’t no dead cavalrymen fir you to look at. We’re burying bodies in here, and we’re doin’ the same in there.”

Mercy saw Coal’s head jerk up in fright when rough hands grabbed his bridle. She had come so far only to be turned back right at the place she wanted to be. No, she couldn’t put up with that – she wasn’t going to be stopped, not now. “Just a quick look, then I promise I’ll leave,” she pleaded.

“You need to be going back, lady,” the sergeant said with increasing gruffness.

“Why does everyone keep telling me that? I’m going!” Mercy made a feeble attempt at wrangling Coal’s bridle out of the soldier’s hand. The soldier gripped it even tighter. Two more soldiers approached. Mercy was furious, but she remained silent as the soldier repeated the order that she leave immediately.

She was tired, dusty, hungry, and filled with terrible grief at the thought of Jacob lying dead close by, being pecked by birds and eaten by horrible maggots and fleas. She was going, and no man would bloody well stop her!

She drew her Colt and pointed it at the three soldiers in turn. All three men stared at the gun barrel with disbelieving eyes, and they jumped when Mercy spoke in her loudest voice. “I am going to see if the man I love is alive, dead, or missing!” she stated. “I can shoot the eye of a bloody rabbit at twenty yards and not miss its pupil, so don’t test me – and don’t tell me again to leave! And if you want to shoot me in the back when I head for that bleedin’ field, then do it. I really don’t care. I’m so upset and wretched right now that a shot to my heart might be just what I need to put me out of my misery. Please, boys, I’m asking you nicely – let go of my horse and let me get on!”

The sergeant gave Mercy a pitiful look and then shook his head. “Lady, your idea of asking fir somethin’ nicely ain’t my idea of bein’ nice. C’mon now, put the gun back where it belongs. There ain’t no call for this.”

“There’s every call,” Mercy said. “Will you let me go to that field or not?”

“I reckon I won’t, ‘cause like I said, any dead cavalrymen that were there would be buried by now. Any live one would have been taken away and treated. Don’t make us arrest you. C’mon now – git going.”

Mercy felt tears running down her cheeks and decided she was probably the most pathetic sight these men had ever come across. She lowered her gun and re-holstered it. She gave the men an apologetic look and mounted Coal in silence. She had made a fool of herself, had acted like a madwoman, and she was very lucky they hadn’t shot her. “I’m sorry – so very sorry. I wouldn’t have shot anyone,” she whispered. “I’m leaving.”

The soldier she had first spoken to gave her a sympathetic nod. “I figured. Best you not pull that gun out again, though...I have orders, ma’am. No civilians are to get past here, and there ain’t no exceptions. Me and the men are real sorry about your captain. Hell, I hope one day my wife comes lookin’ fir me if I go missin’. Don’t you give up hope, lady. We got plenty of prisoners, and them Union fellas did too. Your captain might be hurt but alive – alive with the Yankees. We been treating the injured prisoners and savin’ more than one life. I reckon the Union doctors won’t leave no man to die, even a grey coat captain.”

Chapter Sixty-One

By the time Mercy had crossed the James River, now controlled by blue coats on its northern and southern banks, it was late afternoon. Thankfully, the long ride and overnight stop in a boarding house were behind her. Her return to Richmond had been brief but long enough to tell Mrs and Senator Bartlett about her search for Jacob and her anger at not being allowed to look for him in the area where he had fallen.

The Bartletts had not received any more word about Jacob either, they had told her, but they’d handed her a letter which had arrived from Belle after she had left the house earlier that morning. For once, they had agreed with her plans to leave Richmond for Norfolk, for they knew her well enough to guess that she would go mad waiting for news of Jacob, and that aiding her friend Belle would at least give her a worthy cause to cling to.

They had also assured her that any news about Jacob would be forwarded to her, should he be found alive. She had thanked them for this kindness, but she had also sensed that they believed Jacob to be dead and buried. Waiting for Jacob to return was still a reality for her, no matter what the Bartletts or anyone else thought. She would continue to think him missing and pray for him, and she would keep her hope burning bright.

The news about Isaac had shaken Mercy to her core, and she had not hesitated to respond to Belle’s request that she go to the hospital and do everything she could to help him. He was gravely ill, and after losing his left leg, he had succumbed to typhoid, which was sweeping through Norfolk and Portsmouth with startling speed.

Belle had been forthright in her opinions, as always, leaving Mercy feeling duty-bound to take care of Isaac until he recovered: Mercy, Isaac has been afflicted with loving you to distraction. He quite simply adores you, and without you in his life, may lose the will to fight his injuries and illness. You must come. I beg you! Please try …

Mercy had seen people young and old die in the Elephant and Castle because of   despondency. She had always believed, even at a young age, that sometimes a person’s soul left the world before its body because it no longer wished to be in it. Having hope, therefore, was at times just as important as medicine, as far as she was concerned.

Mercy stood outside Isaac’s room and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ears. She checked herself, smoothed down her gown, and tried to delay the moment he would see her. Her face was burning. She was embarrassed to face him after her shameful disappearance from the fort. She was scared to walk in there and see his anger and disappointment. But there was no more running away from guilt and no more excuses about war being the reason she had not told him the truth about Jacob. No, today she would have to face him and ask his forgiveness.

He lay in bed, eyes closed, his face white as the sheet that covered him, and beads of perspiration dotted his furrowed forehead. He had never seemed so precious to her, for he had been her rock, her doctor, and her friend in the most tumultuous times, and now she faced the likelihood of losing him forever. Isaac, with his ready smile and clear blue eyes that had always made her feel cherished, was the kindest of people, loving life, hating slavery, and staying loyal to her, even when she had not deserved his devotion. She hated herself. She despised her vanity and selfishness, for she should have told him a long time ago that she could never love him as a woman should love a man. Instead, she had clung to him in her hour of need and had made him think that her heart was open to his affections.

She sat in a chair next to the bed and felt his burning face with the back of her hand. “Oh, my dearest Isaac, what have they done to you? What have I done to you?” she whispered. “I’m here now. I won’t leave you again.”

Isaac opened his eyes. They stared into Mercy’s face until the misty veil that obscured his sight began to fade. His expression held confusion and surprise for just a second, and then he attempted to smile through pale cracked lips. “You’re here. I knew you would come back to me. How I’ve missed you. Kiss me, my darling.”

Mercy sat on the edge of the bed and took Isaac’s limp hand in her own. She lifted it to her mouth and kissed it tenderly. He was delirious. His fever was raging. It was not abating as they had hoped it would, according to the doctors she had met on her arrival. She gave him a dazzling smile and stroked his fingers lovingly whilst trying to hide her sorrow. “Of course I’ve come. Where else would I be? I left Richmond the moment I heard you were unwell. It’s high time I looked after you for a change, don’t you think?”

“You’re really here.” Isaac said again. “My Mercy has come home to me.”

“I have.”

“Darling, you are in danger. I don’t want you getting sick too. I couldn’t abide seeing you ill again.”

“Don’t you worry about me,” she told him. “I’m made of strong stuff, and I am not leaving you until you’re feeling better.” She kissed his cheek. “Isaac, I know you might not think it right now, but you are going to get well. Do you hear me?” She kept her voice light, finding it difficult to swallow. Tears filled her eyes, but she continued to smile through them, hoping that in his dreamlike state, he hadn’t noticed them.

“Sweet Mercy, will you stay with me until it’s over?”

“You listen to me, Isaac Bernstein. I know you’re very sick, but I’ve seen people in a worse state than you getting better. You have to promise me that you’ll fight this, because when I see some improvement in you, I’m going to take you to Stone Plantation, to some good country air, and I’m going to spoil you until you get sick of the sight of me.”

