Chapter Thirteen
Milliken's Bend, Louisiana: 1863


The small town of Milliken's Bend lay embraced on three sides by the Mississippi river. Clay arrived in the middle of May with Lucian and Jacob, and were assigned to Company G of the Ninth Louisiana Infantry, Lucian as captain and Clay as his first lieutenant. Lucian, prohibited by Army directives from promoting him any higher, gave Jacob the rank of duty sergeant.

There were four black regiments forming at the Bend – the Ninth Louisiana, commanded by Colonel Hermann Lieb, a Swiss formerly of the Eighth Illinois Infantry; the Eleventh Louisiana, commanded by Colonel Chamberlain; the Thirteenth Louisiana and the First Mississippi. Colonel Lieb, being senior officer, was in command of the garrison.

The Ninth was full of Illinois men – Company B, especially. Captain Corydon Heath was from the Second Illinois Light Artillery, as was his First Lieutenant, David Cornwell. Cornwell had started his army career as a private in the Eighth Illinois Infantry along with Colonel Lieb, and technically he was still a private, as neither he, nor any of the other officers, would be officially promoted until the regiment was mustered in, and the regiment could not be mustered in until it had filled the ranks.

And that might be a problem – the officers were responsible for recruiting soldiers from the nearby abandoned plantations and from ‘contraband’ – escaped slaves who had made their way to the Union lines. These men, only recently released from lives of forced labor, were reluctant to take up arms and needed much persuasion.

At this, Lieutenant Cornwell seemed to excel. Accompanied by his duty sergeant, Big Jack Jackson – a giant of a man that Cornwell had befriended after the battle of Corinth, Mississippi – he sometimes returned from recruiting with more than a dozen men in tow, whereas the other officers seemed lucky to recruit more than one or two, if any.

Lucian had more success than most. Leaving Clay in camp to drill what recruits they had, he and Jacob would travel by horseback to the neighboring plantations and talk to the slaves whose masters had abandoned them to the Union advance. Although impressed by the uniforms, the servants were mistrustful of Lucian, and only somewhat less so of Jacob’s mulatto complexion. The Southern caste system that moved light skinned slaves into the comparatively easy life of the house and left the dark skinned slaves in the fields certainly took its toll here, but the two men’s trust and reliance on each other eventually won some of them over.

Milliken's Bend had been General Grant’s base before he left to attack Vicksburg, and he left behind the black regiments to garrison the town and guard his supply lines. However, it was obvious that the army had yet to take the black regiments seriously, for they were left with the worst of everything – shoddy uniforms and outdated Austrian muskets.

Still, the officers made do with what they had – poor equipment and the greenest possible recruits, men who had never even held a rifle, much less knew how to shoot one. Lucian and Jacob returned from recruiting one day to find Lieutenant Cornwell engaged in drilling the regiment in target practice.

Colonel Lieb had moved the garrison from the town to an open field two miles away. The camp was defended by a levee about six feet high and wide enough to drive a wagon on. In front of the levee was a twelve foot high hedge of osage orange, a shrub the Louisianans called ‘bodarc’, with long sharp thorns. Cornwell had cut a few narrow gaps in the hedge and set up targets on the other side for the men to shoot at. They were no good at it, as was to be expected, and Lieutenant Cornwell was letting them know it. “Get it right next time, you woolly headed nincompoop,” he was yelling at one recruit, “or I will kill you!”

Lucian raised his eyebrows, but did not remark on it. It would not do to undermine a fellow officer’s authority in front of the recruits, but he took it up with him later in the officer’s mess. “I’m not sure you should be speaking to the men that way, Cornwell. Many of them have been abused on the plantations – you should speak to them with more respect.”

Cornwell appeared nonplussed. “Just what are you objecting to, Captain?”

“Threatening to kill them, and calling them ‘woolly headed’.”

Cornwell tutted. “They know I’m not going to kill them, and by ‘woolly headed’ I meant they weren’t thinking. They’re pretty useless now, but don’t worry, I’ll make them sharpshooters inside a month.”

“It’s funny,” Clay pointed out as he and Lucian enjoyed an after dinner cigar in Lucian’s tent, “but the more Cornwell yells at the men, the more they seem to like it.”

“He’d yell the same way at white men,” Jacob said, “because he believes they can be real soldiers. It may look like he shows them no respect, but the opposite is true. He’ll be in command of this place before long, you mark my words.”

However, Cornwell was never to get his chance to turn the Ninth into sharpshooters. The next day Colonel Lieb got word that several brigades of rebels had moved into the area, and he called out the Ninth to reconnoiter. General Dennis, in charge of the area, had also sent down two companies of the Tenth Illinois Cavalry for the purpose, and as the Ninth marched southwest toward the village of Richmond, Louisiana, the cavalry followed some distance behind. Coming up on the rail depot at Tallulah, the Ninth was fired upon by rebels from behind a levee. Colonel Lieb ordered a charge which drove the rebels back, and the regiment was very proud to have survived its first skirmish without a loss and with this small victory. However, they were warned by a freedman that the rebels were nearby in force, so Lieb turned the regiment back toward Milliken's Bend. As they marched back up the road, the cavalry passed through them, and they could overhear the white cavalrymen muttering. “Niggers won’t fight. See how they’re running already.”

After the cavalry had passed, Lucian and Clay turned to their company. “Don’t you listen to them, men,” Lucian said. “You’re as good as they are, you’d better believe it.”

They had a chance to prove it in a few minutes, for the cavalry soon dashed back up the road, pursued by Confederates on horseback, with cries of, “Save us! For God’s sake, save us!”

The Ninth hid behind a house that was near the road, and as the rebel cavalry drew near, let off a volley that surprised and frightened them into turning around and heading back to Richmond. Lucian and the rest of the officers thought it was fortunate the rebels had no idea how green the regiment was, and that none of them could hit the broad side of a cotton gin. Still, they were all proud of their men for the way they had fought that day.

The Union cavalry was grateful, and said so. “No one can tell me now that colored men can’t fight,” one of them said. There was general agreement to this sentiment, and the two regiments went back to Milliken's Bend in happy camaraderie.

The Tenth Illinois Cavalry had made camp about a quarter mile from the levee that demarcated the camp of the African Brigade, so the two regiments parted ways a little distance from the Bend. Lieb and the other officers were horrified to find that someone had ordered the bodarc hedge cut down, and about thirty yards of it were gone on the left side of the levee. The men of the Eleventh Louisiana had done the cutting down, but none of their officers would own up to having ordered it. With a rebel attack apparently imminent, Lieb hailed a passing riverboat and sent a message to General Dennis at Helena, Arkansas, to send reinforcement. The number of men in camp able to fight numbered about eight hundred, and Lieb figured there were two to three times as many rebels in the brigade to the south.

That evening a gunboat, the Choctaw, arrived with one company of infantry from the Twenty Third Iowa, numbering only one hundred men, and Lieb had to hide his dismay at this small reinforcement. The Mississippi was fifteen feet below its banks, so the gunboat did not have a clear shot at the field, and did not seem to be of much use. What was needed was artillery, and they had none.

Colonel Lieb put his battallion into place behind the levee well before dawn, the Ninth holding the left, the Eleventh holding the right, and the other three regiments spread out along the middle. Lucian and Clay, standing with Jacob near Captain Heath at the corner of the levee, had a moment to reflect on the irony. Once again they were fighting with green troops near a town called Richmond. Would these men, many of them only days out of slavery, fare any better than the privileged whites who had deserted them at Big Hill only a few months before?

About three o’clock in the morning, the rebels attacked. The first volley from the defenders surprised them, and the cavalry troops that were in front of their line turned and retreated, some being shot by their own side in the confusion. The Confederates soon righted themselves, however, and met their first obstacle, the bodarc hedge. Flowing around the missing left side, they gained the levee and tried to swarm over it, crying, “No quarter!” but met more resistance than they were expecting.

The Ninth, being nearest the missing hedge, bore the brunt of the assault. Lieutenant Cornwell had been given two companies to command in reserve, and he brought them into action now, shouting, “Now bounce them bullies!”

It was bayonet work and using muskets as clubs after the first, nearly useless volley. Big Jack pounced on the top of the levee, clubbing every rebel he could find, yelling, “Come and get me!”

The rebels cried, “Someone shoot that big nigger!” and several of them did, but it made no difference to Big Jack, who fought like a tiger until he finally took a bullet to the head and fell full length on the levee.

It was not much better behind the levee – soldiers were falling left and right. Lucian was clubbed with a musket and fell, but Jacob bayoneted the offending rebel and drove him back. A musket shot too near Clay’s face blinded him momentarily, and he was only saved from death by the quick action of Captain Heath, standing nearby.

The hand-to-hand fight lasted about fifteen minutes, but it seemed like hours before the rebels withdrew behind the hedge. As the sun rose, the two sides continually shot at each other, but as the green Union soldiers could not shoot, and did not know enough to keep their heads down, many were killed during the next couple of hours, although they continued to hold the levee.

Colonel Lieb, on his horse, was shot in the hip during the first attack, but he stayed in the saddle and in command. Colonel Chamberlain of the Eleventh Louisiana rowed himself out to the gunboat before the attack, leaving his regiment to his Lieutenant Colonel, who was also nowhere to be seen during the battle. The Twenty Third Iowa and most of the Eleventh deserted the field, except for two companies who managed to hold their end of the levee until the rebels tried a second attack, sweeping through the cleared hedge and around the end of the levee, where they laid down a heavy fire, targeting the white officers especially. It was then that Colonel Lieb gave the order to retreat to the riverbank. Lucian was hit, sprawling along the side of the levee, and Clay and Lieutenant Cornwell were also hit, but managed to make it to the riverbank in safety.

