A good friend gone

Those of you who have been reading this blog may have noticed that my most faithful commenter was a woman by the screen name of nlindabrit.  I have received word that she passed away this morning, and I am distraught.

Linda Sherlock was an acquaintance of mine who I met on the Big Valley Writing Desk discussion forum on Yuku.  She lived in the UK, so I have never met her in person, but I and many others have always experienced her online presence as one of grace, generosity and kindness.  She has always been extremely encouraging of other writers, and I have greatly appreciated the faithfulness she has shown to this blog and my amateur attempts at my first novel.

Three days before her death, she posted how excited she was that she had won a Western story contest.  I'm glad she had this success, but am very sad that she will not be around to experience any more of the successes that I'm sure were ahead of her.

I shall deeply miss her - one of the reasons I was so faithful to post a new chapter every week was because I was eager to see what she would say about it.  It's going to be hard to keep this blog going forward - I shall feel her loss anew with every post.  But I should be doing her memory a disservice to stop writing now.  So the book when it is done will be dedicated to her memory.

Farewell, Linda.  You shall be sorely missed.

Linda's blog can be found here.

Chapter Fifteen
Modesto: 1880


“She died a few days later,” Clay told Marguerite. “Jacob and I nursed her, but it was as I’d warned her and her father. Perhaps she was too worn by her griefs to fight back.”

Marguerite lowered her eyes. I was one of those griefs. She turned away from the thought. “The men who were hanged? Were they ever found?”

Clay leaned forward in his chair. “No. Colonel Lieb informed General Grant, but Grant was besieging Vicksburg and he let the matter drop. Unfortunate, because it was not, by far, the last time that the rebels murdered black prisoners, or their officers. Fort Pillow, Poison Spring. . .Well, I wasn’t there. I was invalided out of the army and I made Jacob promise to come here when he got out.”

“I would never have known that you had lost an eye,” Marguerite said.

Clay reached up and tapped his right eye – it made a slight tinkling sound. “Good, isn’t it? I found a glassblower in San Francisco who’s a master. Not many people know.” He reached toward her. “Are you all right? It’s a lot to hand you all at once.”

It was a lot to hand her all at once, and she was not sure how she felt. She had borne a grudge – no, she had hated her father all these years. The picture that Clay painted of him was not the one she held in her mind. She glanced over at the portrait. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. For the first time in more than twenty years, she felt homesick. Not the first time, only the first time you’d admit it.

“Should I stay with you, or should I leave you alone to think?” Clay asked.

His tale had taken up the entire evening and much of the following day – it was now well past the dinner hour, but no one had disturbed them.

Her hands clenched themselves. “I need to paint,” she said.

Clay nodded understanding and stood. “I’ll tell Rory you might need some company later. She’s good at offering comfort without even realizing it.”

“I know,” she said. “I’ve already been the recipient of it. All of you are.”

She took up her brush as Clay left. She could feel hot burning tears behind her eyes, and she turned her gaze from her sister’s portrait. She had told herself she never wished to see Pamela again, but even then, she had known it was not true. At this moment, there was nothing she wanted more, but she could not bear to contemplate gone forever.

Her father – she could not paint him. The images in her mind were too jumbled, and Benjamin. . .no, not yet. Not yet. She squirted several daubs of paint on her palette and began painting the tall dark figure that stood behind her sister on her canvas.



Clay saddled a horse and rode to the orphanage. School would be out by the time he arrived, he hoped, if he rode slowly. Spring flowers bloomed by the road and in the pastures – he regretted that he so seldom took the time to notice. Telling his tale to Marguerite had reminded him that life was short and uncertain.

He timed his ride accurately – the children were sprinting down the steps as he arrived, and he bounded into the schoolroom. Molly was busy putting away books, but she dropped them on the desk as she saw him enter. “What is it, dearest?” she asked. “Are you unwell?” She looked at him with concern.

“No. But I wanted to tell you – there’s something I have to do, but I’m not sure I have the courage.”

“You do,” she said, taking his arm and perching on the desk. He perched beside her, clasping her hand. “You’re the most courageous man I know. What is it?”

“Something you said to me when we first met, and something Jacob said to me the other day. And I’ve been talking to Marguerite, and I realize I don’t want to carry this corruption into our marriage, Molly.”