“You’re a welcome sight, sitting here ordering me about and making me smile – but I think I might be dying.”

Mercy pushed damp hair from his eyes and dabbed his face with a lukewarm rag. She scowled mockingly. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that to me. You’ll not be dying of a flaming fever, not after being shot and surviving. You’re going to get well and, eventually, go back to Boston and be the wonderful surgeon that you’ve always been.”

“Will you come with me? Will you be my wife? It’s all I’ve ever wanted …” He blinked a couple of times, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

Mercy’s tears coursed down her cheeks. She wiped them away angrily and left the room. “Please, God, save him,” she whispered in the hallway. “Let this man live and punish me for all my wrongdoings, for I’ll gladly accept your chastisements. Breathe love and life into him so that he may find the happiness that such a good person deserves – please, please …”

She turned her head at the sound of footsteps and saw Nelson standing at the end of the hallway, eyes wide with surprise. His sobbing echoed down the hall. Mercy rushed to meet him, not caring who saw her falling into his arms. “Oh, Nelson, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Will you forgive me? Say you will.”

“Hush now – come with me,” he told her. “Let Mr Isaac sleep awhile.”

Mercy and Nelson walked side by side outside to the grassy lawn. The bright sunlight hurt her eyes after the dim curtained hospital room, where doctors seemed to think the sick should not be subjected to the joy of sunlight.

She wanted to cling to Nelson’s arm for support, but knowing how inappropriate that would be in the public grounds of a Southern hospital, she instead insisted that she sit on a bench to hide her unsteady legs. Nelson looked down into her tear-stained face. He sniffed loudly, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re a sight for my ole eyes, Miss Mercy.”

“And you to mine. I’ve missed you so much.” If only she could hold his hand and let the Southerners know that she didn’t give a hoot about the colour of a body’s skin when affection was needed. “I can’t believe this is happening, not to Isaac,” she said. “He’s a healer. Why would anyone want to shoot him?”

“He a Yankee in a Southern city filled with dem Johnny Rebs feeling all uppity at blue coats bein’ here. He ain’t the only Union man that been shot. They’s shooting at us all the time.”

“I’m so sick of this war, Nelson. I’ve seen such terrible things. Jacob is missing, and everyone thinks he’s dead – I’m so miserable.” She looked at Nelson’s disapproving face. He had a lot to say to her. She could see his condemnation itching to leave his mouth. Well, she would take his telling off, for no matter how much she wanted to shut her ears to his brutal honesty, he would have his say. “Oh, go on, then. Say what’s on your mind and get it over with – but be quick about it. I want to go sit with Isaac, and before I do, I want you to tell me exactly what the doctors are saying about him.”

“I reckon you be here ’cause you think Mr Isaac’s done. You be so mindful of dat Massa Jacob Stone, you done left poor Mr Isaac crying over you. You done left me too without a word or hope of ever seein’ you again, but I ain’t got no time to tell you what you already knows. You need to get Mr Isaac well. You got to try and make him believe – so I ain’t gonna fight wid you – ’cause I’s real glad you here, and I forgive you now anyhow.”

Mercy shielded her eyes with her hand and looked up at Nelson, standing tall but wretched with worry. “Do they really think Mr Isaac is going to die?”

“Them doctors have seen six patients die in the past week. This typhoid spread like the damn cotton worm. But I seen patients survive this. We got one man in time, an’ he left the hospital yesterday. I’s prayin’ real hard fir Mr Isaac, and I’s prayin’ now you ain’t gonna get this sickness too, now that you be here.”

“Don’t you worry about me, Nelson. I don’t intend to get sick. I’ve got far too much to do. When is Miss Belle coming back to the hospital?”

She ain’t comin’ back. She worried about her little ’un getting the typhoid. She gone to Stone Plantation.”

“Is she alone?”

“She wid her Ma and Pa, and she say she ain’t leavin’ till there ain’t no more sick with fever.”

Mercy was thoughtful for a moment. If this sickness was spreading as fast as Nelson thought, it made sense for Belle to take Grace to the country. She had mentioned Stone Plantation to Isaac, but it had been a careless statement and not one she had taken seriously. “I’ll find someone to take a note to Miss Belle. She’ll be worried sick. We can’t let him die, and we won’t, no matter what those doctors are saying. I’ve seen typhoid fever before in London, and the only way I know to fight it is to lower the fever. We will have to sponge Mr Isaac down day and night, and, Nelson, he must drink, even if we have to pour water down his throat when he doesn’t want it.”

Nelson hung his head like a moody child. “Them white folks don’ want ole Nelson to touch, Mr Isaac. They say niggers ain’t got no business treatin’ white men.”

“Well, we’ll just see about that. I can’t stay awake twenty-four hours a day, and I don’t think these doctors have enough time to see to Mr Isaac’s needs. So what do they allow you to do here?”

“I don’ rightly know. Mr Isaac, he done tol’ them doctors I’s his man. I reckon I ain’t got no job no more.”

Mercy frowned. Nelson was in a bad situation, she thought. She would have to keep a close eye on him. The last thing she needed was the Union army sending him off to the front line to fight.

Chapter Sixty-Two

Jacob’s head was throbbing, his ears rang, and pain – sharp and excruciating around his ribcage – was hampering his shallow breathing. He lay still, eyes closed but with eyelids fluttering wildly, a thousand and one thoughts cramming his mind. He was alive, that much he did know, for only the living could feel such agony. He refused to open his eyes. Only when he recalled what had happened to him, and where he’d been wounded, would he face the present and all its consequences.

Cavalrymen he had fought with, ridden with, and come to know like brothers were at a gallop through dust and smoke so thick that he could still taste dry soil and powder in his mouth. All encompassing rifle shots were enveloping them at such speed that there was no time to draw guns or raise rifles to return fire. Young George Coulter, his face blown apart, eyes staring at Jacob in death; men falling; horses dropping to the ground like bricks; and his shoulder and back burning and bloodied by bullets …

He recalled these events, reliving them with both emotional and physical pain. His heart thumped against his chest with anguish, so strong that he felt his lungs were being crushed. He had failed his men – good men – led by him into a trap that had killed them. Before he faced reality, he had to steady and subdue the panic that rushed through him.

He moved his right arm across his body. His fingers felt a bandage wrapped around his belly, from just below his chest to his waist. He moved his hand over the area, prodding it lightly with his fingers. He winced as they reached the left hand side of his body. Jesus, his ribs felt as though someone had taken a hammer to them. The fingers moved towards his left arm. He prayed it was still there. He couldn’t feel it. He prayed, panting with exertion and   terrified of finding out that they had amputated his limb. He caught the edge of a cotton sling and traced it with his shaking hand until he found his arm and hand. Grateful tears slipped down his cheeks. He was still whole – still able to fight and kill the Yankee bastards that had slaughtered his comrades.

He lifted his trembling arm up to his head. That too was bandaged. For a second, he pictured himself falling off Thor’s back and landing with a sickening thud on the ground. Thank God his head pounded because of that fall, not because he’d taken a bullet. He felt a hand, not his own, grab his arm and push it down by his side. Finally, he opened his eyes and stared groggily into the face of a Union soldier.

“Lay still. You’ll be undoin’ all the doc’s good work movin’ about like that,” the soldier said impatiently.

Jacob focused his eyes on the man’s uniform. He was definitely a Yankee, which meant that he, Jacob, was a prisoner of war. He couldn’t remember a damn thing about being captured or lifted from that field – not a thing. “Did any of my men make it here?” he croaked in a whisper. With the Ninth Cavalry, Virginia?”

