Why didn’t I just stay in Boston?
Roger considered the question as he waited. His law practice had been thriving, and the war had surely brought a flood of cases relating to wills, inheritances, and business liability. He should have remained at home to hold Mother’s hand and comfort her, rather than going off to play at soldiering.
For that was all he had done. When it came time for Roger to face the elephant, he had proved worthless. At Ball’s Bluff he had turned and run like a scalded dog; at Fair Oaks he had hidden himself behind a tree. Worst of all, Alden knew he was a coward…and excused him.
Better that Flanna should have Alden, for the two of them were made of the same stern stuff. Like some sort of determined Joan of Arc, Flanna had wandered right onto the field of battle, risking death and capture to find the man she loved. And Alden gloried in battle, risking his life for the cause of God and country, somehow able to find meaning in the sacrifice and suffering.
Yes, they belonged together, no matter how stubbornly each of them denied the truth. Roger had whited too many sepulchers to be easily deceived, and he knew these two better than they knew themselves. They loved each other.
But Alden would never admit his feelings for Flanna while Roger stood in the way. And Roger, having once proclaimed his feelings for her, could not very well deny them. And, heaven help him, he did adore her.
The white house was just beginning to shine in the first tangerine tints of the rising sun when Flanna stepped out of the cabin, dressed in the green plaid dress Alden had commissioned in Washington. Roger felt a moment of annoyance, then swallowed his irritation when he noticed that rusty bloodstains marked the hem.
“What have we in the way of weapons?” he asked, peering back inside the cabin. Flanna’s rifle stood there and he picked it up, then lifted the pieces of her discarded Confederate uniform to see if she’d thought to bring a dagger or pistol.
“I have only the rifle,” she called from outside, “and it’s not loaded.”
“No cartridges?” Roger heard Alden ask. “No powder?”
Roger slipped Flanna’s knapsack onto his back, then stepped back out into the yard. “There’s nothing.” His lips thinned with irritation as he handed the rifle to Flanna. “You carry this. If we’re in trouble, you can always use it as a club.”
Flanna took the gun, then jerked her head toward the row of trees beyond the house. “That is east.” Wonder and dread mingled in her voice. “And we’d better move quickly if we want to stay ahead of the patrols.” Her silky brows rose in concern as the sun revealed the violently purple bruises on Alden’s face. “It will be harder walking through the woods,” she said, in a distracted voice, “but the roads will be too dangerous.”
She stepped closer to Alden as if she would support his weight, but Roger pulled her away, insinuating his own bulk beneath his brother’s arm. “I’m stronger,” he said in answer to her questioning look. “And faster. So let’s be on our way.”
“Wait.”
Roger bit back his impatience as Alden hesitated.
“Flanna,” Alden asked, “are you certain you don’t want to go home? Roger and I can return to the regiment alone. You could find a safe place outside the city. Within a week, maybe two, I’m certain you could find a way back to Charleston.”
“My home in Charleston is gone.” She lifted her shining face and seemed to find her mirror in Alden’s eyes. “For now, at least, my home is with you.”
Roger closed his eyes against the nauseated sinking of despair, then forced a light note into his voice. “If you two don’t hush, the Rebs will have us for breakfast.” He stepped forward, tugging on Alden’s weight. “Let’s go. The regiment waits in the east, not here.”
Flanna set off at a fair pace, and, like a horse drawn to the carrot, Alden fell into step beside Roger and followed her.
Flanna moved ahead with the rifle in her arms, wishing over and over again that she hadn’t promised Wesley and Mrs. Corey that she’d wear a dress. The heavy fabric was hot, the narrow waist impeded her breathing, and every branch and vine clung to the full skirt, slowing her progress.
They moved steadily southeast, knowing that the Union army waited somewhere in the trees beyond. Flanna had not heard any sounds of battle during her few days in Richmond, but the fighting could resume at any moment.
“They’ve replaced Joe Johnston with this Robert E. Lee,” she remarked offhandedly as they walked. “Johnston took a bullet at Fair Oaks. The men I nursed seemed enthusiastic at the idea of serving under Lee; they say he is nothing if not audacious.”
“Let’s hope his audacity holds him in Richmond until we reach our picket line,” Roger joked, his eyes anxiously sweeping the horizon.
Flanna followed his gaze. The Rebels were camped out here, too, and Jeb Stuart’s infamous cavalry was said to be traversing the countryside and taunting the Yankees.