She knitted her brow, trying to understand him. “What corruption?”

“Lucy,” he said. “And Jim. And my suspicions, and my hatred.” He clasped her hand tighter. “I need to go talk to Jim Gardner, and find out what happened, and try to forgive her.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Do you believe that will help?”

“I don’t know. I watch Marguerite and how she’s trying to reach an understanding through her art, and I wonder if to know all is really to forgive all, as they say. And I’m afraid to know, because then I’ll know for sure that I drove her to it, yet I can’t go on this way, not and be any kind of man to myself, or husband to you.”

Molly slipped her arm around him. “You’re right. This has hung on you for too long, you need to find release. Bear what responsibility is yours, and let the rest go.”

He smiled. “One reason I love you is because you don’t sugarcoat things. Will you lend me your courage, dear?”

“All I have,” she said. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, I have to do this alone.” He stroked her hair. “But you’ll be with me, nonetheless.” He kissed the top of her head and jumped down from the desk. “Now I’d better go before I lose my resolve. Come to the ranch for dinner – however it goes, I think I’m going to want you near me afterward.”

Molly agreed and walked with him to his horse, kissing him warmly before he departed.

Clay’s horse slowed at Jacob’s gate, and Clay had to apply his spurs to get him to move forward. Clay smiled grimly – even horses were creatures of habit, and he felt that he was crossing a boundary to some strange world himself.

The house looked much as he remembered it, with a fresh coat of yellow paint and freshly turned flower beds. As he looped his horse’s reins at the porch rail, Sarah opened the front door. She paused for a moment before exclaiming. “Clay Palmer! As I live and breathe!” She clattered down the steps, hands outstretched. “What brings you to my door? And what’s kept you away so long?” She took both his hands, reached up and kissed his cheek.

He was not sure what he was expecting, but this warmth overwhelmed him. “I’d like to talk to Jim,” he said. “Is he around?”

“He’s in the barn,” Sarah said. “Oh, he will be glad to see you!”

Clay rather doubted it, and he began to doubt himself. If Sarah did not know of Jim’s infidelity, would Clay’s coming here today throw her a bombshell? He sincerely hoped not – he had enough on his conscience as it was.

He walked behind the house to the barn. He opened the door, taking a moment for his eye to adjust to the dim light. “Hello?” he called. “Jim?”

Jim came out of the tack room. “Who’s there?” He squinted toward the door.

Clay realized he was back lit, so he moved into the dimness of the barn. “It’s me, Jim. Clay Palmer.”

Jim stood frozen a moment, then, “Clay! Oh, my word! Clay! I never expected to see you here again. What brings you?”

“Are we alone?” Clay said. “I wish to speak with you privately, if I may.”

Jim looked back over his shoulder and called, “You still up there, Abby?”

Abigail Gardner peeked over the edge of the hayloft, book in hand, spectacles on her eyes. “Yes, Daddy. Do you need me for something?”

“It’s all right, dear, go back to your book,” Jim said. “Just checking.”

Abigail brushed straw from her pigtails and disappeared into the hay.

“Let’s go into the tack room,” Jim said. “I do my accounting in there. We can be as private at you like.” Clay followed him – there was only one chair, which Jim gave to his visitor, sitting himself on the edge of the desk. “Can I get you anything? I don’t have any refreshments out here, but I can send Abby to the house.”

Clay waved a hand. “No, it’s all right.” He hesitated, unsure how to broach the subject, puzzled by his warm reception. “Have you heard I’m getting married?”

“Yes, I have, to Miss Holt. She seems like a fine woman – I’ve heard a lot of good things about her.”

He seemed so at ease, Clay thought. Curious, polite, not at all uncomfortable or conscience-stricken. Clay wrinkled his brow. “Well, in light of that, I thought we ought to have a talk about Lucy.”

“I wondered,” Jim said. “I know how her death devastated you – but usually people get closer when they share a tragedy, not cut each other off. Or was there more to it than that?”

Clay felt himself getting angry at the man’s perversity. He clenched his fists, but schooled himself to speak calmly. “You know there was.”

Jim shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You knew she was with child,” Clay said, barely contained. “Why would she tell you and not me?”

“She didn’t tell me,” Jim said, startled. “She told Sarah. You know how women are. Sarah about sobbed herself to death over it – that’s how I knew.” He frowned at Clay. “That’s what this was all about?”