“I don’t know about that. We got thousands of soldiers here, and we got hundreds of prisoners too. How the hell am I supposed to know who your men are?”

“Is there someone you could ask? I need to know.”

“Yep, well I need to be going home to my family instead of fighting a bunch of traitors, but I reckon that ain’t gonna happen anytime soon. You just lie there until you feel better, and then you can find your Reb friends in one of our nice holdin’ facilities.”

Jacob watched the soldier walk away with an arrogant swagger, and he was left with all his questions unanswered. He shifted his head and cast his eyes around the room, wincing with every movement. The noises that surrounded him became clearer and louder as he became more aware of his surroundings. The smell of chlorine, burning flesh, sulphur, and iodine assaulted his nostrils. Men were moaning loudly, and others were asleep, unconscious, or dead. A dead man lay on an uncovered stretcher two beds from his. Why weren’t the attendants removing the dead bodies? he found himself wondering.

The room was lit by gaslights casting ghostly shadows. His eyes couldn’t focus more than a few feet on each side of him. God only knew where he was or for how long he had been there. He tried to push his body up to get a better look at the faces of the wounded, but he could barely hold his head up, never mind move his strapped-up body.

He couldn’t be the only survivor from the Ninth, could he? Some of his men must have made it out of that field alive. They would have ridden hard, reporting back to General Jackson – Jesus, he would be believed dead. The field was crawling with Yankees, and the bastards had been moving forwards, not back, as the lieutenant in the previous field had thought.

He recalled riding into the first field and seeing hundreds of Confederates chasing the Yankees off. They would have been lured into that cornfield beyond the trees and massacred by a much bigger enemy force, hiding like rats among the corn stalks, had he not stood them down and gone in there himself like a damn fool.

Another memory surfaced. This one was the sight of blue coats streaming out of the field, running past him as he was lying on the ground. There had been a damn tide of them – thousands. They must have held that ground. They had far outnumbered the Confederate force.

An image struck him. Yankees had picked him up and brought him to wherever he was now. They had cleared that field, not Confederates. Jesus, they had saved his life, he thought for the first time since waking up.

Jacob closed his eyes and then snapped them open a second later at the sound of another voice. A doctor, he presumed by the stethoscope, examined him with his eyes, which were kind and red-rimmed with fatigue. “Will I live, Doc?” Jacob asked the man.

“Yep, Captain, you’ll live.”

Jacob’s eyes widened with surprise. The doctor had called him by his rank.

“I saw you when they brought you in and didn’t think you stood a chance in hell. There was letter in your coat pocket. Your name was on the back of the envelope.”

Jacob nodded. His letter to Mercy – the mail wagon never did show up that morning. “Am I listed as captured?”

“You are, but I don’t know how long it takes for the communication to go through. Your folks will know soon enough that you’re still alive. I operated,” the doctor continued. “You were out cold, which was just as well. Had a hell of a job getting that bullet out of your shoulder – collarbone’s broken, but it should mend. You were damn lucky. The other bullet glanced off your ribs, a through and through. You’ll need to stay put, and you’ll hurt like the devil. And as for your head, well, not much I could do for that except stitch it up and wait for you to wake up.”

“Thank you, Doc. You saved my life.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank the Union Army of the Potomac for lifting you up off the ground.”

“Doc, my men … There were thirty of us. I saw some go down, but I don’t know …”

“Son, you best keep that question for someone else. I don’t do the soldiering round here; I just do the mending. If your men were wounded and made it here, they’ll turn up.”

The doctor turned to leave. Jacob was desperate to get more answers. “Where am I?” he called out.

“South of Yorktown, near the James River.”

“What day is it?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions for a prisoner. It’s July first – welcome back to the land of the living, Captain.

Chapter Sixty-Three

Mercy’s fitful sleep had left her with an aching neck and limbs, which alternated between being painful and being numb. She sat in a chair, but her head rested on the edge of the bed, cradled in her arms. Her leg muscles were cramped, being jammed between the chair and the bed, and her feet were bootless. She winced when she lifted her head, massaging the knots in the back of her neck. For two weeks, she had slept, either on the chair or on a blanket on the floor. Tonight the floor would be her preference, for at least she would be able to stretch her legs.

She rubbed her eyes and glanced at Isaac through half-closed eyelids. He looked peaceful this morning, she thought. She rose to stretch her legs, leaving the room for a moment to refill a bowl of water and to wash the sleep from her eyes. Nelson would be here shortly with coffee, she thought gratefully. After she had drunk it, she would tend to Isaac and then go to Dolly’s house for a couple of hours to bathe and eat.

She walked unsteadily down the hallway, still half asleep. Her mind was filled with dreary thoughts. Over the past weeks, she and Nelson had taken shifts, concentrating on keeping the room and Isaac as clean as possible. There were not enough nurses to do these jobs, for more than twenty patients in the hospital had come down with typhoid and all but four were still alive. She could not keep doing this, she thought. Every day she was more exhausted, and every night sleep was more evasive.

If only she could see an improvement in Isaac’s condition. If he could wake up just for a few moments to speak to her, to smile, and tell her he felt a little better, her spirits would be lifted. The epidemic, which had begun on a couple of farms, had spread rapidly and without mercy. Rich and poor alike had been infected. She put her hand to her own forehead, as she did every morning, checking for signs of a fever. She had not been feeling well, but she put her aches and pains down to uncomfortable sleeping habits, not the onset of the disease. She was fine. Her forehead was cool.

Returning to the room, she opened the curtains. It felt to her tired body like the middle of the night, yet sun streamed into the room, blinding her momentarily and making her feel giddy. She went to the basin and soaked a cloth in the cold water before turning her attention to Isaac.

She looked at his face and was puzzled for a second or two. Its grey pallor was tinged with blue. He was not perspiring; his skin was completely dry. She looked at his mouth. Lips were slightly parted. She heard a husky sob leave her mouth. Her hand flew up to stifle it. She tucked her hair behind her ear and then put it to Isaac’s mouth, praying for breathing sounds.

“Please … No no, no, no, he’s not dead!” she said hurriedly in a high-pitched, accelerated voice. She slumped into the chair, covering her face with shaking hands. He was … He was dead. He had taken his last breath whilst she slept. She had not heard his last words, nor had she been awake to comfort him in his last moments. He had died! No, it couldn’t be, she told herself. Isaac couldn’t die, not after fighting so hard to live.

She stumbled from the room blinded by tears and headed down the hallway and into an office where two attendants slept. “Wake up!” she shouted harshly. “Major Bernstein is dead. He’s dead, you hear?”

The attendants staggered down the hallway and into Isaac’s room. Mercy stood in the doorway, holding her hand to her throat, choking on tears, and for the first time in a long time, she had no idea what to do, say, or even think. “He is dead, isn’t he?” she asked stupidly. He’s gone – I don’t know when it happened …”

One of the attendants covered Isaac’s face with a sheet. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” he said. “We best be taking the major now.”

“No, you can’t,” Mercy cried. “Leave him be! I have to find Nelson. He has to come here. He has to say goodbye …”

“Nelson, the nigger?”

“Yes, Nelson the free man. He was the major’s friend, and you’re not taking his body away until Nelson sees him one last time. Please get him.”

“I ain’t goin’ to fetch no nigger,” the attendant said angrily, “and we ain’t leaving the major here. The nigger can come to the morgue if he has a mind to see the body.”