They fell silent again, walking quickly across an open field. Flanna sighed in relief when they entered a forest; she felt much less exposed here than in the meadow. The forest whispered to itself around them; the faint patter of dewdrops on the leaves blended with the subdued rustle and rub of leaves and branches. They’d been walking for nearly two hours, covering a distance of at least seven miles, and Flanna sensed that they ought to encounter something soon.
A faintly familiar scent caught Flanna’s attention. She sniffed in appreciation, then threw up her hand and stopped the others.
“What?” Roger’s eyes widened in alarm.
“A cigar.” Flanna stood perfectly still, suddenly grateful for her green dress. The plaid pattern might serve as a bit of camouflage.
She could see no movement in the woods, but straight ahead the ground rose in an abrupt swell. Anything could lie behind that bit of earth.
“Wait here.” She put her finger over her lips and dropped the rifle to the ground.
“Flanna, no,” Alden warned, but she ignored him and hurried forward. She was faster on her feet than Alden, and Roger was encumbered by his brother’s weight. If trouble lay over that hill, at least they’d know to move around it. But Union scouts could be sitting there, and perhaps they’d have a horse to carry Alden back to camp.
She breathed deeply, inhaling the scent again. Yes, it was tobacco, rich and pungent. She thought she could smell coffee, too, but perhaps her empty stomach was merely playing tricks on her.
She reached the rise and debated walking around it. But any men who stood on the other side might see her before she saw them, while no one would expect her to appear over the edge of this nearly vertical mound. She walked to the rise, buried her hands in the vines and leafy ground cover that blanketed it, and began to climb, pausing to kick toeholds into the soft earth.
A chorus of birdsong echoed down from the high canopy of the trees, and Flanna took comfort in the utterly normal sound until a murmur of voices caught her ear, the slow and lazy drawl of relaxed men. They were probably pickets, placed out here as the army’s eyes and ears. If Flanna was lucky, they’d be concentrating more on their hardtack and coffee than on the rustlings of leaves.
Inch by inch, foot by foot, she hoisted herself up the rise, then pulled herself onto the narrow ridge at the top. Lying flat on the ground, she stared into the concave depression below. She saw three men huddled around a campfire, their eyes fastened to a slab of bacon sizzling over the fire. Flanna’s stomach clenched at the sight and smell of food, but she fought her hunger down and studied the strangers. The nearest one wore a white shirt and dark pants; the man next to him wore a dark brown jacket. She frowned. Though men of both armies had taken to wearing clothing removed from the dead, these men did not look at all military. They could be the conscription patrols Wesley had warned her about.
Another man abruptly stepped out from behind a tree at her left, so close Flanna could have spat on him. He tugged at his blue trousers and walked toward the fire, then picked up a coat on the ground.
A gray coat, with a double row of brass buttons. A stripe on the sleeve, just like Wesley’s.
A Confederate captain.
Her high hopes vanished in an instant. Flanna pushed herself backward, scurrying away like a rat. Her feet slipped over the edge of the embankment, and prickles of cold dread crawled over her spine as she scrambled down.
Keep calm, she told herself, taking care that her trembling hands did not lose their grip on the vines. The men hadn’t seen her. And though there might be a Confederate camp in the woods ahead, they could circle around it. They’d just have to walk further than she had hoped. If Alden’s strength waned, she could find a stream and check his bandage. With water and the cornbread from Flanna’s knapsack, he ought to be strong enough to make it back to a Union regiment as soon as they found one.
She whirled and ran the instant her feet hit the ground. Like the quick, hot touch of the devil, fear shot through her, urging her to flee. She didn’t know exactly who those men at the campfire were, but they weren’t friends.
She caught sight of Alden’s startled face. “Rebels!” she gasped, her feet flying over clumps of brush and dead leaves. “Go!”
The words had scarcely left her lips when she tripped over her skirts and fell, slamming into the ground with such force that her breath left her body. She lifted her head, dazed and bewildered, and felt strong hands on her upper arms.
“Hurry.” Roger pulled her up as though she weighed no more than a sack of feathers. He slipped his arm about her waist while Alden came to her other side. Half-carrying her, they began to move away, but then a sharp, ringing voice shattered the silence.
“Halt, there!” A nasal twang cut through the air like a knife.
Flanna closed her eyes as her heart went into sudden shock. This, too, was her fault. Not only was she responsible for bringing both brothers behind enemy lines, but now these Rebels had heard her clumsy crashing through the brush.
“You’ll halt right there if you know what’s good for you!”
Roger and Alden stopped, and Flanna felt her legs begin to tremble.
“We’re going to be fine, Flanna,” Alden said, looking at her. His voice was calm, his gaze steady.
“Turn around, so we can see what we’ve done caught.”