Clay could not breathe. I was wrong, I was wrong. Such a simple explanation, and it never occurred to me.

Jim’s eyes narrowed. “And so you thought what?”

“That you. . .that she. . .” Clay was nearly choking.

“That we?” Jim’s voice was stone cold.

“I’m sorry,” Clay said. “I was wrong, I see that now.”

“I think you’d better leave,” Jim said.

Clay stood. This is all wrong. “If you wish, Jim. But. . .I was hoping our friendship might still matter for something.”

“Our friendship?” Jim nearly exploded. He glanced toward the door, apparently reminding himself of his daughter’s proximity, and likelihood of overhearing. “You’ve got your nerve!” he whispered. “You’re the one who threw our friendship into the gutter.” He stood up. He was shorter than Clay, yet somehow he still managed to loom over him. “Ten years I’ve been wondering what happened, why you’d rather cross the street than speak to me. You’ve known me all my life – how could you think such a thing of me?”

How could I, indeed? “I was wrong,” Clay repeated, knowing how weak it sounded. He reached for the door. “I hope, one day, you can forgive me.”

“In ten years,” Jim said tersely. “At least you’ll know why I cross the street when I see you coming.”

“Fair enough,” Clay said. He opened the door and walked around the house to his horse.

Sarah came out on the porch when she heard his step. “Will you stay for dinner, Clay?” she asked hopefully.

Clay might have laughed if he had not been so close to tears. “I can’t, Sarah, but thank you for asking.”

Sarah pressed her lips together. “It went wrong, didn’t it?”

Clay nodded. “All my fault, Sarah. All of it, from the beginning.”

“Then fix it,” Sarah demanded. “This ain’t how it ought to be. Jim’s mourned you for ten years – I thought you’d come to set it right.”

“It’s what I should have come for,” Clay said, “but I find I am a faithless dog, Sarah. I doubt he’ll ever forgive me now. And I don’t deserve for him to.”

“Forgiving ain’t something anyone deserves,” Sarah said. “If it were, we’d all be going to Hell for sure.” She flicked her hands at him. “Well, you go on home, but don’t you give up, Clay Palmer. Or you’ll have me to deal with.”

Clay kissed her cheek impulsively. “Open-hearted Sarah – a man always knows where he stands with you.” He mounted his horse. “But I’m afraid you won’t think so kindly of me when Jim tells you everything.”

She held his stirrup. “I know you did us wrong, Clay, whatever that wrong may be. But ‘forgive us our trespasses’ - if we can’t find it in our hearts to forgive you, with you here willing to make amends, then we got no right to call ourselves Christians. So I say again, don’t give up.”

He smiled wanly and rode away. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. He had spent ten years holding a grudge against a man who had never harmed him. How could he expect to be forgiven himself?

He almost turned in at Jacob’s gate, in need of confession, but there were others who should hear it first. He kicked his horse into a gallop, riding for home. After giving his horse to one of the ranch hands, he walked to the house, feeling as though he were trudging through molasses.

Molly was there, in the parlor with his mother and sister. She looked up when he came in, stood and put her arms around him wordlessly. “Something wrong, Clay?” Beatrice asked. “You look white as a sheet.”

“Is Alex here? I need to tell all of you something, but I only want to tell it once.”

“He’s upstairs freshening up,” Aurora said. “Shall I go hurry him up a bit?”

“If you would, Rory,” Clay said. He buried his face in Molly’s hair as his sister left. Beatrice respected his silence until his sister and brother returned.

Clay led Molly to the sofa and sat down, clenching her hand. “I’ve been to see Jim Gardner,” he began.

“Ah,” Alex sighed. “It’s about time.”

Beatrice pressed her lips together, but did not speak. “I never did understand why you cut him off, Clay,” Rory said. “You two used to be such friends.”

“That’s what I have to tell you,” Clay said, “but it’s hard. I thought he had wronged me, but I find it’s the other way around. I’ve wronged him terribly, and I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.”

“Wronged how?” Rory asked.

Clay looked at his younger sister – it was still so easy to consider her a child, and she still held onto a childlike innocence, but she was a full-grown woman, and not at all naïve, much as he would like to think her so. “I thought, no, I believed, and believed with all my heart, that he and Lucy – that Lucy had been unfaithful to me. With him.”