The rebels might have finished them off then if they had followed them quickly, but most of them paused to rifle through the Union camp, taking whatever they could steal. Once secure behind the riverbank, however, the Union soldiers were able to signal to the gunboat where to fire, and although they could not accurately hit anything, the shelling was enough to cause the rebels to retreat back to Richmond.

Clay wrapped up his wounded arm and ran back to the levee. Dead and wounded lay in great confusion. Nearly a quarter of the Ninth had been killed in the attack, even more wounded, and the flies were already beginning to gather in the oppressive Louisiana heat. He looked for his friends – Lucian lay in a pool of blood, but his eyelids fluttered, and Clay pulled him away from the levee and examined him. He’d been shot in the shoulder and was pale with shock, so Clay called for help. The wounded were being moved to the gunboat for treatment, and Clay sent Lucian off before taking stock. As remaining ranking officer, it was his duty to assess his losses, and he set about this grim task.

He could not find Jacob, or Captain Heath. After counting up the dead and wounded, it seemed that the rebels had taken around twenty prisoners from the Ninth. This was grim news indeed. Jefferson Davis had decreed that any white officer found commanding black troops would be treated as an insurrectionist and executed, and any black troops captured would be returned to slavery. That Jacob was not a slave would not matter to them much, he thought.

He went to the gunboat to make his report to Colonel Lieb and found Lucian conscious but pale from loss of blood. Clay hated to give him such grim news, and Lucian turned even paler. Although Lucian had lost a lot of blood, his was only a flesh wound and should not turn fatal, so he got up from his cot and sought out Colonel Lieb while Clay had his own wounds tended.

Colonel Lieb was in the gunboat captain’s cabin being harangued by Lieutenant Cornwell. “Where was the Tenth Cavalry?” Cornwell demanded. “We saved their lives yesterday, and today they watch us get slaughtered and don’t lift a finger to help us!”

“Where is Colonel Chamberlain?” Lieb retorted. “I’m more concerned about my own battalion. The Eleventh was left alone, hardly an officer in sight – it’s no wonder most of them deserted.”

“And the Twenty Third!” Cornwell continued. “They were no help at all, either. It’s a poor show when untrained blacks fight harder than battle seasoned whites!”

“May I interrupt, sir?” Lucian asked.

“Cornwell, go find Chamberlain and bring him to me,” Lieb ordered. Cornwell left, not saluting as his right arm hung limply from his shoulder. “What do you need, Captain?” Lieb asked.

“Lieutenant Palmer reports that the Ninth has had twenty one men taken prisoner, sir,” Lucian began.

“I know,” Lieb replied. “I’ve just had his report.”

“You know what the rebs have promised to do,” Lucian said. “I think we should go after them.”

“With what, Captain?” Lieb asked testily. “We may have won today, but this was a slaughter. It’s only through the hand of Providence that we’re here now.”

“I understand that, sir,” Lucian replied. “But they’ve taken Captain Heath, and Sergeant Butler.”

Lieb squinted at him. “I can understand wanting to go after a captain, but a sergeant?”

Lucian paused. “He’s my brother. Sir.”

Lieb regarded him a moment. “I see,” he said quietly. “Nevertheless,” he said sternly, “you are not to leave camp, do you understand?” He paused. “And if you do, I don’t want to know about it.”

Lucian smiled grimly. “Understood, sir.” He saluted, turned on his heel, and walked out.

He went back to camp to find his tent rifled and many of his belongings missing. Fortunately, he had his pistols and his rifle with him, and it was merely a matter of scrounging up some cartridges and food before setting out. Clay found him as he was stuffing his few supplies into his rucksack. “You’ve lost too much blood, Lucian,” he scolded. “Stay here, I’ll find him for you.”

“What could you do all alone?” Lucian said.

“What could you do all alone?” Clay retorted. Both his right arm and right eye were bandaged, and both men looked a sight - bandaged, dirty from the fight, weary and haggard.

“He’s my brother, my responsibility,” Lucian said.

“He’s my friend, as are you,” Clay said. He sighed. “There’s no talking you out of it, I see. Well then, we’ll go together. We can prop each other up.”

Lucian smiled. “I’m ordered to remain in camp.”

“I’m not,” Clay said. “When do we leave?”

“Now,” Lucian said. He took up his rucksack and walked out of the tent. A detail was digging a long trench behind the levee and burying the dead. Both Clay and Lucian shuddered as they walked past the levee and down the road toward Richmond.

Chapter Twelve
Paris, Kentucky: 1862



The Seventh Kentucky Cavalry's camp outside Paris was nearly deserted. Workmen were digging trenches and setting up tents, but there was not a soldier in evidence. Lucian reined in the mules and assisted Pamela down from the wagon. “Hello?” he called. “Hello the camp.”

A young soldier came out of one of the tents. He looked familiar – Lucian recognized him as one of the men who had come to the farm to inspect the horses. He also remembered that the young man had regarded him with disapproval, although he was uncertain why.

“Mr. Carr?” the young man said. He looked at Pamela and the men crowded around the pair. “What are you doing here?” He looked at the mules. “Your horses?” He swore softly. “Morgan raided you, didn't he?”

Lucian nodded. “He took all my horses, even the brood stock. May we speak to whomever's in charge, Corporal. . . ?”

“Palmer,” the young man said. “And I'm in charge right now. Everyone else is out chasing Morgan. I'm on the convalescent list, so I got left behind.” He held up a tent flap. “We can use the Colonel's tent for the moment while I take your report.”

Lucian, Pamela and Jacob followed Corporal Palmer into the large tent. Palmer raised his eyebrows at this, but did not remark on it. “We want to do more than report it,” Lucian said. “We're here to join up – myself in the army, my daughter as a nurse, and my men as laborers.”

Palmer frowned. “We can't accept slaves as laborers, Mr. Carr,” he said sternly.

“I've freed them,” Lucian said.

Palmer raised his eyebrows, but before he could speak, there was a clatter of horse hoofs in the yard. A few moments later, Colonel Leonidas Metcalfe strode into the tent, his craggy face looking haggard. He stopped short at the unexpected sight that met his eyes, then commenced to pull off his mud-spattered gloves. “What are you doing here, Carr?” He bowed to Pamela. “Miss Carr.” He frowned at Jacob, then turned to Lucian.

“Hello, Lon,” Lucian said.

“Morgan raided them,” Palmer explained. “I was taking a report.”

“Carry on then, Corporal,” Metcalfe said. He strode over to a basin, rolled up his sleeves and washed his face and hands as Lucian told of Morgan's raid.

“Damn,” Metcalfe exclaimed. He bowed to Pamela. “Pardon me, Miss Carr. We really need those horses. Morgan got three hundred of ours after that brutal fight in Cynthiana.”

“He had a lot of wounded,” Pamela said.

Metcalfe snorted. “Not nearly as many as we did.” He frowned. “I lost a lot of good men two days ago. We aren't even mustered in yet. Damn Morgan. What does he think he's doing, attacking his own state?”

“Liberating it, he says,” Lucian said.

“Apparently the 'good people' of Paris agree,” Metcalfe said, disgusted. “They went out on the road to meet him and surrendered the town without a fight. Although that didn't keep him from high-tailing it out of here the moment we got near him.”

“I take it you didn't catch him,” Palmer said.

“No,” Metcalfe said shortly. “General Smith has brought up a brigade from Lexington – Morgan's his problem now.” He ran his hands through his graying hair. “I do wish I knew how Morgan keeps eluding us – it's as though he knows our every move.”

“Oh,” Pamela said. “I know how.”

Metcalfe regarded her skeptically. “You do?”

“While I was tending the wounded, one of the men was bragging about it. He said he was tapping into the telegraph lines – intercepting messages and sending out false ones. Morgan's men called him ‘Lightning’.”

Metcalfe pounded his knee. “Of course! It makes sense, now. Palmer, go send one of the men to notify General Smith – he's on his way to Winchester.”

Palmer left hurriedly and Metcalfe took Pamela's hand. “Thank you, Miss.” He bowed over it. “We may catch the rascal yet.” He turned to Lucian. “Thank you for your report, Carr. Should I detail a few men to escort you home?”

“No, Lon,” Lucian said. “We're staying. We want to join up.” He indicated Pamela and Jacob. “All of us.”

Corporal Palmer returned and stood by the flap of the tent as Lucian detailed his reasons. Metcalfe sat behind his desk, tapping his log book with a pencil. “I remember your father, the old reprobate, but I didn't realize he'd left you in such straits. You don't have to do this, you know. The law allows me to levy funds from sympathizers for all of Morgan's depredations. I'd already begun before we were called up to Cynthiana – the list keeps getting longer,” his voice was grim, “but I'll collect it all, never fear.”

Lucian shook his head. “Rob my neighbors because Morgan robbed me? No, Lon, I think a man should be punished for what he does, not what he thinks.”

Metcalfe leaned forward. “That's where you're wrong, Carr. It's a short step from thinking to doing. These people are financing the rebellion – the quicker we bankrupt them, the shorter the war will be. None of them would hesitate to rob you if the situation were reversed.”

“I hope they would,” Lucian said, “but even if they wouldn't, I have to do what I think is right. We're joining the army, if you'll take us.”

Metcalfe grimaced. “I know you can ride, and I know you can shoot, so we'll take you, if you can pass the physical, and almost anyone can pass it nowadays. What was it you took in college?”

“Art,” Lucian answered, reddening.