They turned to face the ridge, and Flanna shuddered when she saw all four Rebels standing atop the embankment. Two of the men pointed rifled muskets directly at them.
“Come closer, and let us take a look at you.” The Rebel captain stood propped against a tree, panting with exertion from his climb. “Come on up here, so we can see what the cat dragged in.”
Roger looked at Alden. “I don’t like the looks of this. I only see one uniform—the other three probably have more in common with that brute who beat you than with the regular army.” His voice was smooth, but insistent. “You take Flanna and run for the brush over there.” He jerked his head toward a stand of thick foliage. “You’ll have time to hide yourself in the thickets while I deal with these men.”
Flanna flinched at the resolute tone of his voice. “Roger, these men are not politicians.” She saw the determined expression on his face and felt a cold blade of foreboding slice into her heart. “You can’t charm Southerners, you know, any more than you can trick a trickster. We’ll all go forward together, and no one will get hurt.”
“Let me do this, Flanna.” A faint light twinkled in the depths of his dark eyes as he looked at her.
He turned to Alden next. “Take her, Alden, and go.”
Flanna’s blood pounded thickly in her ears. “Roger, no!”
Alden’s hands fell upon Flanna’s arms, holding her back. An unspoken understanding passed between the two brothers, then Alden gave Roger a look of thanks, which Roger acknowledged with just the smallest softening of his eyes.
“Come up here now, or I’ll shoot you dead!” the Confederate captain called again.
The next few seconds stretched into an eternity. Roger opened his mouth and screamed, “Go!” and Alden pulled Flanna toward the thicket with a strength born of desperation. As she fell back, Flanna lifted her eyes to the men on the embankment. Caught by surprise, they were slow in lifting their rifles, but Roger moved like a man possessed. In one swift gesture, he swung Flanna’s useless rifle off his back and brought it to his shoulder, then squinted down the barrel like a sharpshooter.
Flanna choked back a scream as Alden dragged her into the brush, then his hand clapped across her mouth. She fell back against him, her vision filling with green leaves and blue sky as the sharp crack of rifle fire snapped through the rustle of insects. For one appalling instant, even the continuous birdcalls from the forest canopy ceased, and the woods overflowed with silence.
Unable to control the spasmodic trembling within her, Flanna closed her eyes and turned into Alden’s embrace. He shuddered deeply as he held her, then he urged her to her feet. “Hurry,” he said, pulling her out of the thicket. “Come, Flanna!”
Gasping for breath, she obeyed, running until she thought her heart would burst.
In the next few hours, Flanna plumbed the full breadth and depth of fear. The four Rebels pursued her and Alden with fiendish glee, shooting randomly into bushes and beyond trees, once sending a bullet through Flanna’s sleeve as she and Alden crouched behind a huckleberry bush. The forest rang with their taunts and a yipping, nasal version of the Rebel yell, and if Flanna had once imagined that these men were military, she knew now they were not. The captain was either an impostor or a renegade; the other three probably bounty hunters on the lookout for deserters.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are, missy!” one of them shouted as he took a moment to reload his rifle. “You looked awful sweet! Come on out here and let me show you what a real man looks like!”
Huddled beside Alden behind the huckleberry bush, Flanna felt a bead of perspiration trace a cold path from her armpit down her ribs. What were they to do? She and Alden could not outrun them in the open, for the Rebels were healthy and well fed. She, on the other hand, was half-petrified by fear and the shock of Roger’s sacrifice, and Alden was breathing so heavily that the heaving movements of his chest might open his wound at any moment.
“Come on out here, sweet thing!” The man in the Confederate uniform walked slowly ahead of the others, his rifle cradled in his arms. “I won’t hurt you. Why are you hiding with that whipped-looking son of a pup? Why, he isn’t even worth dragging to the recruiting office, but we’ll do you a favor and put him out of his misery. So you come on out now, and let’s say a proper how-do-ye-do.”
He paused less than thirty feet away, and glanced down at a spindly oak seedling. Flanna watched, transfixed by terror, as he smiled and broke off a small branch, then lazily twirled it between his fingers. “Your man’s bleeding, sweet missy,” he called, his eyes roving through the woods. “He won’t last much longer. But if you come out, we just might help you patch him up.”
Flanna tore her eyes from the tormentor and looked at Alden’s chest. The wound had opened and bled through the bandage, for a red spot bloomed on Alden’s white shirt, bigger and brighter than a full-blown rose.
“Alden!” Panic stole her breath, which came in short, painful gasps. “What are we going to do?”