“And now you know it’s not true,” Beatrice observed.

Rory gasped in horror. “Clay! How could you have thought such a thing in the first place. Lucy? And Jim? I can’t imagine such a thing of either of them, much less both together.”

Clay noticed that Molly’s hand was turning white, and he loosened his grip. “It’s my shame, but I think you should know.” He related the same tale he had earlier told Molly, and why he had felt driven to finally confront Jim Gardner. “I have to bear the disgrace of it, now,” he finished.

“Why is this the first I’m hearing of this?” Beatrice asked. “You evidently told Alex, and Molly.”

“Molly’s about to become my wife,” Clay said. “I couldn’t honorably keep it from her. And Alex – well, I had to confide in someone. He tried to set me straight, but to no avail.”

“So what do we do now?” Rory asked. “I can’t bear to see you like this.”

“Thank you, Sis,” Clay said, “but this is my doing, and it’s up to me to try to set it right. I don’t know how, but I have to try.”

Beatrice stood, then leaned down and kissed his cheek. “You’ve quite a row to hoe, my son. I don’t envy you, but if I can help you in any way, please ask.” She looked over at Rory. “We’d better go start supper, it’s late as it is. Will someone go fetch Marguerite? That girl is wasting away to nothing, and I can’t have that in my house.”

“I’ll go,” Clay said. “I need to speak with her, anyway. Alex, will you entertain Molly for a moment?”

“Gladly,” Alex smiled. “And Clay? I’m proud of you.”

“Nothing to be proud of, Alex,” Clay said as Beatrice and Rory left. “I’m a wretch, but at least now I know it.”

“Not a wretch, only mistaken,” Alex said.

Clay smiled wanly and went upstairs. Marguerite was before the easel, contemplating it. She had finished Jacob’s face, but his body was still only roughly sketched in. “Oh, Clay,” she said, “I’m having difficulties. I want to paint Jacob in uniform, but I was in France during the war, and I only have a vague idea what it should look like.”

“I still have my old uniform,” Clay said. “I’ll dig it out for you. Marguerite, could you sit down a moment? I have something to tell you.”

“Something else?” she asked. “I’m not sure I’m ready for more at the moment.”

“Not about you, or Lucian.” Clay sat down in one of the chairs. “About me. That story I told you about Lucy and Jim?”

Marguerite frowned and sat across from him. “Yes?”

“None of it is true,” Clay said, turning red. “Well, the story was true, but the conclusions I drew from it, all wrong.”

“I see.” She considered him carefully. It was not only his face that was red – the man had shame and remorse practically shooting out from him in sparks. “If it’s any comfort to you, I drew the same conclusions. How do you know differently?”

He told the tale over again. “So you see, I’m a wretch. I have much to atone for, and no idea how.”

“As do I,” she said. She looked over at the painting. “I keep working at this, but I don’t see what good it will be once it’s finished.”

“An act of faith,” Clay said.

“More an act of compulsion.” She looked at him. “If you want me to advise you, you’ve come to the wrong person.”

“No,” he shook his head, “but I didn’t want you to believe the lies I’d told you.”

“You thought they were true.”

“Still lies,” he said. “Maybe even worse because I believed them.” He stood. “I’ll find you that uniform after supper, which my mother requires you to attend. She says she won’t have you wasting away.” He offered her his hand to pull herself up.

“All right,” she said, taking it. “I don’t know how I could help you, Clay, but if I can, I hope you’ll ask me.”

Clay smiled at her. “I appreciate that, Marguerite, but in this case, the only one who can help me is myself.”

He walked out and she turned to contemplate the painting again. The only one who could help her was herself, and she was nobody. A phantom, a fiction. Even her name was not her own, but was stolen from her betters. She shuddered. She would finish Jacob soon, and then she would have to face what she most dreaded, for she could not paint Benjamin without reliving how he died, and her responsibility for it. She cleaned her brushes and put away her paints, in fear and trembling.

Chapter Fourteen


Their only hope lay in stealth. The sun was sinking behind the woods as Lucian and Clay drew near Richmond. The rebels would have to stop for the night, and the moon would not rise until midnight. Darkness was their only ally.