“Art,” Metcalfe repeated drily. “That'll come in handy on the battlefield. You can paint a picture – be sure to use lots of red.”

Lucian drew himself up. “I'm no warrior, I'll admit, but I hope to be able to do my duty.”

“I hope so, too,” Metcalfe said. “Although. . . ,” his eyes narrowed, “now that I think of it, aren't you and Morgan related?”

“By marriage,” Lucian said. “He's my wife's cousin. And how is your son Henry these days?”

Metcalfe winced. “So you heard about that? Just because my boy runs off and joins the rebels. . .” He paused. “All right, you have a point. If I were to suspect everyone who had rebel ties, I'd have to suspect the entire state, including myself.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “Forgive me – I'm tired and frustrated and I shouldn't be sparring with you like this.” He stood and offered his hand. “Welcome to the Seventh Cavalry, Second Lieutenant Carr. You're assigned to Company D, under Captain William Bradley. He's still up in Cynthiana, but you will report to him when he returns – as soon as he recovers sufficiently from his wounds. Palmer, will you escort Carr's men to the Quartermaster? I'll escort Miss Carr and her father to the surgeon's tent.” He looked at Jacob. “You may have one servant, Lt. Carr, but you won't be drawing a salary until we're mustered in. The officers are responsible for their own rations and uniform – do you have any money?”

Lucian shook his head. “Very little, but I'll manage. About the men – they're all skilled laborers: carpenters, machinists, blacksmiths, stonemasons. My head groom knows more about horses than any ten men.” He hesitated. “And they can all read and write.”

Metcalfe started. “That's illegal.”

“So it is.” Lucian raised his chin.

Metcalfe considered him a moment. “It seems I may have underestimated you, Carr. Palmer, see that the Quartermaster is informed of the quality of what we're sending him.”

“I'd rather you did, Colonel,” Lucian said. “It will carry more weight coming from you.”

Metcalfe frowned, but waved a hand. “All right. We need good men. I'd hate to lose them by not treating them properly. Palmer, you escort the Carrs to the surgeon.” He stood. “I'll see to these men, then I'm not to be disturbed unless Morgan himself rides into camp.”

“Yes, sir,” Palmer saluted.

Jacob accompanied them out of the Colonel's tent and began to follow Lucian and Pamela. “Go with the Colonel, Jacob,” Lucian said.

“I don't believe you get to tell me what to do anymore,” Jacob replied. “I'm going with you. The Colonel said you could have a servant.”

“I don't want a servant,” Lucian said testily. “I'm sick of servants.”

Colonel Metcalfe watched them, fists on hips. “Yes, you're a free man now, Jacob, is it? You may go where you please.”

“I please to go with Mr. Carr,” Jacob said stubbornly.

Metcalfe laughed. “Looks as though you have a servant whether you want one or not, Carr.” He sobered. “Although whether you deserve such devotion is another matter.” He motioned to the other men who were waiting. “Come with me. I'll get you signed up and accommodated.” He strode off, the men following.

Jacob persisted in following Lucian, Pamela and Corporal Palmer to the surgeon's tent. The soldiers they passed looked at them with vacant eyes, haggard and worn. “What are you thinking of, Jacob?” Lucian asked.

“We'll discuss it later,” Jacob said firmly. Palmer raised his eyes at this, but said nothing.

Pamela noticed that Palmer was limping. “Are you wounded, Corporal?” she asked.

Palmer grinned ruefully. “No, ma'am. I was thrown from a horse. I'll be able to ride in a week or so. I'm only sorry I missed the fighting.”

“You'll have ample opportunity for that,” Lucian assured him. “The South wants Kentucky, the North wants to keep us. I'm sure we haven't seen the last of Morgan, either.”

“I expect you're right, sir,” Palmer said. “Here we are.” He pushed back the tent flap and called for a surgeon. He turned his charges over to the hospital steward, then turned to Lucian. “May I visit you in your tent later, sir? I would like to discuss a few things with you, if I may.”

“Of course, Corporal,” Lucian said, then put himself into the hands of the surgeon.



His tent was near the corral which stood more than half empty due to Morgan's raid. His things had already been moved into the small tent, and Jacob had arranged them comfortably. “What is all this?” Lucian demanded. “You know I've never liked you waiting on me. I only allowed it before because of appearances.”

“I figured if I signed on to the army,” Jacob said, “I could be sent anywhere. If I sign on with you, then I go where you go.”

Lucian frowned. “True enough. But I don't want you as a servant, Jacob. You've done enough of that sort of thing. You're an intelligent, talented man. You deserve better.”

“I'll make you a deal,” Jacob said. “If the war continues much longer, it's quite likely the army will enlist black soldiers. When they do, then you go where I go.”

“All right,” Lucian agreed. “I suppose none of us are where we should be, in a perfect world. But you're my servant in name only, you hear? I can look after myself.”

Jacob smiled. “We'll look after each other.”

“Hello? Lt. Carr?” Corporal Palmer called from outside the tent. “May I come in?”

“Come in, Corporal,” Lucian said. “Make yourself at home.”

There were no chairs in the tent. Palmer handed Lucian an envelope and sat on one of the cots. “Colonel Metcalfe sends his compliments and has authorized the paymaster to give you an advance on your salary.” Clay grinned. “He says a starving officer does no one any good.”

“That's very good of him,” Lucian said. “Better than I would have expected.”

“Have you known the colonel long?” Clay asked.

“All my life, casually,” Lucian said. “We don't run in the same circles, but you'll find that pretty much everyone in Kentucky knows everyone else, and can figure kinship to the tenth degree.”

“He killed a man in a duel a couple of months ago, did you know that?”

“I heard about it,” Lucian said. “To be fair, he was challenged, and it was intended to be a political killing. Lon's not popular with the secessionist element. Nor they with him – they tried to get him out of the way and failed.”

“I see,” Palmer said. He clasped his knees. “The reason I wanted to talk to you, sir, was that I feel that I owe you an apology.”

“Whatever for?” Lucian asked, sitting down across from Palmer. He looked up at Jacob. “For Pete's sake, Jacob. Sit down.” Jacob sat on the cot by Lucian. “I hardly know you, Corporal,” Lucian continued.

“Please, call me Clay, at least when we're alone,” Palmer said. “I have to apologize for misjudging you. When we came out to your ranch the other day, and I saw all those slaves, well. . .”

“It's a farm, not a ranch,” Lucian corrected. “You're not from here, are you? You don't talk like a Kentuckian.”

“I'm from California,” Clay said.

“I didn't think anyone was from there,” Lucian said.

“My parents were early pioneers,” Clay explained. “I was even born in a log cabin.”

“Why not join a California regiment, then?”

“The California regiments are Indian fighters, sir. I joined the army to fight rebels, not Indians,” Clay said grimly. “I grew up with Indians. They're my friends.”

“How old are you, Clay?”

“Eighteen.”

“Your parents let you come all the way out here to fight?”

Clay nodded. “They’re both abolitionists, and neither one are happy about Washington’s Indian policy either, so they understand. And Kentucky does seem to be the heart and soul of the matter.”

“But it's a might jarring to find yourself in a slave state, isn’t it?”

“Well, I knew it was a slave state before I came, but yes, it's far more. . .disgusting than I thought it would be.” He leaned forward eagerly. “But I learned something today – I didn't think an honorable man could own a slave. It never occurred to me that a slaveholder might be trapped as well as a slave is.”

“I don't know how honorable I am,” Lucian said. “All my life, at least since my father died, it's always been a choice between two evils. It certainly would have been easier for me to have let the creditors seize the whole kit and caboodle – I wouldn't have spent twenty years throwing money down a deep, dark well.”

“Why didn't you?” Clay asked.

“Corporal Palmer, allow me to introduce my brother, Jacob,” Lucian said.

“Your. . .brother.” Clay paused a long moment, looking at the two men, one light, one dark. “I see.”

“Are you shocked, boy?”

“I suppose I would be, if I didn't have a half-brother myself,” Clay said. “I can understand doing nearly anything for his sake. The way he got here might be shameful, but I don't care about that. Anymore than you do, apparently.”

“Would you allow your brother to be your servant?” Lucian asked.

“It's not up to you,” Jacob said. “I go where you go.”

Clay looked from one to the other. “I wouldn't want to, no. But if it were the only way to stay together, I guess I would. Reluctantly.”

Lucian smiled. “As you say.”

“So will you accept my apology?”

“You got nothing to apologize for. If every man had to apologize for what he thought, we'd be doing nothing else.”

“There's something else I'd like to discuss with you, if I might be so bold, sir?”

“Don't call me 'sir', Clay, at least when we're alone. Call me Lucian.”

“It's about your daughter, sir. I mean, Lucian. She shouldn't be here.”

“Pamela may be young, but she's a strong woman.”

“I'm certain she is.” Clay shifted uncomfortably. “But – I've only been in the army a few months, but I've seen far more soldiers die of disease than from wounds. The boys from these rural districts are always hit the hardest. We men, we all take our chances, of course, but a young woman. . .couldn't you send her to a relative or something?”

“Daddy?” Pamela's voice called from outside the tent. “Do I have the right tent?”

Lucian stood and opened the tent flap. “Come in, dear. We were just talking about you. Corporal Palmer is concerned for your welfare.”

Clay stood as Pamela entered. “I'm afraid nursing is much more dangerous than you might realize, Miss Carr. Have you had scarlet fever, measles, smallpox? I've seen young men die from all these diseases in the last few months. The hospital is far more dangerous than the battlefield.”