Alden’s eyes were abstracted in thought, but they cleared as she gripped his hand. “Three choices,” he said in a clipped, low voice. “Stay, run, or hide.”
Flanna blinked. Stay here? Out of the question! In another fifteen steps that phony Confederate would be upon them. Run? Impossible! Alden couldn’t run another hundred yards, and she could never outrun her pursuers in this long, heavy skirt. Hide? Where?
“Come on out, little sweetheart!” The leader came closer, so close that Flanna could see the red smear of Alden’s blood on the oak leaf.
She looked at Alden then, too afraid to speak. Silently he lifted his hand and pointed toward a rotting log ten feet to his right. The log was partially obscured by a leafy screen in front, and some animal—Flanna didn’t want to imagine what kind—had hollowed out a space in the mud beneath the log.
It was a small trough, barely five feet long and three feet wide. But the log lay over it, and it was their only chance.
“Sweetheart!”
She could hear the renegade’s heavy breathing now, so Flanna nodded. Alden took her hand and crept forward in a crouch, then knelt and rolled into the hole. Flanna crawled in after him, filling the space between him and the log. With her last remaining strength, she pulled at the log, managing to roll it a few inches to the right, obscuring the opening even more.
A twig snapped beneath the renegade’s foot. From inside her hiding place, Flanna could see his heavy boots. He stood at the huckleberry bush and glanced down, then wiped another drop of blood from a huckleberry leaf.
“What’s that you got there, Will?”
The sudden voice seemed to come from Flanna’s left ear, and she felt Alden shudder against her as a heavy weight fell against the tree. One of the other Rebels stood right above them, his boot resting against the fallen log.
“The man’s bleeding pretty bad.” The one called Will rubbed Alden’s blood on his coat as he scanned the woods. “Don’t think they’ll make it far, but we’ll keep looking.”
“What about the other one?”
Will shrugged, then leaned his rifle against the huckleberry bush and paused to bite off a chaw of tobacco. “No use to us dead, is he? But the woman might be a pleasant diversion, and the man worth a dollar or two—more if he’s a runaway.”
The second man stepped over the log and sat down, his weight pressing the heavy log onto Flanna’s anklebone. She gritted her teeth, willing herself not to cry out.
“Should we go on?” The second man rocked slowly on the log, each movement grinding against Flanna’s ankle.
“Yep.” Will spat out a brown stream of tobacco juice. “I suppose we could check a little further, then double back. She couldn’t have got far.”
The second man stood then, relieving the pressure on Flanna’s leg, and she wanted to weep with relief. The two men called out to the other two, who were searching the woods farther to the east, and soon the sound of their voices faded.
“Alden?” Flanna whispered.
He did not answer.
Turning in the confines of the shallow pit, Flanna wriggled her hand up to Alden’s shoulder and drew in her breath when she encountered a warm stickiness. Alden was still bleeding, and there was nothing she could do about it. The Rebels were going to double back, they’d said, and they would undoubtedly return to their campfire to gather their things before moving on. She and Alden could do nothing but wait.
Sighing in surrender, she let her head fall upon his shoulder, taking comfort in the steady warmth of his breath on her face. If they were to die, at least they’d die together. And perhaps death in this shallow grave would be more merciful than death in prison or at the hands of the renegade Rebels.
She lay still for so long that she lost all sense of time. Something—an insect or spider, she couldn’t tell which—crawled across her cheek, and she steeled herself to ignore it. Her arms felt too tired and heavy to even bat it away.
A chorus of crickets had begun to sing by the time Alden began to stir. “I’m sorry, Flanna,” he apologized, his hand falling upon her neck. “But I think I fell asleep.”
“You passed out.” Flanna’s hand moved to his shoulder and felt the stiffness of dried blood. Good. The blood had coagulated while they rested. If Alden didn’t push himself, perhaps the wound would remain sealed until they found shelter.
Flanna squirmed out of the pit, then turned and helped Alden up. He moved slowly, like an old man, and once he straightened she examined him in the fading rays of the sun. The colors of health had completely faded from his face, leaving him wounded and ghostly in the shadows.
She didn’t feel very steady herself. She took a step away from the log, then felt the ground shift beneath her feet. Alden caught her, and together they sank to the gnarled surface of the log.
“Why did you let Roger do it?” The question had been uppermost in her mind all afternoon, and only now, when she could see Alden’s face, could she ask it.
Alden stared at the ground, his eyes like blue ice. “I don’t know if you’ll understand.”
“Give me a chance.”