Clay prevailed on Lucian to stop until full dark – his friend was too pale and nearly stumbling on the road. They drew back a little way into the woods and sat on a log while Clay pressed food and whiskey, mixed with water from the nearby bayou, on his captain.

They were surprised by a young rebel fleeing through the woods who nearly stumbled on them in the gloom. The soldier, hardly more than a boy, flung himself down at their feet. “I surrender!”

Lucian would have laughed if he had not been so weary. “The battle’s over, soldier. Go home – we’re taking no prisoners tonight.”

“I can’t,” the boy said, trembling. “I’ve deserted.” He shuddered. “I never seen anything like that before.”

“Your first battle?” Clay said, offering the boy his flask.

The soldier sat on the log next to Clay and drank thirstily. He wiped his lips on his sleeve. “Yeah, but it ain’t that. A man’s killed in battle, it’s kinda honorable, right? But stringing up prisoners ain’t no kinda honorable. It ain’t what I signed up for.”

Lucian and Clay both froze. “The rebs strung up the prisoners?” Lucian asked icily.

The boy nodded. “Coupla white officers, some of the niggers. It ain’t right. Even if they was niggers, they fought like men. It don’t do for them to die like dogs.”

“Where? When?” Lucian demanded.

The boy pointed over his shoulder. “There, about a mile back – not more’n twenty minutes ago. There was a powerful long argument about it. I didn’t think they’d do it, but they did.”

Lucian leapt to his feet. He took the boy’s shoulders. Shook him. “Where exactly? Take us there!”

The boy yanked himself away and shook his head. “Why? It’s done too late, don’t you see?”

“One of them is his brother,” Clay explained. “It’s why we’re out here. Won’t you help us?”

The boy’s eyes grew grave. “I’m sorry about that – it shouldn’t ought’ve been done. All right, I’ll take you close, but if we see any Confederates, I can’t go no further.”

“We understand,” Clay said. “Thank you.”

The young soldier led them through the woods, skirting the bayou until they came to the spot. There were, fortunately, no rebels in sight, the brigade having withdrawn to Richmond for the night. Six or seven bodies hung only inches off the ground, the executions done in haste. Clay and Lucian began the grim task of cutting the bodies down, only two good arms between them. The young rebel held back at first, but then grimaced and pitched in.

“It’s Captain Heath, all right,” Clay said sadly, lowering the carcase of the brave and gallant captain to the ground.

“This one’s Lieutenant Conn, of the Eleventh,” Lucian said, gently laying down his burden. “I didn’t think he was in camp.”

“He wasn’t,” Clay said. “He was out recruiting. He must have gotten swept up on the way.”

“This one’s still breathing!” the young rebel exclaimed.

Clay and Lucian both gasped and ran over to the tree where the soldier had cut down one of the colored soldiers. “Saints preserve us!” Lucian cried. “It’s Jacob!” He knelt down by his brother’s side, loosened the crudely tied rope, and poured whiskey from his flask into the unconscious man’s mouth.

The liquid spilled from Jacob’s mouth. Lucian raised his head and tried again. This time Jacob sputtered, coughing up the dark liquid. He opened his eyes. “Lucian?” he said hoarsely, squinting into the darkness.

“Don’t talk, Jacob,” Lucian cautioned. “Everything’s all right now.” He looked up at Clay. “Hurry, there might be more still alive.”

Clay nodded and went back to cutting down the soldiers. The young rebel assisted him, but all were dead. “That’s his brother?” the rebel nodded over his shoulder.

Clay nodded.

“Who’d’ve thought?” the soldier said, disgusted. “I thought you were out here after the white men.”

“Does it matter?” Clay asked. “We all fought together. Many of us died together.”

“No offense meant,” the soldier said. “We thought you all were gonna be easy pickings, and we got our hats handed to us. But you both are taking a mighty big risk.”

“It’s worth it,” Clay said. He walked back to where Lucian attended to his brother. “Can he walk? We need to get out of here, Lucian.”

Lucian nodded and helped Jacob to his feet. Jacob swayed. Clay swung Jacob’s arm around his shoulder, steadying him.

Lucian turned to the young rebel. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“Bickers, sir. Lemuel Bickers. My friends call me Lem.”

“I owe you many thanks, Lem,” Lucian said. “I’d like you to go ahead of us to Milliken's Bend. Be careful, and if you run into any of our pickets, tell them that Captain Carr sends you to speak to Colonel Lieb. He’s a good man, you can trust him.”