Pamela sat down on the cot. “I appreciate your concern, Corporal, and no, I haven't had any of those diseases. I was schooled at home. But I would scorn to shirk my duty as much as you would.” She turned to her father. “They want to send me to the hospital in Lexington, Daddy. They don't allow women nurses to travel with the regiments. I've convinced them to let me stay and tend the wounded from the battle in Cynthiana, but after that, they're sending me away.” A tear crept down her cheek. “I don't want to leave you, Daddy. I didn't expect this.”

Lucian sat down on the cot beside her and took her hand. “There, there, dear. I'm sorry – I didn't expect it either. You don't have to be a nurse, but then I don't know what we'd do. Clay here has suggested you go to a relative, but you still wouldn't be with me.” He raised her chin. “Cheer up – Lexington's not far. We can still see each other.”

She wiped her eyes. “I know, forgive me. I'm acting like a little girl. But so much has happened in twenty four hours – I'm a bit overwhelmed.”

“You lost your home,” Clay said. “That's enough to upset anyone. I would shed a few tears about it, too.”

Pamela smiled up at him. “Thank you. Well, I'll be here for awhile, anyway. Who knows what will happen? 'Sufficient unto the day,' right?”

“That's my girl,” Lucian said, approvingly. “Perhaps Clay is right, though – maybe you should go to a relative.”

“They're all secessionists, Daddy, you know that. They'd take me in, but with you fighting for the Union. . .I'd rather be fighting with you, in my own way.”

“As do I,” Jacob said. “We have a little bourbon left – shall I break it out? We have much to mourn, but also much to celebrate.”

“I'll do it,” Lucian said. He looked around the tent. “Where is it?”

Jacob laughed. He stood and opened a trunk. “You'll have to do better than that.” He took out a bottle and glasses, set the glasses on top of the trunk and poured out the liquor. He handed around the glasses.

“I've never had bourbon before,” Pamela said.

“You'll want to join the toast,” Jacob said. He raised his glass. “To Freedom!”

“To Freedom!” they all agreed.



Lucian's captain, William Bradley, had been shot through the leg at the battle of Cynthiana. He returned to Paris in a few days, but was unable to attend to this duties for several weeks. As a First Lieutenant had not yet been recruited, the duties of drilling and training the recruits fell onto Lucian's shoulders, a task for which he was ill prepared. The Captain of Clay’s company, Company C, Thomas Vimont, allowed the two companies to be combined for the purpose of drill, and also took Lucian under his wing while Captain Bradley was incapacitated.

Colonel Metcalfe was often absent, intent on his task of raising funds to pay for Morgan's depredations. In this he was zealous – many thought over-zealous – and since nearly all of his men were friends or relatives of the secessionists he levied by threat of imprisonment, he aroused much ill-feeling both in the town and in his own regiment.

In August, the regiment was mustered in, but a few days later Generals Bragg and Kirby Smith invaded Kentucky from Tennessee, moving through the Cumberland Gap and north toward Richmond, Kentucky. All the Union regiments in eastern Kentucky, as well as many from the neighboring states of Ohio, Indiana and Tennessee, were rushed to defend Richmond.

Only a week after muster, the Seventh Kentucky Cavalry was attacked by Confederates at Big Hill, just south of Richmond. Colonel Metcalfe ordered his troops forward, but at the first cannon shot from the Confederates, three-fourths of his four hundred men mounted their horses and fled the battlefield. Of the hundred men left, ten were killed and forty wounded. They were rescued by the Third Tennessee Infantry, and the fleeing soldiers were stopped by a brigade moving down from Lexington and returned to the regiment.

In the battle, Lucian was wounded and Clay was captured, so neither were present a week later when the Confederates defeated the Union at the battle of Richmond, when Colonel Metcalfe's troops once again deserted him. He resigned from the army in disgust and retired to Cincinnati, quitting both the army and his native state.

The Confederates took Richmond, capturing over four thousand Union prisoners, and quickly captured Lexington and the capitol city of Frankfort, installing their own Governor. There were many battles throughout the state for the next several weeks, but at the small town of Perryville, the Confederate advance was finally stopped. The rebels withdrew into Tennessee and, once more, Kentucky belonged to the Union.

After the battle of Big Hill, as was the custom, Clay was paroled, giving his word not to fight until an official prisoner exchange was made, and he accompanied the wounded Lucian to the hospital in Lexington. Although the hole in Lucian’s shoulder was only a flesh wound, he developed a fever and there was some doubt that he would survive. Nursed day and night by Jacob and Pamela, Lucian did finally recover, although it was some weeks before he regained his strength and he and Clay returned to their regiment.

Now under command of Colonel Faulkner, the Seventh Kentucky spent that fall and winter reforming. Those men who had not run during the battle found themselves promoted. Clay became a Second Lieutenant, while Lucian became a First. Clay's captain Vimont was made Lieutenant Colonel, while Lucian's captain Bradley was promoted to Major.

In December the regiment was sent to Tennessee, leaving Pamela behind in Lexington, much to her dismay. The unit was in several skirmishes before the end of the year, but no large battles.

In the spring, as Ulysses S. Grant continued his quest to control the Mississippi River by marching on Vicksburg, it was decided in Washington to recruit black regiments. All commissioned officers in these regiments would be white, which, while unfair, did allow Lucian and Clay to apply for transfers to the regiment that Jacob ultimately joined. Kentucky raised no black regiments, so it was necessary for the three of them to travel to the Mississippi to join Grant's army. Pamela took the opportunity to transfer to a hospital in Memphis as her father, uncle and friend transferred to the Ninth Louisiana Infantry, African Descent, that was then forming at the small town of Milliken's Bend, Louisiana.

Chapter Eleven
Bourbon County: 1862

It was a sweltering July afternoon. Pamela Carr sat on the porch with a glass of sweetened tea, fanning herself with a newspaper from the pile she had been reading. The War for the Preservation of the Union – or the War for Southern Independence, depending upon one’s point of view – had been raging for more than a year now, with no end in sight. At present, the Kentucky papers were full of John Hunt Morgan’s daring raids across the state. Capturing towns, destroying supplies and railroad bridges, Colonel Morgan had caused much consternation among the Union troops gathered in the Commonwealth and divided reactions from the citizenry. Even Pamela was divided, whether to be proud or ashamed of her mother’s cousin. Bold hero or shameless brigand? Like the War, it seemed to depend on one’s point of view.

She wondered that he had not approached Lexington, his home town, or Paris, the home of many of his relatives, but last reports had him headed north with a thousand men, apparently intending to cross the Ohio towards Cincinnati.

It was nearly sundown – she would have to go prepare supper soon, one of the many tasks she had taken over after Aunt Elsie’s death two years ago. She dreaded cooking in this heat, but all-in-all, she much preferred housekeeping to the spoiled life she had led before learning of her father’s straits. She felt. . .real now. Solid.

As she stood, she heard the pounding of horses’ hoofs on the road leading up to the farm. As they grew closer, the din became nearly deafening. She had never heard so many horses galloping at once. She flung open the front door and called shrilly, “Daddy! Come quickly! Something’s happening!”

Lucian dashed out to the porch at her call, arriving at the same time that a cavalcade of men, horses, wagons and buggies tore down the road to the farm. A tall man in shirtsleeves and gray trousers, carefully groomed mustaches framing a pointed beard, led the troop almost up to the farmhouse steps. Lightly springing from his horse, John Hunt Morgan swept Pamela a low bow. “Greetings, cousins,” he grinned broadly.

Lucian crossed his arms as Pamela stood flabbergasted. “Why are you here, John?” Lucian asked.

“I’m in need of horses,” Morgan said, stroking the neck of the sorrel gelding he had ridden. “I had to leave Black Bess behind – and, well, you do raise the finest horseflesh in the Bluegrass.”

Another man, disheveled yet handsome, rode to Morgan’s side. “Are we stopping, John? We need to care for the wounded.”

“Hello, Basil,” Pamela greeted Basil Duke. “We haven’t seen you since Rebecca’s funeral.” Rebecca Duke Morgan, who had died the previous year, was Basil’s sister and Morgan’s wife.

Basil nodded curtly. “Well, Morgan?”

“I’ll help,” Pamela offered. “You men discuss your business.” She threw her father a glance – he had not uncrossed his arms and was glaring at Morgan sternly. “They’re hurt, Daddy,” she offered by way of explanation.

Lucian nodded. “Of course, dear. I suppose it’s the Christian thing to do.” He jerked his head toward the house. “Come in, John. Best not to discuss matters out here.”

Pamela escorted Basil to the pantry to gather supplies for tending the wounded as Lucian led Morgan into the study. Lucian summoned Mr. Butler to serve the Confederate officer a drink. “How about some of our whiskey?” Morgan asked. “I haven’t tasted a good Kentucky bourbon for months.”

Lucian nodded as Mr. Butler poured. “It’s not ‘our’ whiskey, anymore, John,” Lucian said. “The Federals seized the distillery the moment you began your little campaign.”

“’Little’?” Morgan fumed, seating himself. He threw one muddy leg over the arm of the chair and sipped his whiskey. “Ah, that’s fine,” he sighed. “I’ll have you know that I’ve taken five towns, destroyed over a hundred thousand dollars worth of supplies and ammunition, and raised more than three hundred men for the Southern cause. I’d hardly call that little.”

Lucian waved a hand. “I don’t intend to get in a quarrel with you, John. Why have you come here?”

“I told you, I need horses. I’ll pay top dollar, of course.”

“I can’t let you have them, John.” Lucian seated himself behind the desk. “They’re promised already. The buyer will be here to pick them up in a day or two.”

“I’m sure they’ll do more good with me than with the Federals,” Morgan said drily.