He winced at the sharp tone in her voice. “I didn’t want him to do it. I could have stopped and made a scene, reminding him that I was responsible for him, that I had promised Mother that I’d look after him…”
His voice trailed off, and Flanna gave him a moment to compose his thoughts. “So why didn’t you stop him?”
“I did it for Roger.” Alden’s mouth pulled into a surprised smile, as if he had just realized the truth himself. “Don’t you understand? Roger wanted to be a hero. You knew him, but I knew him far better.
It wasn’t patriotism or even boosting his chances of election that drove him to enlist. He came to the war because he wanted to be brave—he needed to stand for something and test his mettle. He couldn’t do it at Ball’s Bluff, and he didn’t do it at Fair Oaks, but he rose to the challenge today. He couldn’t seem to summon the courage for going into battle for the intangible things like patriotism and honor, but he didn’t hesitate to give his life for you and me.”
Alden’s expression softened into one of fond reminiscence. “You didn’t know him as a child, but Roger always had to be the brave one when we played war games. But when we boys got into real trouble, he found it far easier to step back and let me handle things—which I always did.” He frowned, as if responsibility were some great sin.
“Alden,”—Flanna took his hand and quietly checked his pulse—“you did what every big brother does. My own Wesley used to tease me unmercifully, but when the cousins ganged up on me, Wesley was quick to intervene. You saw it yourself—he still feels responsible for me.”
“But last night he left you to stand on your own.” Alden’s free hand fell over hers, alarming her with its chilly touch. “I had never allowed Roger that same freedom. But today, he asked for it. And as hard as it was for me, I had to give it.”
He looked at her, his eyes large and fierce with pain, and Flanna pulled him into her arms. Burying his face in her shoulder, he went quietly and very thoroughly to pieces.
They waited until the sun set and the moon rose high enough to light their way through the woods. Logic urged her to keep walking eastward, but Flanna knew without being told that Alden would want to return to the place where his brother died. Roger deserved a decent burial, and Flanna desperately wanted to reclaim her knapsack. Inside were her journal, her medical bag, and at least three loaves of cornbread—and Alden desperately needed food. The conscription agents, or whoever they were, would certainly have moved on by now.
A shining net of stars spanned the ebony dome of heaven, and in the west a silvery glow outlined the curving hills around Richmond. Flanna and Alden walked slowly, her arm about his waist for support, until they found the edge of the woods where Roger had fallen. His body lay there still, unmolested and untouched, and for a heartbreaking moment Flanna wondered if she could have done something to save him. But as Alden dropped to his knees and turned the body, she saw the dark circle in the center of his forehead. If ever a man had died instantly, Roger had.
Alden sat on his knees and leaned forward, using his hands to shovel away the layer of dead leaves. “No, Alden.” Flanna touched his shoulder, stopping him. “You haven’t the strength for digging.”
Tears sparkled in his lashes, and a silver trail marked his pale cheek. “I must.”
“Then let me help.”
She knelt across from him, cupping her hands as she pushed the earth aside. They worked in tandem until they had hollowed out a shallow trench, then Flanna helped Alden lift Roger and place him inside.
Alden prayed and Flanna listened, her own heart overflowing with unspoken thoughts and feelings. She was burying a man who had loved her, a man who had influenced her life for more than two years. Roger had been the truest of all friends, loving her even though he knew she loved his brother.
She looked up at Alden’s shining face. He prayed in a quiet and composed voice, his countenance lifted toward heaven, and his eyes glowed with love and understanding as he asked the Lord to say his farewells to Roger.
What had Nell Scott ever done to deserve such a man?
When Alden had finished praying, Flanna picked up her knapsack and led Alden to a stream where she forced him to eat and drink.
She couldn’t tell whether it was because of the food or simple relief that Roger’s burial was over, but Alden’s spirits seemed to rise as he sat in a patch of moonlight and ate. He insisted that Flanna eat, too, but she merely nibbled at her loaf of cornbread, knowing that Alden needed the lion’s share.
“You’re looking better,” she finally said, leaning over the creek bank as she swished her hands in the water. “Nell will probably write me a thank-you note once you’re married.”
Alden stopped chewing, and one of his brows shot upward. “Nell who?”
“Nell Scott.” Flanna folded her hands in her lap and gave him a controlled smile. They had been through so much together, they might as well bring this secret out into the open. “I know she loves you. Will you be married in Boston or Roxbury?”
He shook his head back and forth, like an ox stunned by the slaughterer’s blow. “I’m to marry Nell Scott? This is the first I have heard of it.”
Flanna laughed. “What is this, selective amnesia? Of course you’re going to marry Nell. You’ve been writing her since the war began. I have one of your letters to her in my medical bag.”