“All right, sir.” Lem hesitated. “Will the Yankees retaliate?”

“Hang prisoners?” Lucian asked. “No fear of that, Lem. But I doubt we’ll be exchanging any if this goes unanswered.”

“Don’t want to be exchanged,” Lem said. “They’d shoot me for a deserter, and a traitor, too, I guess.” He saluted. “You be careful, too, sir.”

“We will,” Lucian said. “Now go.”

Clay nearly carried Jacob through the woods, not daring to risk the much easier road back to the Bend. Lucian followed, but lagged behind as the night wore on, causing Clay to pause frequently in order for him to catch up. Finally, he set Jacob down on a log and turned to his captain. “Are you all right, Lucian?” he asked worriedly.

“I feel rather light-headed,” Lucian admitted. He sat down on the log beside his brother. “Give me some of that whiskey – I’ll be all right in a minute.”

But he had no more swallowed than he turned his head and vomited. “Lucian?” Jacob croaked. “What’s wrong?”

“My head,” Lucian said, clasping it with both hands. “It hurts.” He slumped to the ground, unconscious.

“Lucian!” Clay and Jacob cried together. They gathered around him, Jacob chafing his hands. Clay was afraid to give him more whiskey, so he merely slapped his cheeks until he regained consciousness.

“Jacob?” Lucian said groggily. “I think I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying,” Jacob said, struggling with tears, with the pain in his throat. “You’ve worn yourself out is all. You’ll be fine with a good rest.”

Lucian shook his head, wincing. “I want you to do something for me, brother.”

“Anything,” Jacob said, “only don’t worry.”

“Two things,” Lucian said. “Take care of my daughter, and take the name, Jacob. Take the name of Carr.”

“I will, Lucian. Rest. Don’t worry, you’ll be all right.”

“Thank you, brother,” Lucian said. He closed his eyes and died.

“Lucian?” Jacob whispered. He shook his brother. “Lucian?”

“Stop, Jacob,” Clay said gently. “He’s gone.”

“He can’t be,” Jacob said. “He was all right a few minutes ago. How can he be dead?”

“He is,” Clay said. “If it matters why, we’ll ask a doctor when we get back.”

“He shouldn’t have come,” Jacob said.

“Don’t say that!” Clay said harshly. “Don’t make his death worthless.” He sighed. “Rest a moment, then we’d better make tracks.”

The gibbous moon was rising as they made their way into camp – they gave the countersign to the pickets, who were expecting them, and carried Lucian’s body into his tent, laying it out upon the cot. Jacob knelt down beside it as Clay went to find Colonel Lieb.

He returned with the colonel after giving his report, Lieb limping on a cane. “I’m sorry, Sergeant,” Lieb told Jacob. “He was a good man.”

“He was more than that,” Jacob said.

“I know,” Lieb said. “He told me.”

“Then you’ll understand why I wish to change my name on the army rolls, if it’s possible, sir.”

“I’ll see to it,” Lieb said. “Can I do anything for you?”

“Send word to his daughter,” Jacob said. “She’s at the hospital in Memphis.”

“I’ll go,” Clay volunteered. “She shouldn’t hear of this from a stranger.”

“Thank you,” Jacob said. “Now, if I could be alone with him for awhile?”

“Of course,” Lieb said. He withdrew and Clay went to his tent to prepare for his journey. He tossed his belongings into his pack, but before he could leave, found himself overwhelmed. He sat down on his cot, burying his face in his hands. Tears leaked out between his fingers, but in a few minutes he stood, dried his eyes, and walked down to the dock to catch a riverboat for Memphis.



The hospital was in a large house in the middle of the town. Clay announced himself to the hospital steward, who sent for Pamela. She came rushing down the stairs, smiling. “Clay!” She pulled up when she saw his face, blanching. “Oh, no. It’s Daddy, isn’t it?”

Clay nodded. “I’m sorry, Pamela.”

“What happened? We’ve been receiving soldiers from the Bend all day – they all said he’d been wounded, but not seriously.”

“Is there somewhere we can go to talk?” Clay asked. “Privately?”

“I’ll get my shawl,” she said. “There’s a pavilion in the park – we can walk there.”

