One Wore Blue (34 page)

And I loved you so deeply, she thought of Jesse.

But that was in the past, just as that day of sweet tempest and tender torment they had spent upon the river was past. Their love had never had a chance.

She turned her horse and rode away. But she was too restless to return home to the children, which perhaps was why she headed up to the ruins of the Chagall estate and the oak tree there. Kiernan dismounted from her horse in the high grass and stared over at the estate. It had probably once been very beautiful. The remains of its driveway were overgrown with weeds and long grasses, but four Doric pillars still stood, scorched, but defying time. She stared at the house and felt the whisper of a chill wind that foreboded winter. She shivered and pulled her cape closer about herself, then she turned to the oak.

It was an ancient tree, split once by lightning, big and heavy still. Within its wide gnarly trunk was a deep hole—a perfect place for a message.

Except, she had no paper or anything with which to write her message.

A fine spy she was going to make, she thought.

But even as she stood there, she heard a rustling in the trees. She was about to leap upon her horse in panic and ride like the wind for home, but a voice called out to her quickly.

“Mrs. Miller!”

She paused and watched as T.J. came sauntering out of the bushes, a blade of grass between his teeth, just as cool and calm as a man could be on a lazy autumn’s day.

“Hello, ma’am. Reckon you’ve got something to say to us, is that right?”

“I don’t really know,” she admitted, but she told him what she knew about the wheat.

He nodded when she was finished. “We’ve heard something about it already. Thanks for the confirmation. We’ll take this one to the militia, I think, and see how those boys feel about the situation. Thank you kindly, ma’am. Thank you kindly. You doing all right, you and those children?”

“Yes, we’re doing very well, thank you.”

He nodded. “Better ride on home, then. Don’t pay to be a woman alone these days, and it’s just as well that I don’t be seen with you now.”

Kiernan mounted her horse and bade him good-bye. He lifted a hand to her, still standing beneath the oak, that blade of grass in his mouth.

She wondered if he’d run out of chewing tobacco.

“Kiernan! Kiernan!”

Late on the afternoon of October 16, Kiernan was out back laughing with Jeremiah. Young David was rushing around the hen coop trying to procure the eggs of a suddenly indignant chicken.

Kiernan’s laughter faded as soon as she heard her name called, and she rushed around to the front of the house. To her amazement, Thomas Donahue was there. And he was mounted on his carriage horse, which was unusual since Thomas hated to ride.

“Thomas! What is it? Come on down, come inside. We’ll have you some tea or coffee—or something stronger—quick as a wink, I promise.”

Thomas shook his head, refusing to dismount. “I’ve got to
warn a few more folks. Seems the Virginia militia isn’t happy about the Yanks making the folks in town load that wheat. There’ve been rumors that Colonel Ashby is on his way in to put a stop to it all.”

“Oh?” Kiernan’s heart was hammering.

“Well, the Yanks are coming after the Rebs. Ashby is supposed to be up on Bolivar Heights. The Yanks are going to engage him there. Get those young ones inside and under cover, Kiernan. Who knows where bullets may fly. You hear?”

“Yes, Thomas, thank you!”

Thomas turned his mount around, and Kiernan shouted for Patricia and Jacob and the others. “We’re going to spend some time in the basement,” she told them. “Patricia, gather up some blankets. Jacob, why don’t you bring your rifle down? Janey, we can almost make a picnic out of it. Why don’t you see what we have in the larder?”

“Miz Kiernan, does this mean that I don’t have to fight with that chicken no more?” David asked.

She smiled. David was eight, precocious, a whirlwind of energy. He worked as hard as any adult, and he was smart, for Patricia frequently read to him. Patricia had never voiced her opinion on slavery to Kiernan, and Kiernan often wondered if the younger Millers had an opinion one way or the other. But Patricia, motherless herself for so long, had adopted David, and David certainly had prospered for it.

“No, David, you don’t have to fight with that chicken anymore,” Kiernan assured him. “You just help Patricia. And we’ll all get down to the basement.”

“Miz Kiernan?”

Jeremiah’s elder son, Tyne, was no boy. Nearly twenty, he was at least six feet two inches tall, ebony black, muscled, sleek, and handsome. Kiernan imagined that he would have made a fine African prince, for he stood with pride that no bondage could break.

“Tyne?” she said.

He lowered his voice. “No bluebelly is gonna have any cause to pay heed to me, nor any Reb for that matter. A good field hand stays in a field. You take the young ’uns
down to that basement. If you say so, I’ll keep my eyes open here.”

Kiernan paused. He could run off on her. But he could have run off on her months ago. Besides, she had promised Jeremiah and his sons their freedom.

She nodded. “All right, Tyne.”

She herded the rest of her charges into the basement as Tyne had urged.

They had not been down very long before they heard the first shots—and then the sound of the cannon, booming.

As Kiernan wrapped her arm around Patricia, holding her close against the sounds of battle, she realized that it was two years ago exactly that John Brown had come to Harpers Ferry.

In time, the sounds of the shots died away. Kiernan was just rising when the door to the basement opened. She looked up the steps, feeling her heart leap to her throat.

“Miz Kiernan?”

She dared to breathe again. It was Tyne.

“Is it over?”

“Seems to be. It’s been mighty quiet for a spell now. I seen some bluebellies heading back toward town and the river, and I seen the boys in gray lookin’ as if they was retreating toward Charles Town. They was actin’ as if they’d done won the battle, so it’s hard to tell what’s really goin’ on.”

“None of them came toward the house?” Kiernan asked him, hurrying up the stairs.

“None that I could see.”

She exhaled slowly, then hurried past Tyne to the front of the house. Her fingers curled around one of the pillars. There was a bullet mark in it, and she shivered. She had known that the fighting would be close. She hadn’t known how close.