“I remember her writing me.” Alden’s face suddenly went grim. “But I don’t remember anything about a wedding. How could I marry her when I—” His voice broke off, and he narrowed his eyes at Flanna. “You think I’m engaged to Nell Scott? You’ve always thought so?”
Rattled by the pressure of his gaze, Flanna felt herself flush. “Of course I thought so. One does not write a young lady for months without holding certain intentions—”
“Who wrote the young lady?”
“You did!”
He stiffened as though she had struck him. “Produce the letter.”
Without hesitation, she pulled her medical bag from her knapsack, then opened it and fished the letter from its depths. “Here!” With a triumphant flourish, she dangled it before Alden’s eyes. “A letter to Miss Nell Scott of Boston.”
Flanna wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw the beginnings of a smile amid the tangles of his beard. “Read it.”
“I don’t read other people’s mail.”
He leaned forward and grabbed her hand, making her skin tingle where he touched her. “Read it, please. If I hold any intentions toward this young woman, I’d like to be reminded of them.”
Flanna pulled away, then produced a scalpel from her medicine bag. “I’ll make a neat cut, so you can post the letter anyway.” She slit the envelope along its upper edge, then pulled out a single sheet. Alden leaned back upon a wide rock and folded his hands, seeming to enjoy her torment.
The shocking events of the day must have dulled his senses, else he would not have forced her to read of his love for another woman.
Flanna opened the letter, held it up to the moonlight, and began to read: “Dear Miss Scott, greetings. I am sorry I have not been able to respond to your thoughtful letters—”
Flanna paused and looked up. Alden merely lifted a brow, then nodded. “Do go on. I’ve heard nothing about a wedding yet.”
Flanna took a deep breath and tried to curb her riotous emotions. “—but we have been marching for many days. The weather here is very wet, and the men are not used to it…” Flanna’s voice trailed off as she skimmed the rest of the letter. He wrote about his men, the food, and the countryside, then he ended with a single short sentence: “I asked you to pray for my men before we left, and I would especially ask you to pray for one Franklin O’Connor. He is a most stubborn sort of person, a raw recruit, and I worry about him. Very sincerely yours, Alden Haynes.”
She glared at him. “You asked her to pray for me?”
Alden shrugged. “Why not? She was desperate to pray for someone.”
“But you said you were worried about me? And that I was stubborn?”
“Perhaps worry was too strong a word.” He learned forward, and in the moonlight he seemed to study her with a curious intensity. “I wanted to write that I thought about you constantly, but Miss Nell Scott wouldn’t understand my concern for a fellow soldier. In truth, Flanna, I’ve never worried about you. I’ve never met a woman more capable, or one who intrigued me more.”
He reached out and lightly fingered a strand of hair on her cheek. “I think I fell a little in love with you on the day Roger asked me to walk you home—do you remember? I deliberately said something appalling when I left you at your boardinghouse because I thought I might have an easier time of it if you hated me.”
“I never hated you.” The words bubbled to Flanna’s lips from some deep place where she’d hidden them away.
He smiled with beautiful candor. “Every time you and Roger had a spat, I dared to hope you might look in my direction. Then the war began, and I knew you’d despise me for fighting against your loved ones.”
“I never despised you.”
“And then,” he went on, not giving her a chance to unburden her thoughts, “when the three of us waited together in that holding room, I heard Roger say that your friendship would be the basis of a good marriage. And this morning, you made your feelings quite clear—for me you felt gratitude. And in that moment, a word which should have brought genuine happiness served only to tear at my heart.”
“Alden.” Her heart took a perilous leap toward him. “Alden, I have loved you for months, but I thought you were engaged to Nell Scott. I never dreamed that you could feel anything but affection toward me…and there was Roger.”
“Yes,” he said, his arm slipping behind her neck and drawing her closer, “and today Roger brought us together.”
“He knew.” Flanna closed her eyes as Alden’s warm breath fanned her cheek. “He read the letter I wrote you. He knew I loved you.”
Alden pulled her to his side, and for a long moment they sat together, her head resting on his strong shoulder, his arm holding her close. Flanna pressed her hand to his chest, feeling the beat of his heart through his shirt as she thought about the circumstances that had brought them together.
How could two brothers be so different and yet so alike? Each was devoted to the other; each admired different qualities of the same woman. Flanna knew that Roger had valued her wit, her charm, and her beauty, while Alden esteemed the qualities he had chided her for hiding. And which man had loved her most?