Clay was surprised that she seemed to be taking it so calmly, but he escorted her to the park and they sat in the shady pavilion while he told her his tale. Pamela frowned. “Was he hit on the head?” she asked.

“I don’t believe. . .” He paused. “Why, yes, now that I think of it, he was. He was only unconscious a few seconds. I thought his bullet wound far more serious.”

“We had a boy here last week die that way. He seemed all right right up until a few minutes before he died. Bleeding into the brain, the doctors said.”

“Why so calm and dispassionate, Pamela?” Clay asked. “It doesn’t seem like you.”

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands. “I’m all wept out, Clay. I’ve seen so much death – blood and disease and some unexplained. I cried over the first dozen or so. I have nothing left for myself.”

He took her hand. “I’m sorry – you should have stayed home.”

“No.” She took her hand back. “I wanted to be here. I had no home to stay at, anyway.”

“What will you do?” Clay asked. “Where will you go when this is all over?”

“Does it matter?” she asked wearily.

“It matters to me,” he said.

She smiled up at him. “You’re a good friend, Clay. I’m glad we met you, glad you could be with Daddy when he died.” She stood then. “I’ll go get my things – we should be able to catch a boat to the Bend and be there by morning.”

Clay escorted her to her lodgings, waited for her to pack, then walked her down to the dock. They caught a boat going south, and as they leaned against the rail, the dark water scent of the Mississippi wafted up to them. “Come home with me,” Clay said. “After the war, come to California.”

“Why, Clay,” she said, “I had no idea you felt that way.”

Clay blushed. “I’m sorry, I said that wrong. I’m engaged, Pamela, but I hate to think of you and Jacob with nowhere to go. My family will welcome you, I promise.”

Pamela blushed, too. “No, I’m sorry for misunderstanding.” She wrapped her shawl around her. “I never intend to marry, anyway.” She was silent a long moment. “What’s your family like?”

Clay was glad to tell her. “My mother’s one of those strong pioneer women you read about, very stoic, yet very caring at the same time. My father’s a big man with a big laugh and a hearty appetite for living. I have a brother a couple of years younger than me, and I hope to God this war is over before he’s old enough to fight. And a little sister five, no, six years old. She looks like you, all blonde curls and big eyes.”

“They sound lovely,” Pamela said, her eyes darkening. “I had a sister – I lost her, too, a few years ago.”

Maybe she could not cry, Clay thought, but her grief was an arrow that pierced his heart.



They spent the night on the deck of the riverboat, neither sleeping, speaking little. The boat glided into the dock at Milliken's Bend, and Clay carried Pamela’s bag as he escorted her to her father’s tent. Jacob was there, sitting, watching. Pamela went to him and put her arms around him, and Clay saw that she could cry, after all.

He went to report to Colonel Lieb. Lieb looked at him, frowning. “Have you seen a doctor, Lieutenant?”

“No, why?” Clay asked, dumbfounded.

Lieb pointed. “Your eye. You’ve bled through the bandage. Report to the regimental surgeon at once. That’s an order.”

Clay made his way to the surgeon’s tent, alarmed. He had not even noticed his eye before, but now it began to pain him. The surgeon removed the bandage and examined him.

“Hm,” the surgeon said. “This happen during the battle?”

“Yes,” Clay said. “A rifle went off too close to my face. It’s only a powder burn.”

“Your eye is suppurating, Lieutenant.” He began to rebandage it. “I’m sending you to the hospital in Memphis on the next boat.”

“We’re burying Captain Carr and Captain Heath today,” Clay protested. “Can’t it wait?”

The surgeon frowned. “I suppose, but only until after the funeral. And not Captain Heath – the detail sent to recover the bodies found nothing. If not for the damage to Sergeant Butler’s throat, I’d have thought you made it all up.”

“Nothing?” Clay said. “How can that be?”

“I don’t know,” the surgeon said. “Maybe the rebs decided not to leave any evidence behind. Any road, I’m sending both you and Sergeant Butler to Memphis. Complications from strangulation can be deadly.”

“Sergeant Carr,” Clay corrected him.

“Ah, yes, I forgot,” the surgeon said. “Odd, that.”

“No, it’s not,” Clay said. “Not odd at all.”