Lucian jerked erect. “How did you know?”

“Let’s just say I keep an ear to the ground,” Morgan said. “Now what will it be? Me or the Yankees?”

“They’re not Yankees,” Lucian said. “It’s the Seventh Kentucky Cavalry – a good Kentucky regiment of good Kentucky men.”

“Traitors!” Morgan bellowed, slamming down his glass. “Fighting for those who have invaded our homes!”

“Might I point out,” Lucian said mildly, “that Kentucky was neutral until the Confederacy decided to breach our neutrality? And that some good men might feel that the Union is worth fighting to preserve?”

“You may,” Morgan said, “but no one can be neutral in this fight – you must know that by now. So which side are you on, Cousin?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Slaveholder.”

Lucian winced. “Why are you doing this to me, John? You know that if I sell you those horses, I’ll be branded as a sympathizer. There’ll be reprisals.”

“Then I shall take them,” Morgan said, “and save you the trouble, since that’s what you fear so much.”

Lucian gasped. “You’ll ruin me, John. You know how close to the brink I am. Leave your wounded – we’ll do that much for you, but take your men and ride out of here. Leave us in peace, please.”

Morgan tapped his fingers on the desk. “That’s something I’ve never understood – you’ve a positive genius for business. Everything you put your hand to thrives, yet you’ve been up to your ears in debt as long as I’ve known you. Do you gamble? I’m fairly certain it’s not drink.”

Lucian began to laugh weakly, then threw back his head and roared. “Genius? That’s rich. There’s only one thing I’m good at – I’ll show you your genius.” He waved a hand at Mr. Butler, standing in the corner like a statue. “There’s your genius.”

Morgan turned around and regarded the dark servant. “I haven’t time for your jests, Lucian.”

“It’s none of your business how I found myself in this hole, or what I’ve had to do to try and dig myself out,” Lucian said. “Losing the distillery is as big a blow as I can absorb right now. I can’t let you have those horses.”

Morgan stood, straightening his collar. “You leave me no choice, then, Coz. Tell the Federals I stole them – it’ll be true enough.” He strode out the door.

Lucian leapt up to follow him. “John!”

Morgan whirled. “That’s General Morgan to you!” he snapped.

“General? You’re a General already?”

“Brigadier General. Acting,” Morgan conceded. “Never mind. This discussion is over.” He strode out to the porch. “Where’s Basil?” he demanded.

Basil Duke appeared as if by magic. “Here, General,” he said.

“Round up the horses,” Morgan ordered. “All of them.”

“Not my brood stock,” Lucian protested. “And the foals. . .”

“All of them,” Morgan snapped. He mounted his horse and rode off toward the pastures.

“Baz,” Lucian said, grabbing Basil by the arm before he could mount. “Can’t you stop him?”

Basil shook his head. “It would be like trying to stop a comet.”

“You’re worth ten of him,” Lucian said. “Why do you follow him?”

Basil stared at him. “Don’t you know? Can you really not see it?”

Lucian shook his head. “No. He’s a popinjay.”

“He’s a man above all men,” Basil said. He gestured toward the horde that followed Morgan. “Any of us would give our lives for him. Many of us have.” He mounted then. “I begin to pity you, Lucian.”

Pamela returned then. “Will you leave the wounded, Basil? Many of them are too weak to travel.”

“General Morgan has ordered that we take everyone with us. We can’t risk letting anyone fall into the hands of the Federals.”

“Why?” Pamela asked. “They don’t make war on the wounded.”

Basil reached down and squeezed her chin. “So charmingly innocent. Too bad none of us may remain so.”

Pamela jerked away, frowning. “I’m no baby.”

“No, you’re the full flower of womanhood,” Basil said gallantly. “Many thanks for your aid, dear.” He rode off to join Morgan.

“What’s happening, Daddy?” Pamela asked. Mr. Butler had joined them on the porch, and soon the grooms and field hands had gathered around as well.

“We’re being raided, Pammy,” Lucian said wearily.

“By John? But, but, he’s family!”

“I’m afraid I’m not Gray enough to suit him.”

Pamela looked up into his face, thinking he had never looked so gray before, but she understood what he meant.

“What are we going to do, Mr. Carr?” the head groom asked. “They’re taking the horses.”

“Nothing,” Lucian said. “We’re no match for a thousand armed men.”

They could only stand and watch while Morgan and his men stole the life’s blood of the farm. Morgan turned and waved his bullet-riddled hat at them as he left, riding Lucian’s prize stallion, and soon the deafening hoof beats had died away.

“Go to your cabins,” Lucian said to the men. “I’ll be out to talk to you later.” He looked so weary and old that no one had the heart to argue.

Pamela and Mr. Butler followed him into the study. He sat down behind the desk and laid his head on his arms. Pamela was afraid, not for herself – well, not much, she admitted – but her father’s despondency was like a deep dark well.

“We’ll manage somehow, won’t we, Mr. Butler?” she asked. “We’ve been in dire straits before.”

“There’s no money,” Lucian muttered, his words muffled in his arms. “The mortgage payment is due at the end of the week. The sale of the horses would have more than covered that. Now, there’s nothing. It’s a house of cards – it will all collapse now.”

Pamela bit her lip. “All?” she whispered.

“Tell her the truth, Lucian,” Mr. Butler said. “If you won’t, I will.”

“What truth?” Pamela demanded. “What don’t I know? Daddy?”

Lucian was silent, so Mr. Butler spoke. “It’s not your father’s fault, Miss Pamela. Your grandfather left the estate heavily in debt. Underwater. Far, far, far underwater. It was only your father’s promise to pay that kept the creditors from seizing everything after the will was read.”

“And I’ve paid and paid and paid, and it all comes to nothing,” Lucian said. He looked up then, eyes reddened. “I’m sorry, Butler – I know I promised you.”

“And you’ve done your best, I know,” Mr. Butler said gently.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Pamela demanded.

“I didn’t want to sully Father’s memory for you,” Lucian said.

Pamela snorted. “You’d rather I think you were profligate instead of him? Sometimes you’re too honorable, Daddy.” She pounded the desk. “We have to do something. We can lose the farm, but we can’t let them take the people.”

Lucian looked up at her and smiled sadly. “Now you do understand. It always was about the people.” He looked at Mr. Butler. “May as well tell her the rest.”

Mr. Butler waved his hand. “If you wish.”

Pamela raised an eyebrow. “More secrets?”

“Butler here is. . .” he hesitated, “. . .my brother.”

“Oh,” Pamela said weakly. “I see. And you promised him. . .that he’d never be sold?”

“That none of them would be sold.”

“Well, then, we must keep that promise,” Pamela said. “We must think of a way.” She furrowed her brow. “You could free them.”

“They’d be seized,” Lucian said. “Or I would have freed them a long time ago.”

“Not if they join the Army. The Union Army, I mean. Not as soldiers, but they’ll protect freed laborers. I read it in the paper.” She brightened. “We could all join the Army. I could be a nurse.”

Lucian stared at her a long moment. Then he jumped up and kissed her on the forehead. “You are brilliant, my dear.” He opened the desk drawer and took out a stack of paper and began writing. “If ever there was a time for bold action, this it it.” He looked up at his brother. “Butler, here’s your chance to choose whatever name you please. I know you’ve always hated the one my father gave you.”

“Butler, will do,” Mr. Butler said. “Jacob Butler.”

“Not Carr?” Lucian asked, disappointed. “And why Jacob?”

“From the Bible, Daddy,” Pamela said. “He had a son named Benjamin.”

Jacob’s face grew grave at the name of his lost son, but he merely nodded. “It’s what suits me, sir.”

“Stop calling me ‘sir,’” Lucian said.

“All right, Lucian,” Jacob answered.

Lucian smiled and finished writing the writ of manumission. He handed it to Jacob with a flourish. “You’re a free man now. If we can make it stick.”

“We will,” Jacob said firmly, tucking the writ away inside his shirt.

Lucian turned his hand to writing out more writs. When he had finished, he picked up the papers and bottle of ink, motioning Pamela and Jacob to follow him out to the slave cabins behind the house.

The men were loitering about the yard, silently, with hangdog expressions. Lucian paused a moment, then strode into the midst of them. “Men.” He stopped and cleared his throat, uncertain where to begin. “Men, we’ve been together a long time – you’ve all served me well and I hope you have no complaints of me.”

There was a murmur among the men. “No, sir, you been right kindly.”

“Well, I hope so,” Lucian said. “I’ve tried.” He raised his voice. “Morgan’s raid today has dealt us a severe blow. The truth is – the truth is – that my father left me deeply in debt. So deep that in almost twenty years of trying, I haven’t managed to climb out of that hole.”

“Are we gonna be sold?” the head groom asked. “Because if we are, you can stop with the speechifying.”

“Bear with me,” Lucian pleaded. “No, I am not going to sell you. In fact,” he waived the pile of writs, “I intend to free all of you. Right here and now.”

There was an even more excited murmur from the men. Lucian held up his hand. “There is peril in this – my creditors are likely to try to seize you, but my daughter,” he grinned at Pamela, “has come up with what I think may be the only possible solution. Tomorrow – “ he looked around at the gathering twilight, “she and I are going to go join the Union Army. The Union has promised protection to any freed slave who signs on to work for them, so I recommend that all of you go with us. I know some of you have wives and children at neighboring farms – what you do after today is your decision, but if you want to keep your freedom, I see no other choice.”

The men took a minute to consider this. “You’re sure there’s no other way?” the head groom asked.