The body – the body – as if Isaac was already forgotten as the person he once was. She slumped again in the chair, rocking her body in a soothing motion. She watched as the men covered Isaac with a sheet and lifted his body like an old sack. She jumped to her feet and followed the men into the hallway. Oh God almighty, if she had a gun, she would shoot the ignorant, disrespectful gits right now, she thought.

Her tears continued to fall, and now she had the added worry of not knowing where Nelson was or when he would get here. She couldn’t let him walk into the room without being warned about Isaac’s death. Isaac, gone forever, never knowing how much she had loved him or how much she regretted hurting him.

Mercy went back to Isaac’s room and wept in private. After a time, she looked up to see Nelson’s tear-stained face staring at the bed as if not believing Isaac was no longer in it. He tried to speak, but not a sound left his lips. He stared at Mercy’s swollen eyes and closed the door. Mercy fell into his arms, and he held her tightly. “Hush now, Miss Mercy. Ole Nelson’s here,” he said as a father would to a child.

“Oh, Nelson, I wasn’t awake when he passed. I fell asleep …”

“Hush now. He’s gone to the good Lord. There ain’t nothin’ to be done. You just take comfort knowin’ he died happy seein’ you here – that’s all he wanted.”

“What are we going to do? What’s going to happen now?” she asked him.

“You got to leave now and git to your Plantation. Ain’t no more you can do here.”

“Nelson, I can’t leave you. You are here because of Isaac. I know these people, and you know them even better than I do. They won’t let you stay here and tend to white people, not now that Isaac’s gone. He protected you. You were his orderly, and you served him, but now you’ll just be a soldier. Oh God, they will send you back to the front line to fight. I know they will.”

“I’s in the army. I’s got to do what they say. But I’s afraid to fight. Lord have mercy, I’s gonna join Mr Isaac real soon – I knows it.”

Nelson cried like a baby. Mercy comforted him as best she could, but in the back of her mind, a plan was forming. She had lost Isaac she was not going to lose Nelson too. She couldn’t, and she wouldn’t. “Nelson, do you want to stay in the army?”

“No!”

“Would you like to come with me to Stone Plantation – do you want to run away?”

“We gonna run away again? Like the last time? The Union ain’t never gonna let a nigger soldier leave the hospital all by himself. I reckon they’ll hang me for sure if I try to run. You knows its gospel true.”

“Well, running has to be better than your being on a battlefield running for your life! I’m not going to let you take a rebel bullet. There’s been enough dying – enough, Nelson! Maybe I’m not thinking straight right now, but I think we could get you out of here, if that’s what you want.”

“I sure would like to go wit’ you.”

“Then you will. We’ll face the future together. Isaac would have wanted this. He would not have wanted to see you going back to the front. Let me sit here awhile and think. We need to get you ready to leave …”

Chapter Sixty-Four

Mercy hailed a carriage that sat in the street adjacent to the hospital. She ordered it inside the hospital gates and told the driver to wait for a few minutes. She ran across the lawn and found Nelson where she had left him, just outside the entrance to the hospital basement, dressed in Isaac’s civilian trousers and shirt. He wore Eddie’s hat and had pulled it down over his eyes. “Thank goodness you made it outside – but you look too far too clean,” Mercy told him. “Spread some dirt on the clothes. We can’t have you looking like a gentleman.”

She asked the driver to take them to the harbour. Nelson sat on the bench seat at the rear of the carriage, clutching Mercy’s carpet bag, head down, afraid to look up, lest a hospital employee recognise him. Once they had left the hospital’s grounds, Mercy sat back and relaxed her tired muscles. Nelson looked just like any other Negro slave, she thought.

Her head was pounding like hammers. She couldn’t get Isaac’s face out of her mind. His death was unbearable, and nothing could have prepared her for the terrible grief that enveloped her. Her mind conjured up images of Jacob, dead and buried, and of Nelson being ordered to fight, when he had not a bad bone in his body and would be incapable of shooting anyone, even to save himself. How could she bear the weight of so many horrible thoughts? All she saw and felt was darkness shrouding her. She could not find one vision of light or happiness.

The harbour was busy. A ferry came alongside after only a few moments, and for the first time today, a glimmer of hope found her. Across the water was Portsmouth and, five miles east of that city, Stone Plantation. Belle was there, and they would comfort each other. Nelson would be safe, although she had no idea how he was going to fit into a community of slaves when he looked like them but was not one of them.

Mercy noticed that Union soldiers on the ferry did not seem interested in her or Nelson, who was trailing behind her. For the first time since her arrival in the bay area, she was able to form an opinion, and it surprised her. Slaves were still openly owned by Southerners and were not being confiscated. Civilian tradesmen and labourers were going about their business, as usual. They were not being imprisoned or shot. Taverns were open, doing a roaring trade from what she had seen, and the harbour boats still crossed at regular intervals, carrying civilians and Union soldiers together, albeit in cold, uncomfortable silence.

Mercy bought a horse and cart from the blacksmith, two streets adjacent from the Portsmouth harbour. Nelson sat on the wooden floor in the back, and every now and then, he asked Mercy if she knew the direction she should be taking. Mercy couldn’t honestly say she was sure about which way she should be going. When she’d driven to Stone Plantation with Belle, a lifetime ago, she had been far too busy looking at trees and thinking about slave stories to remember what route they had taken.

She looked at her hands. They were trembling at the thought of setting foot once more in the house she had left all those months ago, a sick broken-hearted girl, fearful of a life without Jacob and filled with thoughts of revenge against Madame du Pont. In June, she had imagined going back to Jacob’s home, riding Coal beside him and Thor, happy and optimistic. She had pictured a glorious homecoming, not this grief-stricken road.

“Nelson, we have to give you a new name!” she exclaimed. The thought had burst into her mind after thinking about the past and Madame du Pont. “Nelson Stuart is still a wanted fugitive. It will only take one person to find out that you’re at Stone Plantation to bring a bunch of bloodthirsty Southerners down on your head. We have to give you a new name. That’s all there is to it.”

“But I like my name.”

“I like your name too, but Sheriff Manning might come for you if he knows you’re here. I’m going to tell everyone that you are my slave. We both know you’re not a slave, but we’ll have to pretend you are, at least for a little while. I’ll say I brought you from Richmond. You have to agree to this, Nelson. It’s the only way. Pick a name – any name you like.”

“No.”

Mercy stopped the cart and stood up, holding the reins tightly inside her clenched fist. She looked at him with flashing eyes and a stubborn pout to her lips. “I’m fit for nothing, Nelson! I can barely think about anything other than poor Isaac. I’m ready to shoot someone for saying the wrong word to me! God’s truth! For once in your life, can you not agree with me on something?” Sobbing, she sat back down, hands covering face and body swaying.

“Thomas – Thomas, like your father,” Nelson said. “I’s sorry, Miss Mercy. You ain’t got to weep no more.”

“Thank you,” Mercy croaked hoarsely. “Thomas will be fine. Thomas Freeman, just so you remember you’re not a slave.”

“Thomas Freeman,” Nelson repeated. “That sure sounds nice.”

Chapter Sixty-Five

Mercy drove the horse and cart onto the road leading to Stone Plantation, passing barren fields devoid of cotton, tobacco, and slaves. When the house came into view, she noticed lawns covered in sparse clumps of grass, yellowed with the sun and dry weather. Jacob had often spoken to her about his gardens and their spectacular summer rose beds, which graced the land and house with fragrant air, but she neither saw nor smelled flowers on this sad desert-like plain.