Captain Lucian Carr was laid to rest with full military honors, or as full as his devastated regiment could supply. There was no bugler to play, but the men managed a seven gun salute, and Lucian Carr was lowered into the grave and covered over, far from his Kentucky home.

Clay offered to take Pamela to find lodgings in the town, but she refused. “I need to get back to Memphis.”

“You should take a few days off,” Clay protested.

She shook her head. “I’d rather work. Besides, Jacob’s being sent to the hospital there.”

“So am I,” Clay admitted. “For my eye.”

“Well, then,” Pamela said, “we’ll all go together.”

And so they did. Pamela developed a cough on the boat – too much fresh air, she explained, but Clay thought she looked feverish as well. He determined to see to it that she saw a doctor in Memphis along with the rest of them. The three of them were hustled off the moment they arrived, and Clay found himself in a ward with Lieutenant Cornwell while he awaited the doctor’s examination.

“That’s too bad,” Cornwell said when Clay apprised him of his activities since the battle. “We knew what the Johnnies had promised to do to white officers – too bad Heath bore the brunt of it. We’ll miss him and Captain Carr, both.”

Clay looked him up and down. “You’re still in one piece, I see.” He observed Cornwell’s limp right arm.

“They wanted to cut it off, but I wouldn’t let them,” Cornwell said proudly. “The ball’s still in there, too.”

“Maybe you should. . .” Clay began.

“No,” Cornwell said firmly. “I’m not going home a cripple.”

“If you say so,” Clay said. Just then the doctor sent for him, and he went to the examination with some trepidation.

The doctor looked grave as he examined Clay’s infected eye. “You have two choices, Lieutenant,” he said. “Either I cut it out, under anesthesia, or it rots out, taking you with it. I might have saved it if you’d come in when it happened.”

“I had more important things to do,” Clay said.

“More important than your eye?” the doctor asked sternly.

“Yes, sir,” Clay said. “Infinitely more important.”

“Well, whatever you were up to, it’s cost you an eye. I hope it was worth the sacrifice.”

“It was,” Clay asserted. “You’re sure there’s no other way?”

“I’m sure,” the doctor said. “I’ve seen men die from better cases than yours.”

Clay considered a moment. A one-eyed lawyer was still a lawyer, and he was sure his family would rather have him come home than not, no matter how many pieces he might be in. Cornwell might be ready to risk death over dismemberment, but Clay found he was not. “If your eye offends thee, pluck it out,” he murmured. “All right, doctor. When?”

“Now,” the doctor said, reaching for a bottle of chloroform. He looked up as Clay started in surprise. “There’s no time to waste, soldier.”

“All right,” Clay said, quavering. The doctor pushed him back on the table, placed an odd-looking contraption over his nose and mouth and began dripping chloroform into it. In a few moments, Clay knew nothing more.

He awakened in the ward, with Pamela and Jacob looking down on him. He touched his eye, but all he could feel was bandage. “If you have pain, we have laudanum,” Pamela said.

She still looked feverish. “I’m all right,” Clay said. “It’s no more than I can stand. You should be in bed.”

“It’s a cold,” Pamela said. “I’ll be fine.”

“A cold in June?” Clay asked.

“I’m fine,” Pamela said testily. “You’re the one who’s lost an eye.”

Clay gave up for the time being and turned to Jacob. “And you?”

“He wants to keep me for observation, but he found nothing significantly wrong,” Jacob said huskily. “He thinks I’ll recover, in time.”

“We all will,” Pamela said, her voice almost as husky as Jacob’s.

Clay sat up, too suddenly, for he felt suddenly light-headed. “Jacob, make her see a doctor,” he said. “Don’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“You don’t get to order me around,” Pamela said.

“Please, Pamela,” Clay pleaded, taking another tack, “for my peace of mind. If there’s nothing wrong, you’ll be back at work in a trice.”

Pamela pressed her lips together stubbornly. “All right,” she said at last. “But only because you’re injured. Don’t think you get to do this all the time.”

“I won’t,” Clay said, lying back down. “Thank you.”

Jacob and Pamela were gone for some time – it was more than an hour before Jacob returned, and Clay feared his worst premonitions were coming true. Even so, he was alarmed when Jacob returned alone. “It’s as bad as you feared, Clay,” Jacob said. “It’s scarlet fever.”

Clay turned his face to the wall, and in his exhausted state, found he could not stop crying.

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.