“I see none,” Lucian said. “The truth is that we live in uncertain times – Morgan’s raid today has brought it home to us. If the South wins this war, it’s likely that you will all be enslaved again. I intend to do my part to see that that doesn’t happen. But I have no guarantees. None of us do.”

“What is Mr. Butler doing?”

Jacob spoke up. “I throw my lot in with Mr. Carr. I’ll be joining the Army as well.”

“Would someone bring me a table and chair?” Lucian asked. One of the field hands did so, and he sat down to write. “One more thing,” he said hesitantly, “Mr. Butler here is my brother.” He looked around at the men, who exhibited no surprise. “It’s likely that some of you could make the same claim. I know these things are not usually spoken of, but I want you to know that I am not ashamed of it. Of you. All of you will be able to choose what name you want put on these writs, and if any of you will take the name of Carr, I will consider it an honor.”

The men filed by as Lucian put their names to the writs – some few took the name of Carr, some took names such as Washington, Jefferson or Adams, one even took the name of Lincoln.

“You’re all free now,” Lucian said. “You may go visit your wives and children – you may go do whatever you wish. All I ask is that anyone who is going with us pack your belongings and be ready to go at sunrise.”

“We should harvest the kitchen garden,” Pamela said, “and there’s the smokehouse – I hate to think of it all going to waste. Perhaps we could have a feast?”

“Good idea,” Lucian agreed. “If anyone would help my daughter, it would be greatly appreciated. Bring your families back here if you wish. There’ll be plenty for everyone.”

Mr. Butler and the head groom helped Pamela harvest the vegetables from the garden while others of the men raided the smokehouse and built a fire in the yard. Some men left and returned later, wives and mostly grown children in tow. They gathered around the fire and partook of smoked ham, beef and fresh tomatoes and squash from the garden. After supper, some of the men took out instruments and began playing – soft, plaintive, wistful songs.

Pamela felt a wave of melancholy wash over her. The men were free, for which she was happy, but the life she knew was over. Her father put an arm around her waist and spoke softly. “I’m sorry, Pammy. I wanted to do much better for you.”

She wrapped an arm around him. “Don’t be sorry. I only wish you had told me all the truth a long time ago.” She gazed into the fire. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course, dear.”

“You seemed so proud to acknowledge Mr. Butler – Jacob – as your brother. Why was it so hard to acknowledge Daisy?” She nodded at Jacob across the fire. “I don’t like to speak of it in front of him, I know how it still pains him. But I wondered.”

“You still miss her, don’t you?”

“There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wonder where she is, what she’s doing, if I’ll ever see her again.”

Lucian breathed in deeply. “Jacob being my brother – well, that’s my father’s shame. For all I tried to shield him, it’s not the same. Azalea – she was my shame. And Daisy the remembrance of it. I so wanted not to be like my father.” Lucian clenched his fists. “I have no idea how many of the slaves born on this farm were his children, but a good number, I’m sure. It’s shameful enough to own a woman, much more so to use her in such a fashion. I swore I never would, and then I did. The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve wondered why we didn’t own any women – except for Aunt Elsie, and Daisy, of course.”

“I didn’t want to be a breeder of slaves, Pammy. The women that were left me, I tried to find reasonably good homes for, nearby so they wouldn’t be separated from their husbands, but I wanted no more slaves born on this farm.”

She looked up at him. “Are you an abolitionist, Daddy?”

Lucian snorted. “No. At least not the pamphlet-waving sort. But I do think it’s wrong – look at Jacob. He’s a better man than I am. It was a sin to own him.” He straightened his shoulders. “And now I don’t anymore. Whatever happens, I’m no longer a slaveholder. And that is some cause for rejoicing, even if it’s not the way I wished for it to happen.”

The head groom approached them. “The men were wondering if you would favor us with a song, Miss Pamela,” he said shyly.

“Of course,” Pamela said. She walked to the center of the yard, lifted up her head and began to sing.

“The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home,
'Tis summer, the darkies are gay;
The corn-top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom,
While the birds make music all the day.

“The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,
All merry, all happy and bright;
By 'n' by hard times comes a-knocking at the door,
Then my old Kentucky home, goodnight.

“Weep no more my lady
Oh! weep no more today!
We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home,
For the Old Kentucky Home far away.”

Her voice broke and she could not continue. She went and stood beside her father. Lucian had tears in his eyes, too, but neither of them spoke. There was nothing left to say.

No one slept that night. When the fire burned down, they all went to pack their belongings. At dawn, they loaded everything they were bringing with them onto a wagon and hitched up the plow mules. None of the men chose to stay behind – as Lucian had said, what other choice did they really have?

Lucian and Pamela climbed aboard the wagon, the men walking alongside as they set out on the road to Paris. Pamela did not look back. It was better so.

Disclaimer

Beginning with chapter eleven, we are going to be spending some time with some actual historical personages, as historical events begin to impinge on our characters. With that in mind, I wish to post the following disclaimer:

All historical persons and events are used in a fictitious manner, and neither insult nor glorification are intended. For the most part, I have striven for historical accuracy, but have also taken the liberty of some creative license for the sake of the story.

Chapter Ten
Modesto: 1880

Marguerite stepped back from the canvas and turned around – no one there, this time. No stale sandwich or tepid glass of milk. She was almost disappointed – it seemed the angels of the household had abandoned her.

She turned back to examine her work. Pamela: stronger than she knew, kinder than she knew. Pamela’s letter had explained much, although Marguerite felt no tenderness toward their father, as Pamela had. Whatever his straits might have been, he had had no right to mortgage her, nor to sell her. No moral right, anyway.

The letter. If she had returned to the farm when she received it, would her life have been less cold and dark? She shook her head. It had come too late. For all that Pamela had been a musician, she had had a knack for painting bright, happy, unattainable pictures. Marguerite wondered where Pamela was now. Had she married, did she have children? Was she happy?

There was a soft tap at the door. “Come in,” Marguerite called.

Aurora opened the door and stepped in. “How are you?” she asked. “I wanted you to know we left your lunch in the icebox – it seemed better than letting it sit out and spoil. Of course, you’re free to raid the pantry whenever you want – you keep such irregular hours, but we don’t want you to starve. All part of following a Muse, I suppose. I think I see why artists have such unconventional reputations.” She paused her chatter to gaze at the painting. “Oh, my, that’s very good. Your sister?”

Marguerite nodded. “As I last saw her.”

“She looks just like you,” Rory noted.

Marguerite’s forehead wrinkled. “Do you think so? I was thinking she looked something like you.”

“The coloring, yes,” Rory agreed, “but in every other way, she looks like you. Same chin, same mouth, same nose and eyes. You painted it, you must see it.”

“Perhaps I’m too close to it,” Marguerite frowned.

“Perhaps. You must both resemble your father, then.”

That must have been how I knew. Marguerite was not one for staring into mirrors, but if the resemblance was obvious to a stranger, it must have been obvious to everyone. Except to Marguerite, apparently.

“She’s holding sheet music.” Rory said. “Was she a musician?”

“A pianist,” Marguerite said. “A very gifted one.”

“Musician, painter – it must run in the family,” Rory said. “It’s an hour until suppertime,” Rory turned toward the door, “but if you’re hungry, you’re welcome to come down and have a snack beforehand.”

“No, I’m all right,” Marguerite said, frowning.

“Well, then, come down when you’re ready.” Rory left Marguerite still staring at the painting. Now that Rory had pointed it out, the resemblance was obvious. I’m an artist, this is what I do – why did I not see it before?


She changed and went down for supper. She tried to enjoy the conversation and socializing afterward, but was too distracted. For all that she knew Pamela was her sister, she had never thought of her as family. She had never thought of anyone as family except for Benjamin during their all-too-brief marriage. She thought she had only been happy in her ignorance – what if she had been happy in something else?

She excused herself early and went back upstairs to the studio. She lit a lamp and sat down, contemplating the portrait. She heard a noise behind her and turned around – Clay was standing in the doorway. “I don’t wish to disturb you,” he said. “Rory told us about the painting. I thought I might have a look?”

“You’re not disturbing me,” she said. “Come in.”

Clay approached the painting hesitantly. He stood in front of it for several minutes. When he finally turned to Marguerite, he had an odd look on his face. Not weeping, exactly, but as though he were remembering having wept, long ago. “Do you know what became of her?” he asked, his throat tight.

Marguerite felt her own throat tighten. She shook her head.

Clay took the other wing chair, clasping his hands on his knees. “I truly hate to be the one to tell you,” he began.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Marguerite said, her eyes suddenly hot with tears. “How do you know? Did my father talk about her?”

“I knew her,” Clay said. “She joined the Army as a nurse the same day Lucian and Jacob did. Shall I tell you about it? How we met, what we suffered, how your father and sister died?”

There was nothing she wanted less; nothing she needed more. She nodded silently. It was only when Clay handed her his handkerchief that she realized she was weeping. This was no wave of grief, merely a trickle, but she could tell that the wave was coming. How much of her would be left when it came?

She wiped her eyes and steeled herself to listen.

Chapter Nine
Bourbon County, Kentucky: 1846 – 1858

Pamela Carr seldom spoke of her mother, and when she did, it was with a note of disdain. Often ill, seldom kind, Cynthia Hunt Carr’s death left barely a shadow on Pamela’s young life.

Unlike Daisy, Pamela remembered when the house had been filled with beautiful things, and how most of them had disappeared over time. The remains, while fine, were merely serviceable, and although well taken care of, the rugs were never replaced and the furniture grew shabby with age over the years.

But she little cared. All she wanted was someone to love, and to love her. Her father’s frequent absences left a much larger hole in her life than her mother’s death, so she used all her budding feminine wiles to obtain the child of her nurse when her nurse had been sold.