The horse and cart threw up the dust which lay on the surface of the hard-crusted dirt road leading to the front entrance of the house. She choked on the dry taste of earth in her mouth, covering it with her hand and sighing with relief when the cart halted at the foot of the porch steps. “We made it, Nelson. Welcome to your new home,” she said, cheered somewhat.

Slaves, appearing from behind tall hedges at the bottom of the garden, walked in a long ragged procession up the driveway towards Mercy and Nelson. Mercy looked at the black faces and smiled at their eagerness to welcome her, but on closer inspection, she noted that they were not a happy bunch. Their faces held lost and forlorn expressions, and her smile froze. Mercy left Nelson with the cart and the hordes of Negros now surrounding it, telling Nelson she would be back momentarily, after she had greeted Belle.

The door to the big house was open. She walked inside and called loudly for Belle. The hallway was covered in a fine film of dust. It was filthy and had an air of abandonment. This was a strange sight, Mercy thought, especially with the mistress of the house being in residence. She looked up the curved staircase and called out again. “Hello, Belle? Are you home? Is anyone here?”

She walked into the drawing room – no one. The dining room, salon, and library were also empty. The house was deserted. There was no evidence at all of Belle and her parents living here. The big house was in a sorry state. Some couches remained, but the Yankees had ransacked most of the furniture. Mercy remembered the fine oak dressers and walnut tables which had graced the rooms. They were gone, leaving only their marked outlines on the bare walls where they had once sat. The walls had also been stripped of paintings and fine carvings, and only a cracked mirror remained, hanging lopsidedly.

Missing too were crystal vases and glasses, rugs from Morocco, and unusual ornaments from France and Spain. The house was a mere shell of its former self, as though the pearl had been snatched from the oyster.

She stood in the hallway with a worried frown. Where had Belle gone? she wondered. Why had she not sent word?

Mercy felt a presence behind her and turned to see a slave standing cap in hand and with an anxious expression on his gaunt face. She smiled at him. He had no idea who she was, she thought, other than a woman who did not appear threatening. “Hello, what’s your name?” she asked him.

“Reginald, ma’am, but the massa call me Reggie.”

“Hello, Reggie. My name is Mercy Carver.”

“You come to call on Mistress Belle?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Mercy, distracted by noise, turned to the entrance. A growing number of slaves had now appeared at the front door. They did not cross the threshold. Instead, they crowded its frame, staring at her with open curiosity. Mercy had never seen such a ragtag bunch of people. They were pitifully skinny, scared, and looked like lost children seeking guidance. “Where is your mistress?” she asked. She wore a worried frown, still staring at the Negros.

“Mistress Belle, she done take Miss Grace to New Orleans, to Massa Hendry,” Reggie told her. “He on his ship, and she say she needs to see him – I don’ rightly know if she’s comin’ back. She done take Handel too, cause she was mighty scared to go alone. She say she need Handel to look after Mr Hendry when she gets to Louisiana. We ain’t got no one tellin’ us what to do. Handel, he done look after us. What we do now? We ain’t got nothin’ to put in our empty bellies.”

Mercy heard her sharp intake of breath. Belle gone, Hendry back in America, and where in God’s name was Louisiana? “Where are Mistress Belle’s mother and father?” she asked him.

“They gone too. They livin’ in Portsmouth.”

Holy mother of God – what was she to do now? She looked at the black faces pleading for help, eyes filled with sadness and confusion. She had to think quickly. She had come to an empty house without the right to be inside it, in the eyes of the law. As soon as Portsmouth folk found out, they’d throw her out on her ear. “Please ask my man, Thomas Freeman, to come inside. Wait outside, Reggie. Get all the slaves to gather round. I’ll be with you shortly – everything is going to be all right,” she added quickly.

Mercy sat Nelson down on the couch in the drawing room. She sat next to him and held his hand. “Nelson, we are alone, and I don’t know how long we’ll be able to stay. But whilst we are here, you must help me to help the slaves. These Negros are not like you. They haven’t seen or done anything bar live and work on this land. Handel was in charge of all these slaves. The poor souls don’t seem to know what to do without him. You know the land. You have worked on a plantation for most of your life, and you know the white man’s world. I can’t do this without you.”

“What you want me to do?”

“You will do what you do best: give orders. You’ve always liked ordering me around, haven’t you? And you can see to the slaves. The poor souls have no one to protect them or to give them guidance. This is what you can do as a free man.

“We have to get his house in order before Mr Jacob comes back. We will plant some vegetables. I don’t know how we’re going to feed all these mouths, but we had better try. I can hunt, but I doubt if I’ll get much more than a few rabbits – and, Nelson, my money is running out. God’s truth, the last thing Mr Jacob will want to see is this chaos – and us starving!”

Nelson’s eyes shone bright with contentment. He had dreaded stepping foot on a white man’s land. On the drive here, he’d recalled his days with Massa Stuart, a period in his life he had tried so hard to forget. Plantations and massas were a thing of the past, he’d thought, and he had sworn never to work the land or serve a white massa or mistress again. But this was different – he was free. Miss Mercy would not treat him like a slave. He would be a bossman. And he knew Miss Mercy. She would work harder than them niggers livin’ here.

“I ain’t afraid of hard work, Miss Mercy. You knows me, and you knows I can help you real good. I reckon we can get these niggers workin’ those fields in no time, and I’ll toil right along beside ’em. I ain’t no slave, but these my kin here, and I aim to give them some hope back – they ain’t gonna have no cause to sit around here all day on their nigger behinds when we needs food to eat. No, sir, they got to work fir their supper.”

Mercy hugged him and smiled brightly. We’re going to make a good team, you and me. You’ll make a wonderful gaffer.”

“What dat word?” Nelson asked.

Mercy laughed. “It means you will be in a position to order everyone around, bar me, of course. I know you’ll enjoy that very much.”

After Mercy had spoken with the slaves and had formally introduced Nelson as Thomas Freeman, Abby, the slave she had been given when she first arrived in America, handed her a letter. It was from Belle.

My dearest Mercy,

Please forgive me for not being here to greet you. It is quite unforgivable of me, I know, but circumstances compelled me to leave hurriedly and I barely had time to write this letter. I do hope you understand.

By now, you will have found out that Hendry is in New Orleans and I have gone to meet him. Louisiana is far from Virginia, and I do not know if or when I will return. But I am so very happy to be reunited with him, Mercy, and I know had you been in my position, you would have run to Jacob.

I’m so sorry, darling. I should not be talking about my happiness when you are grieving for Jacob. I also miss him. He was my brother, and I loved him dearly. What a terrible day it was when we went to city hall. A list of casualties had been put up. There were so many dead and missing, all from Portsmouth. The list was about three inches long. It broke our hearts to look at the names of our neighbours and people we did business with for years. Jacob’s name was on the list, and next to his name was his status: “Missing – presumed dead.” You must accept his death, Mercy. If you don’t, you will go mad with hopeless expectations.

I have informed Sheriff Manning that you might return to Stone Plantation. He will call on you from time to time – he was one of Jacob’s oldest friends, and I just know he’ll do all he can to give you assistance, should you need it.

Mercy crumpled the letter and scowled. People were talking about Jacob as though he were already buried, but she still had hope. How could so many men disappear into thin air if they were supposed to be lying dead? She understood that bodies could be missed, or were unidentifiable, but when she was in Richmond, she saw lists covering all states, and there were hundreds of men missing. Surely it made more sense to believe that no one could find them because they were taken prisoner? She was angry. Belle had lost faith, and she of all people should be ashamed of herself. Belle never gave up on Hendry when he set to sea. She smoothed the pages and read on.