Roger had given his life for her…and Alden had given her life. He had given her the courage to step out of the confining mold of genteel womanhood. While still cherishing her femininity, he had shown her that God had given her unique gifts and then encouraged her to use them.
She lifted her eyes, imprinting his beloved profile upon her heart. The applause of fluttering oak leaves and the quiet ripple of the creek served as a natural accompaniment as Alden kissed her, anguish and promise and faith all mingled in the moment.
And when they stretched out on the rock and waited for sleep, Alden thrust his hand toward the silvery net of stars and closed his fist as if he could pluck one from the sky. “Have you ever thought about the stars, Flanna?” A tinge of wonder lined his voice. “They differ from one another in glory, yet each of them is priceless, beautiful, and bright with the glory of the Creator. In every star, every sunrise, and every wind that blows, I see God’s hand. Whenever I was tempted to look at the horrors of war or the frustrations of dealing with General McClellan, I’d step outside my tent and look at the heavens. And then I could see that God remained far above the fray, that he controlled my life and everything that touches it.”
He lowered his hand and dropped it to his chest. When he spoke again, his voice was low and oddly gentle. “I don’t know what made me love you. But when I look at you, I see God’s beauty in your compassion, his strength in your courage, and his mercy in your love. I had never noticed any of those qualities in God before. He was like a supreme commander—giving orders, making sure you obeyed, meting out justice. That has all changed now, and I understand why so many people willingly surrender their lives to him. Wherever we go, whatever tomorrow holds, I know that I have been blessed by you.”
Flanna felt the wings of tragedy lightly brush past her, lifting the hairs on her forearm. Was that resignation she heard in his voice? “Tomorrow holds rescue, Alden,” she assured him. “We’ll set out at first light, and we’ll find a Union regiment. I’ll personally see that you are taken to a decent hospital, and I’ll oversee your care. You’re going to be fine, Alden, just fine.”
She lifted her head to look at him, but his eyes had closed. She lifted her hand; the surface of her palm was shiny and black in the moonlight.
He was bleeding again, and she had no more bandages to stanch the flow.
An hour later, Flanna knelt by the creek to wash the blood from her hands and tried to steady her pounding heart. She had tried everything she knew to stop Alden’s bleeding—a splash of cold water, a grass poultice, even a bandage she fashioned from fabric ripped from her skirt—but nothing seemed to work. Alden’s pulse grew weaker with each passing moment, and the heart she had listened to only a short while ago would soon stop beating unless she could get help. But how could she leave Alden when he had told her that he feared dying alone? She herself had tasted the bitter fear of abandonment. This hour, coming so soon after they had finally declared their love to one another, was not the time to forsake the man she loved.
You have to go.
Flanna acknowledged the voice, but not its message. “Leave him?” Her accusing voice stabbed the air. “If I go, will you keep him alive? Or is this your way of setting him free? I let Charity go. Alden let Roger go. And neither of them is ever coming back!”
Trust in the Lord with all thine heart.
She splashed her hands in the frigid water and scrubbed her knuckles until the skin stung. She had depended on God through her examinations and her entrance into the army. She had stepped out in faith when she left the Yankee camp and wandered over the battlefield. But now she had Alden, the love they had struggled so long to express, and the promise of their future! How could she risk something so precious when the odds were against her?
Lean not unto thine own understanding.
“I’m not leaning on understanding.” She pulled her dripping hands from the water and wiped them on her torn skirt. “I’m using my head. I’ve always used my head. It’s pulled me through many a situation—”
Suddenly her mind blew open, and with naked clarity she saw the truth in her words and the lie in her heart.
She wasn’t trusting God. She was trusting herself.
Throughout her life, she had investigated, made plans, and prepared herself for whatever was to come. As she studied for her examinations, prepared to enter the army, even as she decided to strike out toward Richmond, she had leaned solidly on her own understanding, trusting common sense and hard work to make a way and see her through. She had given lip service to the notions of trust and faith, but God was only her contingency plan, someone to fall back on if her own plans went awry.
Now there was no one to trust but God, no way but his way.
She glanced back at Alden. He lay on the rock, his shirt wrapped around him, his face as pale as candle wax beneath the bruises. The front of his shirt, black with blood, shone darkly in the moonlight.
“How can I leave him?” Her heart breaking, she glanced up at the star-studded sky. “I know now that he is what I have been searching for all this time. I joined the army, knowing he’d be there. I followed him to Virginia, even into battle, because my heart yearned for him. Besides Papa, Alden is the only man who ever loved me enough to let me be the woman you called me to be.”