She poured all her maternal care into her ‘Itty Bitty.’ Although surrounded by slaves, she had no concept of slavery until she was in her teens. She clung to Daisy as a drowning man clings to flotsam.

She was incensed when her father sold Daisy’s paintings without her leave. Incensed enough to beard him in his den, which sanctum she had never before violated.

“It’s not fair, Daddy,” she said. “She’s worked so hard.”

“So do the men work hard when I hire out their labor,” her father said. “It’s no different.”

Pamela considered this. “Do they get paid, or does it all go into your pocket?”

“They get a share,” Lucian conceded. “I intend Bitty to get a share, too. Everyone works better if there’s some reward.”

Pamela’s eyes narrowed. “How much reward?”

“I give the men ten percent.”

“Twenty percent,” Pamela haggled.

“Are you her agent?” Lucian smiled.

“Does she need one?” Pamela countered.

“I thought I was acting in that capacity,” Lucian said. “Very well, but don’t bruit it about. It’s a small enough sum at this point, and I concede that her work will probably become more valuable as she progresses. I’m willing to pay her a bit more for it.”

This victory had been all too easy – perhaps she should have asked for more. Perhaps she had been too afraid of her father up until now. “Are we poor?” She blurted the question that had been nagging her for some time.

“Nothing to worry yourself about, dear,” Lucian said, reddening. He glanced up at Mr. Butler, who was playing at dusting.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Pamela pointed out.

“We’ve had some. . .setbacks. But everything is well in hand. Believe me.”

She crossed her arms. “If that’s so, then I want something for my eighteenth birthday.”

“What would that be, my dear?” Lucian asked warily.

“Bitty. I want her freed.” Pamela’s heart pounded with fear. Mr. Butler paused in his dusting, her father stared at her. The room was silent except for the loud ticking of the clock.

Lucian leaned forward, resting his forehead on his hands. “I wish I could, dear, but I can’t.”

“You can,” Pamela argued. “All you have to do is write out a piece of paper. I checked.”

“I can’t,” Lucian sighed. “She’s mortgaged.”

“Mortgaged?” Pamela reeled with horror. “Why would you mortgage her?”

“Everything’s mortgaged, all right!” Lucian exclaimed bitterly. “You asked, I’ve answered. Are you satisfied?”

“What did you do with all of Grandfather’s money, Daddy?” she asked, stunned.

“Nothing,” Lucian said, hiding his face. “I was never cut out to be a manager.”

Pamela touched his arm. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything nefarious, Daddy,” she apologized. “I’m surprised, that’s all.”

Lucian lifted his face and looked at her. “I was hoping you’d never have to know,” he whispered.

“What can I do?” Pamela asked.

Lucian smiled and patted her hand. “Please don’t trouble yourself – I’ll pay everything off, I promise you. Eventually.”

Pamela wrinkled her forehead. “Everything?” She looked at Mr. Butler. “Everyone?”

“Yes,” Lucian admitted. “But keep it to yourself, Pammy. None of the servants must know. Consider their feelings, please.”

“Mr. Butler knows,” she said.

“Butler,” Lucian looked over at him, “is my good right hand. We would be in much direr straits without him. He has a sounder business head than mine.”

Pamela looked at the old servant with new eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Butler,” she said sincerely.

Mr. Butler smiled. “You’re welcome, Missy.”

She turned back to her father. “If I can find a way to pay Bitty’s mortgage, may I have her?”

“What do you have in mind, Pammy?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “I need to think about it. How much is it?”

“Eight hundred dollars,” her father said.

“Eight hundred. . .” she blanched. “So much?”

“Yes, dear,” her father said sadly.

“Shouldn’t the price of her art go toward her mortgage?”

“It does, and every cent I can scrape together, believe me,” Lucian said. “But most of that goes toward interest. Paying down the principal is a long, torturous process.”

“We’re making some headway,” Mr. Butler said, coming to stand by Lucian and giving up on the dusting.

Pamela frowned. “Well, then, give her ten percent, and give the other ten percent to me. It’s a start.”

Lucian smiled. “It seems my daughter is a better businessman than I am, Butler.” He opened the desk drawer and took out a ten dollar gold piece. “Here’s your agent’s share, then, Pamela. It’s a long way to eight hundred dollars.”

She clasped the gold piece in her fist. “Thank you, Daddy.” She stood, walked around the desk and kissed his cheek. She stroked his head affectionately. “Now I understand why you work so hard. Forgive me for being such a demanding little miss. I promise never to be again.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “You’re hardly that, dearest. On the contrary, I’ve always found you the most amiable of daughters.”

“I’m not, but thank you,” she laughed. “Will you speak to Bitty? I want her to feel encouraged – she’s taken the loss of her paintings much to heart.”

“Of course, my dear. Please send her in.”


When Daisy emerged from the study, Pamela could see her disappointment, for all she tried to hide it. So that night, Pamela invited her into bed and spun her a pretty tale of the future, knowing it could not be true, but wishing herself it were so.

As Daisy slept by her side, Pamela pondered. Even though she was now aware that everything she knew, everyone she loved, was in peril, she felt no fear, only frustration. If only she had some marketable talent, like Daisy did. There was her music, of course, but a woman performing in public was considered shameful. It was different in Europe, she had heard, but she could hardly run off to France and leave everyone behind.

She had a tenderness for her father she had never felt before – she had never known the burdens he bore, and she was glad he had finally confided in her. Well, if she could not earn money, at least not yet, she could endeavor to practice better economy. No new dresses, she resolved. She and Daisy could make over, let out, or otherwise alter anything she already owned. And she would apply herself to her crocheting and her knitting. With this good resolution, she snuggled next to the girl lying beside her. Poor Daisy. Pamela also resolved that, no matter what befell, they should never be parted.

She felt so maternal – toward Daisy, toward her father, toward all the servants. She began to regret her decision not to marry, if this was how a mother felt. Marriage. . .

She pondered. Perhaps an alliance with one of the Bluegrass’s wealthy families might solve all her problems. Marriage might not be such a bad thing if it rescued her father and provided her with children.


She began to cultivate the young men of her acquaintance, and also the young men of their acquaintance. When Harold Pike began to press his suit, she encouraged him, especially when she discovered that his father was one of her father’s creditors.

She felt nothing for him, but she did not expect to, nor did she think that he did, either. Everything seemed to be going smoothly until that awful day.

She was not sorry when Harold’s horse threw a shoe and he returned to the farm – she much preferred Belinda’s company, anyway – but she had no apprehension of anything untoward. It was with great surprise and alarm that she returned home and found him being administered to by Mr. Butler, his face still red, bleeding and angry.

In a near panic at the almost certain failure of her plans, she dealt with Daisy in a high-handed manner, which she later much regretted. Pleading a headache, she sought refuge in the drawing room until her father came home.

Apprised of the situation by Mr. Butler, Lucian Carr parked Harold in the study with a whiskey while he went upstairs to deal with Daisy.

When he came downstairs afterward, he found Harold, Belinda and Pamela assembled in the front hall, attended by Mr. Butler. “I hope you’ll have her whipped,” Harold said venomously. Three long red welts marred his face, although they no longer bled.

Lucian frowned. “She’ll be dealt with,” he said, covering Pamela’s gasp. He turned to Belinda. “My apologies, Miss Pike, but I think it is best if you and your brother terminate your visit. You’ll understand, I’m sure. Pamela will help you prepare for your departure.”

Belinda nodded and offered her hand. “I know my brother will not apologize for his boorish behavior, but I do hope you’ll accept my apologies in his stead.”

“Bel. . .” Harold said warningly.

Belinda flipped her hair disdainfully and started to climb the stairs.

“Another drink, Mr. Pike,” Lucian said, ushering him into the study. “Butler will summon your carriage.”

As the study door closed and Mr. Butler left, Pamela stopped on the stairs. “Do you mind awfully packing by yourself, Belinda?”

“Going to listen at keyholes?” Belinda laughed as Pamela blushed. “I would, if I were you.” She held out her hand. “I do hope that we can remain friends after this, Pam.”

“Well, of course we will,” Pamela said. “You’ll be my sister-in-law.”

“Will I?” Belinda said doubtfully. “I know I wouldn’t marry Harold for a million dollars.”

Pamela frowned. “Wouldn’t you?”

“No, dear, I wouldn’t. Now scurry along. Be sure to tell me later what you hear. I know Harold will lie manfully. Don’t let him get away with it.”

“All right.” Pamela gave her friend a quick hug and scurried down the stairs to the study door. She carefully turned the knob and opened the door the tiniest crack, only enough to hear what was said inside.

“The little minx enticed me,” Harold was saying. Pamela could almost hear him pout. “It wasn’t my fault. This is what comes of coddling niggers.”

It was all Pamela could do to keep quiet. That word had never been uttered in this house, though she had often heard it in town. Hearing it from the lips she had once kissed made her stomach churn.

Lucian’s voice was tight with controlled fury. “That’s not the tale my butler tells me.”

“You gonna take a nigger’s word over mine?” Harold said belligerently.

“Even if your tale were true,” Lucian said, side-stepping, “it was most unchivalrous for you to enter my daughter’s bedroom before your marriage.”

“Why are you berating me?” Harold asked. “It’s that that little quadroon you should be berating.” Pamela heard him shift in his chair. “And don’t be getting on your high horse with me. Everyone does it, even you.”

Pamela heard her father’s sharp intake of breath and decided this was the moment to make her entrance. She rattled the doorknob to announce herself, then opened the door. “Daddy?” she said.