Jacob’s home is not your responsibility but please remain there for as long as you wish. I wanted to comfort you in your devastation, and I have let you down terribly. Poor Jacob, he loved you so.

I must rush away now, Mercy, but I leave you with a last piece of news about, Elizabeth and her family. Mrs Coulter has belly sickness. Personally, I believe she talked herself into a malady, for she threatened she would be ill with something or other. We must pity her deeply, though. She has just lost her youngest son, George. She has borne so much pain.

The Coulters are still in North Carolina. I hear tell that Jacob was sending them money to pay for their lodgings and for Elizabeth’s appeal. From what I hear, the appeal has every chance of succeeding, thanks to your testimony about that awful Mrs Mallory. The judge in Richmond was spittin’ mad at Elizabeth’s lies, but those judges in North Carolina seem to be more sympathetic, what with her being a wronged woman and all.

Finally, I am praying to the Lord, hoping he will see fit to save Isaac. Please send him my love and tell him to be strong. I will get news to you, and an address, and hope that you will write me soon.

God bless you, my dear Mercy. Stay safe.

Belle

Isaac, oh, Isaac,” Mercy mumbled. She walked from the house into the fading afternoon sun. She would ponder Belle’s letter later, she thought. She didn’t want to think about Elizabeth right now, for she, Mercy Carver, was now a Southern planter, and there was much work to do.

Chapter Sixty-Six

Jacob sat in front of a Union Army lieutenant, knowing yet barely believing he was being paroled and would be going home within hours. It was early August, and his wounds had healed reasonably well. His general state of health, however, had been sorely affected by cramped conditions. There was a lack of decent food and water, and a blistering August heat had also contributed to making the dire situation inside the makeshift prisoner of war camp worse. Dysentery, poisoned wounds, and exhaustion had infected many of the prisoners, delaying the parole programme set in place by both governments.

The camp was overflowing with Confederate prisoners, and they were as unwelcome as ticks on a horse’s back, as far as the Yankees were concerned. Both the North and South had agreed to a prisoner exchange policy as a necessity rather than a goodwill gesture. The North in particular was unwilling to incarcerate, house, and feed prisoners on the Virginia Peninsula over a long period, for the year-long blockade had meant limited food supplies for its own army.

Jacob was silent as he waited for the lieutenant to sign his final parole papers. Sitting inside the tent felt like a luxury long denied him. It was as hot as a furnace but shaded from the sun’s rays, which had blistered his forehead, swollen his eyelids, and cracked his lips. He had no hat, for that had been lost in some cornfield. His uniform had not been washed since the day he’d been wounded, and it still bore blood and bullet holes. His gut was particularly painful this morning, and it had grumbled loudly the entire time he’d been in the tent. As he waited, he wondered if he would make it home at all without having to find places to shit or vomit every five minutes.

“Looks like I got all I need, Captain,” the lieutenant said finally.

“Then I’m free to get out of this shithole?”

“Yep, if that’s what you want to call it. I reckon you should remember that this shithole saved your damn life, and considering you’re a traitor to your country, I believe you should be mighty grateful for that small mercy.”

Jacob decided to shut up before he scratched his powerful need to insult the smug son of a bitch any further. “Yes, sir,” he said sarcastically.

“Alright, so you understand that you are being paroled by the United States government and her army.”

Jacob nodded, but he refused to say yes to the United States, for anything.

The Union officer lifted a quizzical eyebrow but didn’t force Jacob to answer. “Now, there are terms attached to your release. You got to sign this paper here, stating that you will take off that uniform and not put it back on. You ain’t got no cause to rejoin your army, but if you get a hankering to fight us again and you’re captured, we’ll string you up just a quick as you can sing Dixie. You got that?”

Jacob said nothing.

“What I’m saying, just so you understand, is if you put that uniform back on, you will be under the sentence of death. Nod your damn head!”

“I understand, Lieutenant,” Jacob said, “and I don’t have a hankerin’ to fight no one. I’m going home to grow vegetables.”

“Where you from, Captain?”

“Portsmouth.”

“Then I figure you’ll be transported along with some of the other Rebs to Newport News and put on a ferry to Norfolk. You get yourself home now – and don’t let the Union see your face again.”

“I’m going to Richmond first,” Jacob told him. “I need to see my girl before I go home.”

“Captain, you’re getting out of here today because the federal government is allowing it. If I had my way, I’d string you up right now for what you’ve done to our country. Don’t try my patience. You will not be going anywhere near Richmond, you hear?”

Jacob’s horse, loaned to him by Dolly, stood passively underneath the stone arch that marked his land’s border. He sighed with relief as he looked up at the sign reading Stone Plantation, feeling a measure of disbelief. He’d learned on his arrival in Portsmouth that his home was intact and still his. He had also learned from Dolly in Norfolk that Belle was with Hendry in New Orleans, Mercy was alone at the plantation, Elizabeth had been released from prison, and Isaac had died.

He kicked the horse into a smooth canter on the last mile of his trip home, tears streaming down his face. His mind flashed with Dolly’s words. Her news about Mercy being here and Hendry and Jack home safe at last had been the best possible welcome home gift he could have received – but Isaac … Dear God, Isaac was gone, and heated words at a train station still etched in his mind.

Jacob’s body was racked with pain, and he felt dizzy, with imaginary pounding fists inside his belly. But he was almost at the house. He had made it home. Mercy was at the end of this road, and she would tend to him and make him well. He’d look into her eyes and let her know that there would be no more separations, no saying goodbye because of duty to war or spouse. This was his journey’s end and hers too.

A few of his slaves who had been shading themselves under tall oaks ran after his horse, squealing with delight at the sight of the master riding home. Jacob smiled through his agony and wondered how many had left the plantation in a bid for freedom. He wasn’t concerned about how many slaves he’d lost. He was far too happy to worry about plantation business. He was alive and home, and in a few short moments, the woman he loved would be in his arms.

He struggled to dismount. What if he couldn’t stand on his own two feet? he wondered. He would hate to be found by Handel, lying stupidly at the foot of the porch stairs. Clinging to the balustrade, he climbed the wooden steps like an old man, almost bent double and unable to hold his head up. The house seemed deathly quiet, and for a second, he panicked, wondering if Dolly had made a mistake about Mercy being here. Finally, he reached the door and turned the doorknob.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Mercy and Jacob took a stroll in the garden, holding hands and savouring every moment together. After Jacob’s arrival home, his health had taken a turn for the worse. Mercy was convinced that his body had given up its prideful fight to survive a Yankee prison and had instead given itself unashamedly over to loving hands that were sympathetic to his defenceless state.

Mercy had scarcely spoken two words to him before he’d collapsed and had to be carried to bed, where he had lain for over a week with a fever. He had not seen the worry in her eyes, nor had he heard her sobbing at night as she sat by his bedside. He had not kissed her hello or told her about his experience. He looked like a pale shadow of his former self. At night, his eyes flickered with memories of battle, and in the morning, they were dull and lifeless. It was a miracle he had made it home at all, the Portsmouth doctor had told Jacob this morning, after cussing the Yankees to hell.

She looked up at his face, seeing his eyes shining with life for the first time in almost a week as he breathed in the sweet sultry air and cast his eyes over his precious land. The fields looked dull and lifeless. There had been no ploughing or cotton planting this year, and there would be no harvesting in September. The dry deep brown dirt land was barren and brightened only by the majestic bright green leafy oaks that stood clumped along the fields’ perimeters. Jacob didn’t seem to mind a bit about the state of decay, for all Mercy could see was his contented smile, interrupted at times with a peaceful sigh.