She listened, straining to hear the small voice that had echoed in the deepest part of her heart, but she heard nothing but the warbling song of a bird on a branch overhanging the creek. God was going to be silent, then. He offered no promises, just a simple request. He wanted her faith and surrender, a deliberate commitment to him when she could see no other way. And time—like Alden’s strength—was slipping through her fingers.
Flanna’s stomach churned and tightened into a knot as fear brushed the edge of her mind. If she left, Alden might wake and die alone, and she would never forgive herself for deserting him. If she remained to comfort him, he would die in her arms, but he would die.
She rose to her knees on the muddy creek bank and lifted her eyes, searching for a falling star or some other celestial omen, but nothing moved in the starry black vault overhead. If only she could have some assurance that Alden’s strength would last until she returned! She tilted her head, listening for the whisper of the wind, but except for the insistent warbling of that bird, the woods were as silent as the grave.
She sank back, drained of will and thought, then realization came on a slow tide of feeling. The bird. What birds sang in the dark? The bravest birds—those who trusted the Creator. The simple creatures who knew nothing of science or the earth’s rotation but still trusted that the bright light of morning was not far away.
She rose up and absently brushed clinging leaves and mud from her skirt. She had entrusted her dreams to Alden, and he had protected and encouraged them. Why, then, could she not trust the love of her heart to the almighty God? As a youngster, she had trusted the Almighty’s plan of salvation. She could cling to childlike faith again.
After placing a soft kiss on Alden’s cold cheek, Flanna climbed the moonlit hill. A chilly breeze swept over the dark ridge, but sunrise could not be far away. If she found a Union camp—when she found a camp—there would be men aplenty to help her bring Alden back.
The darkness in the deep woods felt like liquid, and Flanna moved from one moonlit patch to another, hoping to sight a clearing and a road that would lead to help. She walked quickly, her regret at leaving Alden alone overruled by the certainty that God could be trusted with her dreams. Songbirds sang in the dark…because they knew the morning would come.
The stars had just begun to fade behind a sky of dark blue when Flanna saw a solitary ghostly figure in the road. The soldier, undoubtedly a Union picket, leveled his rifle musket and called out in a gruff voice, “Who’s there?”
Flanna opened her mouth, but her throat felt thick and heavy; the words wouldn’t come. Her knees were liquid, her body light as air.
The gray figure straightened as the musket rose to shoulder height. By all rights he ought to shoot. She was a stranger approaching from hostile territory, but perhaps he might show her mercy.
Her leaden feet moved forward, her skirts dragged over the road. She struggled forward in a hunched posture, her arms wrapped around her center. He might shoot her. If he did, Alden would die, and the struggle would be over. At least they’d be together in eternity.
“Speak now!” the guard called again, moving into a patch of silvery moonlight. “You are approaching a Federal camp!”
“Please!” From somewhere at the center of her being she drew the strength to summon a whisper, husky and dark. “Please help me. I have come on behalf of a Union officer, Major Alden Haynes.”
“Major Haynes?” The guard lowered his rifle; he must have recognized the name. As Flanna halted, he inserted two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Within an instant, a pair of guards came running.
Limp with weariness, Flanna dropped to her knees in the dirt. When one of the guards lifted a lantern, she flinched, then squinted into the light. The ghostly figure with the rifle proved to be a boy, probably not more than seventeen.
“My name is O’Connor.” She lifted her hand to shield her eyes and spoke in a weary monotone. “I am known to Sergeant Marvin, Company M of the Twenty-fifth Massachusetts. I have left Major Alden Haynes in the woods, and I need your help.”
“You better watch her,” one of the other guards said, his eyes narrowing as he came closer. “I hear some of those screaming Rebel furies have been trying to sneak into our camps. They’re spying for General Lee.”
The boy with the rifle frowned, and Flanna breathed an exasperated sigh, understanding his confusion. How could a ragtag woman know Major Haynes and Sergeant Marvin? How could any woman in Virginia know Union officers?
The boy jerked his rifle to his shoulder and pointed it downward. “Tell me the truth, lady—are you a Rebel?”
Flanna swayed slightly on her knees and closed her eyes. She had seen enough rebellion and bloodshed to last a lifetime.
She lifted her head and met the guard’s gaze. “No. I am a Bostonian.”
Reassured, the boy lowered his gun, then jerked his chin at one of the guards. “Russell, run over to that camp of Massachusetts fellows and see if you can find this Sergeant Marvin. Thomas, you bring the lady a hot cup of coffee; she looks like she could use one.”
Flanna gave the young man a grateful smile. He helped her to her feet, and even in the dim glow of lantern light she saw a rich blush stain his cheeks.