Harold came unsteadily to his feet. It was obvious that he had been making free with his host’s whiskey even before Lucian had returned home.

“Come on in, Pamela,” Lucian said. “Mr. Pike is just about to make his apologies.”

“Am not,” Harold mumbled under his breath, but Pamela overrode him.

“No need.” She pulled the ring off her finger. “I’m sorry, Harold, but I’m calling off our engagement.”

Harold stood stupefied a moment, looking down at the ring she put in his hand. “My father will have something to say about this,” he said.

Lucian opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it.

“This is between you and me, Harold,” Pamela said. “I don’t believe you show me the respect due your fiancée. I doubt you’ll show me the respect due your wife.”

Harold clutched the ring in his hand, and stormed toward the door. He turned and said, “You’ll be sorry, Pamela.”

“No doubt,” she replied. “I’ll probably die an old maid.”

He slammed the door behind him. Pamela sighed and turned toward her father.

“Are you sure about this, Pammy?” Lucian asked.

Pamela nodded. “I thought I could go through with it, but I can’t. I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“Don’t be sorry, dearest,” Lucian said. “I would have tried to talk you out of it.”

“Will Mr. Pike call in your note, do you think?” she asked worriedly.

“Probably,” Lucian said. “He’s a spiteful old cuss. But you’re well out of it, my dear. I’m sorry I encouraged you in the first place.”

Mr. Butler came in then. “They’re gone, sir,” he announced.

“Stop calling me ‘sir’,” Lucian said, wearily, as though not for the first time.

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Butler said, a vague smile on his lips.

Pamela looked from one to the other at this byplay. “What are we going to do?” she asked. “If Mr. Pike calls in your note, are we ruined?”

“Not necessarily,” Mr. Butler intoned.

“I hate to do it,” Lucian said. “You know I do.”

“Do what?” Pamela asked.

“Your mother’s cousin Morgan wants me to go partners in a whiskey distillery,” Lucian said. “There’s certainly money in it, but I hate to profit from vice.”

“Cousin John?” Pamela asked.

“Or ‘Captain Morgan’ as he styles himself these days,” Lucian said. “Playing with his private rifle regiment down there in Lexington.”

“I think he’s very dashing,” Pamela said, eyes brightening.

“So does he, more’s the pity,” Lucian said.

“How can we go partners if we haven’t any money?”

“Mortgage the hemp crop to Morgan,” Lucian explained. “That’s his offer.”

“He does own a hemp factory, so that would make sense,” Pamela said thoughtfully. “What choice do we have?”

Lucian looked from her to Mr. Butler. “None,” he conceded. “It’s the lesser of two evils again. Just once, I’d like to be able to choose a positive good, instead.”

Pamela gazed at him, her eyes full of sympathy. She shook herself. “I’d better go let Bitty out. She’s probably cried herself to sleep by now, poor dear.”

“Of course,” Lucian said, reaching into his pocket and handing her the key. “Let her know she has nothing to fear.”

“I’m sure she knows that,” Pamela said, taking the key. She left, but returned a few minutes later, looking suddenly frazzled. “She’s gone!” she said. “I don’t know how she got out, but she’s not there!”

The three of them pounded up the stairs to Pamela’s bedroom. A hurried search was made, in the wardrobe and under the beds, but no Daisy was to be found.

“The window’s closed, and the door was locked.” Pamela said. “How could she have gotten out?”

Lucian opened the window and examined the sill. His lips grew tight. “There’s the mark of a ladder here. See? It’s all scuffed.”

“Who. . . ?” Pamela began, but was interrupted by Mr. Butler leaving the room in a hurry.

He returned a few minutes later. “He’s gone, too.”

“Benjamin?” Pamela said. “Of course. But, then again, why? I know I was unkind to her, but not enough to make her want to leave, I’m sure.”

Lucian hung his head. “Not you, my dear. Me. I struck her.”

“You!” Pamela’s eyes filled with shock. “You couldn’t have – you’ve never – I mean. . .” Her voice trailed off. “Why?”

“She was. . .saucy,” Lucian said, shamefaced. “I was sorry as soon as I’d done it. I should have said so, it seems.” He pounded his fist on the sill. “Rash, young, romantic fools! What do they think they’re playing at? Don’t they know what happens to runaways?”

Mr. Butler had collapsed on the edge of Pamela’s bed. Always upright and dignified, he looked now like a rag doll with half its stuffing missing. Pamela put an arm around him. “Don’t worry, Mr. Butler. They can’t have gone far. We’ll find them, won’t we, Daddy?”

“It’s raining, and it’s dark,” Lucian pointed out. “Unless you have some idea where they would go, we’ll have to wait until morning.”

“I don’t,” Pamela said. “I can’t imagine either one of them wanting to leave. But to let them stay out all night, in the cold. . .”

“It’s not cold,” Lucian said, “only wet. They’ll suffer no hurt, and they might learn a lesson.”

“Please don’t call out the slave catchers,” Mr. Butler pleaded.

“Of course not, Butler,” Lucian said. “What do you take me for? We’ll have the men search in the morning. Pammy’s right – they can’t have gone far, even if they walk all night. I’d better go down and make sure none of the horses are missing, now that I think of it.”

No horse was missing, but search as they might next day, no sign of the fugitives could be found. Pamela hoped that in a day or so the two of them might straggle in, but two days passed without a sign.

“What do we do, Daddy?” she pleaded. “We can’t call the slave catchers, we can’t advertise a reward – I won’t have bounty hunters after my Bitty, not to mention Benjamin.”

“I don’t know, dear,” Lucian said. “I’m as worried as you are, and Butler’s practically prostrated.”

Pamela thought. “Perhaps Pinkerton’s? Finding people is what they do, isn’t it?”

“Among other things,” Lucian said. “But, Pamela, if they wanted to come home, they already would have. And how would we pay for it, anyway?”

“Wait a moment.” Pamela ran upstairs to her bedroom and returned bearing a hinged box. “We can sell the jewelry Harold gave me.”

“A proper young lady would return those,” Lucian said.

“He cost us two perfectly good servants,” Pamela said firmly. “He can pay for their recovery.”

“And how will a detective convince them to come home? If you’re expecting him to bring them against their wills, you might as well hire a slave catcher.”

Pamela shuddered. “Never. I’ll write a letter – I’ll apologize for the things I said, and for you striking her, and promise her all will be as it was. She’ll come home,” she said confidently.

Lucian grimaced. “Sit down, Pammy,” he said. “There’s something you have to know – the real reason Bitty ran away, and why Benjamin would feel the need to rescue her.”

“There’s more, isn’t there?” Pamela said, taking the proffered chair. “I thought there must be – she wouldn’t run away because of one blow.”

Lucian nodded, seating himself across from her. “You’re a woman now, Pamela. There’s some family history you need to be made aware of, for all that it shows me in a horrible light.”

“Go on,” Pamela said, warily.

Lucian leaned back. “Well. First of all, Bitty is your sister. Your half-sister.”

“I knew that,” Pamela said.

Lucian’s eyebrows flew up. “You did? How? When?”

“Azalea told me, practically the day Daisy was born.”

“Daisy?” Lucian said, stunned.

“Benjamin gave her that name, years ago. It fits her better, don’t you agree?”

“Daisy it is then,” Lucian agreed. “You knew?” he asked again, not quite grasping it. “You never told me.”

“I was sure you knew,” Pamela said. “And I didn’t grasp at the time what it all meant. Why else did you think I begged you for her when you sold Azalea? And why did you sell her, anyway?”

“Your mother begged me to, on her deathbed,” Lucian explained.

“I see,” Pamela said tersely. “She would.”

“Don’t be unkind to your mother’s memory, Pamela,” Lucian warned. “She suffered terribly because of me. And then there was the child – it was a slap in her face.”

Pamela frowned. “All right, maybe I do see, a little. But this is ancient history – what does it have to do with Daisy running away?”

“Because it looked like history was about to repeat itself, dear, don’t you see? You, and Harold, and Daisy? I couldn’t let you suffer the things your mother suffered, so I told Daisy I would have to sell her.”

“Sell her? Daddy, you didn’t!” Pamela’s chair rocked from the force of her shock.

“I did,” Lucian said in a rush, “and she begged me not to, and she called me ‘Father’ and I was so filled with the shame of it all, that I struck her.” He turned his head away. “And there you have it. All of it.”

Pamela sat quietly for several minutes. “I want to understand, Daddy, but I’m afraid I don’t.”

Lucian sighed. “And I hope you never do, dearest. I would hate for you to have to sink to that level, to understand what sort of man I was. Am.”

She reached out and touched him. “I don’t have to understand to know that you’re a good, honorable man, Daddy. I loved Azalea – I’m sure you must have, too. She was sweet, and warm. . .”

“And the most beautiful thing I ever saw,” Lucian said, distantly. “But that doesn’t excuse me, Pammy. I’ve made a mess of things, as you see.”

“Then let me help you clean it up,” Pamela said. “Let me borrow your desk to write that letter to Daisy. I’ll explain it all – if she can be found, she’ll come home, you’ll see.” Her eyes darkened. “And you will free her?”

“As soon as I’m able,” Lucian promised. “But you realize that if I try to before her mortgage is paid, she’ll be seized and sold.”

Pamela nodded. “Society might not acknowledge that she’s our family, but we do. Won’t you, Daddy?”

“If that’s what it takes to make this right, then yes, dear. At least to you,” Lucian promised.

He rose to leave her alone, and she sat down at the desk, taking pen in hand and began to write.

“My dearest Daisy. . . ,