She walked at a snail’s pace with him, linking one arm in his and laying her free hand on her belly. She smiled to herself and felt a surge of sheer joy. It was not yet time, but soon she would tell him she was carrying his child. “Are you sure you don’t want to go inside, darling?” Mercy asked him. “It’s so warm out here, and I don’t want you to tire yourself out. Look at you – you’re skin and bone. We’re going to have to feed you up on that cornbread you love so much.”

Jacob laughed softly. “I’m fine, honey, but you’re right: I would like to sit in the shade awhile. I’ll get my strength back soon, and when I do, I’ll plant yams, sweet potatoes, and maybe some watermelons.” He sighed again and then squeezed her fingers. “I love this land so damn much, Mercy, but if the Yankees confiscate it, we’ll be thrown out with just the clothes on our backs,” he told her. “They will take it, I reckon. They’re spittin’ mad we kept them out of Richmond, and they’ll find a way to hurt us. The thought of losing all this crushes me, but you are my home, darling, and my anchor.”

Mercy put his hand to her lips and laid a soft kiss on them. “Let’s not think about war or leaving here, not today, not when we are so happy,” she said.

He held her to him, and she felt his beating heart next to her own. This was quite possibly the most wonderful day of her life, she thought. She found herself thinking about her father, Thomas. He gave up on life in a moment of despair, but she had not allowed herself the luxury of death to block out her anguish and, at times, utter hopelessness. Her father was a coward, just as Grandpa Carver had declared. Her experience had taught her that after every deep misery came a brighter day. If only her father had realised that life was all about the promise of calm after a storm, joy after sadness, and reaping rewards after loss, not about giving up on it in a moment of panicked despair.

“Jacob, my entire journey has been worth it – every failure, mistake, and thrashing has led me here to this moment. Life is not always easy, but it is an extraordinary experience, don’t you think?”

Jacob kissed her soundly. “I’m going to make sure your adventures don’t end here, darling. We have a lot of living to do, and I aim to make your life even more exceptional, no matter where we end up living.”

Elizabeth and her father sat stony-faced and waiting impatiently in Jacob’s drawing room. From the moment Elizabeth caught her parents talking about Jacob’s return, she had wanted to come here and confront him and the bitch he had living under his roof. Her father had not allowed her to leave the house in Portsmouth, however, and at the time he had vexed her no end. Now she was glad he’d refused her, for after her return from North Carolina, she had not looked her best, and it had taken her some time to recover from her ordeal. Yes, she was glad Jacob had not seen her gaunt face and prune-like skin, for in the past week, she had recovered splendidly.

She saw Jacob and Mercy through the window, walking towards the house, and planted a thunderous look on her face. She repeated the words she had uttered for months in that dark filthy cell: I am staying in Stone Plantation, and the whore is leaving. Jacob is my husband, and he will remain so.

Her fingers fidgeted with the pale pink purse which sat atop the folds of her cream and gold gown. Inside were release papers stating Mr Jacob Stone as her husband and Stone Plantation as her address. The judge in North Carolina had made it quite clear that she was to go straight home to her husband, and this day would see her do just that. She had waited for this for so long, and oh, how she looked forward to pouring scorn on Mercy Carver when she ordered the bitch to leave and never come back. She’d have the niggers carry in her trunks, and that mealy-mouthed whore’s would be carried out and thrown onto the lawn. “Pa, they’re coming.”

“Are you sure this is what you want, daughter?” Mr Coulter asked her.

“Why, of course it’s what I want. I declare, anyone would think you were afraid of that Carver woman and a broken-down soldier. I heard Jacob looks like an old man. You just do as I say, Pa, and we’ll be in here before lunch is served. I’m famished.”

Abby ran towards Jacob and Mercy, panting with exertion, hands gripping her long skirts and lifting them up to her knees. Mercy tightened her grip on Jacob’s arm at the sight of panic on Abby’s shiny black face. She looked towards the house and saw a cart loaded with trunks and bags parked at the foot of the porch steps. She looked at Jacob with a heavy frown.  Her hand, palm clammy with perspiration, slid into his, and she squeezed his fingers.

She’d thought for a while that this confrontation with Elizabeth might come. She had dreaded the day her life would once again be disrupted by Elizabeth’s obsessive need for revenge. But it had been inevitable and in a way necessary to get the bloody fight over with.

She looked at Jacob and felt her anger boiling. He was poorly enough without having to face Elizabeth, she thought. The least Elizabeth could have done before barging in and ruining his homecoming was to wait until he was properly healed.

Mercy and Jacob stood their ground in the doorway, taking not one step towards the Coulters, sitting prim and proper on the couch. Mercy noted that Mr Coulter did not seem to share his daughter’s enthusiasm for causing mischief. His eyes were downcast, staring at the wooden slatted floor beneath his feet. He clearly did not want to fight any more than she or Jacob did. He was probably mortified at his daughter’s behaviour, for Jacob had paid for her release, seen to the Coulter’s comforts, and had been kindness itself.

“Jacob, you can stand there for as long as you want or you can come over here and kiss your wife,” Elizabeth said, eyes blazing. “As you can see, I’ve come home – and I’m not leaving. She has to go. It’s time you threw her out with the trash.”

Jacob tightened his grip on Mercy’s hand and walked tiredly into the drawing room, Mercy beside him. His eyes flashed dangerously, first at Elizabeth and then at her father. “As you can see, my wife is already home with me. You’re not welcome here – y’all are not welcome here. Whatever there was between us ended over a year ago, and I refuse to allow you to continue with this farce. We’re done, woman! You have your freedom and your life, and now I insist you sign the damn divorce papers and get the hell out of our lives.

“You’re not mad, you’re not in jail, and there is no earthly reason why you can’t uphold your end of the bargain.” Jacob looked at Mr Coulter with a cold and calculating stare. “As for you, we agreed to end this nonsense the moment she was released. Jesus, I mourn your son, George. I miss him every day. He was the best of you. He told me all about your whoring and gambling, Coulter, yet instead of being with your wife, who’s grieving for George, you choose to stand here with your foolish daughter and make an even bigger fool of yourself , you son of a bitch. You gave me your word that you would convince her to let me go if I paid her legal fees.”

“Pa, how could you!” Elizabeth yelled. “You know my heart is set on making it work with Jacob. How can you betray me after all I’ve been through? Tell Jacob I should come back here to live, and tell him she has to leave! Tell him!”

Mr Coulter shook his head. “Hush, daughter. Jacob’s right. I shouldn’t have brought you here; there ain’t no changin’ his mind.”

Jacob softened his tone. “Elizabeth, go make a new start and forget what’s done. You will never get me back and you won’t set foot in this house again. Are we clear? I have no more to say to you – or you, Mr Coulter. Best you be taking your daughter home. I’m in no mood to entertain you or listen to you insult the woman I love.”

Elizabeth stood and walked shakily to stand in front of Jacob and Mercy. She caught a glimpse of herself in the cracked mirror which sat on the wall behind them. What a fright she looked. She was a shadow of the beautiful woman she once was. Jacob Stone and his whore had ruined her. Her life was over, a shambles, an embarrassment. She was a laughing stock and wasn’t being received by anyone she knew. No one would ask for her hand. No gentleman would ask her to dance. Folks called her a murderess, a madwoman. They were ghastly, treating her this way.

She had suffered so much in that jail, pawed at by guards, spat on my other inmates, pushed around by everyone, jealous of her because she was a Southern belle and they were low-class criminals. She had not belonged there – she belonged here, in this house!