She noticed a body far down in the grass. She walked from the porch and started to run. She came to the body and fell down in her knees beside it.

It was a Yankee. He had fallen on his stomach.

She bit her lip, knowing that if he was injured, she would have to help him.

She turned him over.

She didn’t have to help him. His sightless eyes were staring heavenward.

Young eyes—oh, so very young. Once a soft blue, like a cloudy sky, set in a young face. He had barely begun to shave.

It was a handsome face. One that had probably won many a sweetheart, one his sisters would have adored.

“Oh, God!” she breathed.

Tyne was behind her. She swallowed hard. She really couldn’t start crying hysterically over a Yankee soldier.

Had she caused his death? No, the Rebels had known about the grain and the mill before she had told T.J. Rebels and Yanks were dying everywhere now—it was a war, for the love of God! She couldn’t stop them from dying.

Not even Jesse could stop them from dying.

Jesse. Jesse could be lying like this in blue on some other woman’s lawn. He was a doctor, but he never stayed out of the action. He’d ridden with his troops in the West when he should have been in a hospital field tent.

“We’ve got to—we’ve got to return him,” Kiernan said. This was no deserter—he was a brave young man who had died in battle. “Get rid of his tobacco first,” Tyne advised her. Kiernan couldn’t move. Tyne stooped down and rifled through the soldier’s blood-soaked clothing. He found a pouch of tobacco and a pipe and handed them to Kiernan. “He’s just a boy. Too young to be smokin’. His mama probably wouldn’t like it real well.”

Kiernan nodded.

“I’ll get the wagon,” Tyne told her.

She nodded again.

She sat with the dead Yank until Tyne returned with Albert, the mule, hitched to the wagon. He lifted the dead man and placed him in the wagon. Kiernan rose from her knees at last and came around to look at the dead soldier who was scarcely more than a boy.

A plaid blanket was balled up in a corner of the wagon. Kiernan laid it gently across the man.

Tyne had been silent. “He’s the enemy, Miz Kiernan.”

She glanced at him, wondering how serious he was. The Yanks were the ones trying to free the black people.

“My enemy, but not yours, Tyne.”

Tyne shrugged, adjusting the blanket. “Well, I’ll tell you, Miz Kiernan, I’ve heard that Abe Lincoln is a mighty good man. Tall and gentle and ugly as sin, but a mighty good man nonetheless. But I hear tell, too, that even though he wants to free the black man, he wants for him an island somewhere, a republic of black men. And I kinda got a hankerin’ for Virginia. Some of those folks up north, they don’t want the southern folk beatin’ us black folk down here, and that’s a mighty fine thing for them to be wantin’ too. But some of them same folk have a notion that if they rub up next to a black man, why, some of that color is gonna to come off. They’re afraid that it might be dirt. Now I may be a lucky man for a slave, Miz Kiernan. But I been around white folk all my life who don’t think that taking my hand is gonna make their own dirty. So I’m with you, Miz Kiernan, one way or the other.”

“Thank you, Tyne,” she told him.

His mouth curled at the corner. “I never did have to pick cotton, Miz Kiernan. I might feel a whole lot different if I’d been a ‘field nigger,’” he told her wryly.

She nodded. Tyne was a proud man. She understood that. She had her own pride.

She started to climb into the wagon.

“You don’t need to come, Miz Kiernan. I can take care of this for you.”

“Tyne, you can’t bring him anywhere alone. You’re—”

“Miz Kiernan,” he told her, grinning. “A black man wouldn’t wanta bring a dead Reb back to his regiment, oh, no! But if’n I bring this bluebelly in, I’ll be all right. They’re the ones fightin’ to free us, remember?”

She smiled, lowered her head, and nodded. Tyne crawled up into the wagon and picked up the whip.

“Tyne!” she called.

“Yes, Miz Kiernan?”

“Ride gently with him, please.”

“Yes ma’am, I will.”

He flicked the whip, and the wagon rolled away. She watched it for a while and then started back for the house.

She sat on the swing for a while and felt the coolness of the autumn breeze. She was amazed by how very calm she felt. She was coming to terms with life, she thought. She would never get over the pain of seeing men die, but she was living in the midst of war, and she was surviving it. Constant gunshots riddled the town far below her home, but she was surviving.

Neither side really had the manpower to hold Harpers Ferry. The heights around the town made it impossible to hold.

She shivered suddenly, remembering that Harpers Ferry was a ghost town. Whether the blue or gray could hold it or not, it was an important railway stop, and they would both be impelled to come back, again and again.

She sighed softly. She would weather it.

And with that thought, she felt surprisingly calm.

She was still calm that night when Tyne returned to tell her there were still Yanks around, and that a number of citizens were being arrested for harboring Rebels.

She wasn’t harboring anyone.

That night, when she first slept, her dreams were peopled by dead men. The Yanks who had died on her lawn drifted by, like Irish death-ghosts. The pale blue eyes of the boy today haunted her.

And then she was turning over the blue-clad Yank’s body again, and she started to scream.

Because it was Jesse’s body.

She awoke with a start and reminded herself that Jesse was out of her life.

But she lay awake for a long, long time.

When she slept again, it was dreamlessly. And she slept late, well into the morning. She went for a ride in the afternoon, and when she returned, she spent time in the stables with Tyne and Jeremiah and David, grooming the horses
and mules and deciding which animals did and didn’t need new shoes. There were still some Yankees around, near town, she didn’t know how many.

But she was very calm. She had her life under the very best control that she could, given the circumstances.

But it was that very evening, in the deceptively peaceful beauty of the autumn night, that the massive blue column of soldiers came riding her into life.

And Jesse Cameron.

The one who wore blue.

Interlude