Jacob Stone had brought all these calamities to her door, and he was standing there happily holding Mercy Carver’s hand, basking in her love! She wouldn’t stand for it. She would rather die right now than let them throw her out like an unwanted cat. She would rather kill them than see the contented smirks on their faces!

She opened her purse and pulled out a small pistol. She cocked it and pointed it at Jacob’s head. It wavered in her hand, and she steadied it with her other hand, fingers on top of fingers. If she couldn’t have what she wanted, Mercy Carver wouldn’t have her happy ending either. No, she would not! That white trash prostitute would suffer for the rest of her damn life and would regret the day she ever set foot on Virginia’s soil.

Gasps were heard around the room.

“Elizabeth, put that gun away at once!” her father shouted. He stood and moved quickly to stand beside her. “Daughter, please …”

“Shut up, Pa,” Elizabeth told him. “Shut up and don’t try to stop me.” She stared at the fear on Jacob’s face and then flicked her eyes to Mercy. The whore was scared too. Margaret Mallory had worn that same expression just before she died. “Not smiling now, are you?” she said to Mercy. “You’ll see what it’s like to lose everything. Just you wait. You stole Jacob from me, and now I’m going to steal him from you!”

Jacob shielded Mercy with his body. “Put the gun down, you little fool!” He shouted at Elizabeth.

“Elizabeth, let us help you,” Mercy choked. “We can make your life a little easier. Jacob can give you money if you just put down the gun.”

Elizabeth laughed like a hyena, her body shaking, the gun waving about in the air at the end of her outstretched arm. “Money – what good is money here in the South? I don’t care about money anymore. I want you both to suffer. I hate you, Jacob Stone. Oh, God help me, I do. I hate you! I hate you!” She steadied the gun and aimed it at Jacob’s chest. She sighed with contentment. Revenge was a sweet, sweet feeling.

“Don’t, Elizabeth!” Jacob shouted.

Mercy saw the determination on Elizabeth’s face and felt sheer terror. She knew the look of a person who was just about to shoot, the crazed eyes and reddened face. She too had felt that second just before pulling the trigger. She pushed Jacob. “Dear, God, no...No!” she screamed, throwing herself in front of Jacob’s body just as the gun went off.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

The hand carried a bunch of blood-red roses across the field and into the graveyard, which was surrounded by a splintered wooden picket fence. The figure’s legs moved as slow as a snail and were as heavy as a ton, weighed down and reluctant to reach the grave and look at the tombstone. But it trudged on regardless, as though driven by madness and an insatiable need to speak to the dead.

The family plots were dilapidated. Faded names etched into smooth stone, turned white with the elements, were barely recognisable. Sparse patches of grass and a headless statue of Madonna lying on its side had been unattended for years, and its sculptured body, cracked and without contours, looked like a long bulky lump of hardened granite.

The figure approached the newest headstone and stood before it a moment before bending to place the roses on top of the damp soil covering the grave. Looking at the grave, the figure wondered how it was possible to survive and carry on after such trauma and loss. The grief was unbearable, stifling air in lungs and leaving the mind stupefied with thoughts of murder and revenge.

Tears rolled down the figure’s face, wet already with sleet and rain lashing horizontally in the biting wind. In this graveyard, there were no other names but, Stone. The first family member, buried in 1794, had been followed by wife, children, and grandchildren. Only the Stones had been buried here – until now.

Jacob slumped to the ground and sobbed like a child. His wretched cries were not enough to empty him of the anguish and torment, but they spoke to Mercy the way his words could not. He knelt and stared at the writing on the tombstone, and every now and then, he wiped the words dry as they too cried with rain, which bounced off the top of the stone and down its face.

“Dear God, no, not my Mercy!” he cried out. “You should have taken me, not her. Damn you, God. Damn you for your cruel games and hand of fate!” He wiped the stone again and read the words chiselled into its surface.

Mercy Carver

1842–1862

At Her Journey’s End

The rain continued to lash him, burning his skin and streaming down his face, blinding him. He looked skywards. It was not water he saw but shards of glass raining down on him. He covered his face with his arms and screamed for the pain to stop. He looked down at the ground and found himself sitting in a pool of blood, turning his grey uniform red.

Jacob sat bolt upright in bed, panting loudly, disoriented and wide-eyed with panic-stricken thoughts. Touching his face, he felt a fine veil of perspiration and wiped his forehead with his forearm. His heart was thumping like a hammer against his breast wall. He pushed his fingers through his thick, damp chest hair and held his hand there, doing all he could to convince his breathing to steady its rhythm. He turned his head sharply and watched Mercy sleeping contentedly beside him. He sighed with relief and stroked her hair.               When were these nightmares going to stop? It had been months since he and Mercy had seen Elizabeth and her father and weeks since they had been told that the Coulters had moved south, exiled in shame and disgraced in the eyes of Portsmouth’s elite.

The day Elizabeth tried to kill him would live in his memory forever. Had it not been for Elizabeth’s father’s quick hands tussling with the gun a second before it went off, the bullet would have hit Mercy instead of the mirror. She would not be lying next to him – she would be in the grave he saw in his dreams at night. Throwing herself in front of him had been most foolish thing she had ever done, but thank God their only injuries were cuts from the mirror’s shattered glass. “Dear Lord,” he whispered softly, as he lay back down, “thank you for all your blessings.”

Marcy stirred and turned over to face Jacob. She smiled sleepily and then looked at him inquisitively. “Oh no, did you have another bad dream about Elizabeth?” she asked him.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Did I wake you?”

“No, the baby was kicking me. He’s impatient to get out – tell me about the dream.”

“Same as always. It was a bad one, but they’re becoming less frequent and nothing to worry about. This is the only dream that matters: you and me, right here, right now.”

“Well, look on the bright side – had Elizabeth not tried to kill you, you would never have persuaded her to sign those divorce papers and we wouldn’t be married. And then what would we say to our child when born?”

“Come here, Mrs Stone, and let me hold you till sunup. Let me kiss your sassy lips and tell you how much I love you and how damn relieved I am to wake up each morning to your beautiful face.”

Mercy smiled and snuggled into him. Life was indeed a grand adventure, she thought. It was filled with wonders and curiosities that one could never imagine in childhood, whether born in a deep well of sadness and poverty or into wealth and privilege. Destiny, fate, determination, despair, and hope carried a person along in a sea of storms, and that’s what made life remarkable. No one knew only happiness or a lifetime of despair. If it were so, she thought, how could a person appreciate one and prevail over the other?

In this great world, books taught history and told stories of imaginary characters and their imaginary adventures, but she set little store in books now. In her experience, a grand adventure began on a warm October day when she crossed a bridge in the stinking city of London, and when her dainty little purse held no more than a few pennies.

On her journey, she had met many wonderful characters and some awful ones too. Crossing an ocean, she had glimpsed heaven in the arms of a man who had saved her on more than one occasion. She had triumphed over evil, violence, and revenge, and every morning she awoke to the promise of another adventure with Jacob and a child who would be taught that no matter the circumstance of birth, every living soul had the capacity to overcome life’s tribulations.

She placed Jacob’s hand on her belly and gave him a radiant smile. “Darling, I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere,” she told him. “Our journey is just beginning.”

About The Author

Author of the critically acclaimed epic, The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact.

Jana Petken is Scottish but resides on the East Coast of Spain. She is ex military and has travelled extensively, studying conflicts and the after effects they had on the population. She is a fulltime writer but says her hobbies include, walking great distances and painting in oils.

Kirkus Review.

Mercy Carver: Dark Shadows

A fast-paced, action-packed historical romance set during the last days of the Old South.

Amazon Review: “A female Dickens”