Sixteen

Henthorne Mansion, Wilmington

January 5, 1865

Abigail awoke to a cool room in a downright frigid house. The fire had gone out during the night. She peered at the small silver bell on her bedside table. What a useless bauble. Most of their slaves had run off, including Estelle. Initially, Abigail had felt miffed because her maid hadn’t left her a note. Estelle had simply told Salome she planned to find her mother in South Carolina. But then Abigail recalled that because of a silly law that required slaves to remain illiterate, Estelle could neither read nor write.

Sighing and feeling abandoned by husband, sister, and maid, Abigail wrapped a quilt around her shoulders and shuffled to the window. In the courtyard below, rain splashed the flagstones and pooled in puddles that would soon turn icy if temperatures fell any lower. It seldom snowed in Wilmington, which was similar to weather conditions at home in England, where warm ocean currents kept the climate mild. Home. How she wished she were there instead of in an empty mansion with only Salome and Amos. With a baby due in a few weeks, Mama would summon the best physician in the shire to be on hand. Despite five years’ worth of pent-up hostility, even Agnes Dunn wouldn’t deny her daughter proper medical care.

After listlessly stirring the fireplace ashes to no avail, Abigail trudged down two flights of stairs. With her quilt trailing behind like the Queen’s coronation train, she padded through empty rooms in search of another human being. Dust motes floated on stale air, but in the kitchen a fire blazed on the hearth. The sweet scent of cinnamon and sugar caused her stomach to rumble.

Salome almost dropped the tray she held when Abigail entered. “What are you doing down here, Miz Henthorne? I’m on my way up with your breakfast—eggs, toast, jam, grits, ham, and fresh cream for your tea, just how you like it.” Dishes rattled precariously from Salome’s trembling fingers. “Go on back to bed. I’ll be right behind you.”

Abigail slumped onto a bench at the trestle table—a table that could easily seat a dozen servants. “My room is cold.”

“I told Amos to fetch a load of wood, but none’s been split. He’s trying to chop some now.” Salome huffed. “The worthless boys who tended the garden ran off last night. Chopping wood was the only thing they were good at.”

“I’ll eat breakfast right here where it’s warm and cozy.” Abigail tucked the quilt beneath her legs and feet.

Setting the tray down with a clatter, Salome perched her hands on her hips. “You can’t eat down here, mistress. It’s not done. What if somebody sees you?”

“No one is here to witness my departure from social etiquette, so let’s not worry ourselves. May I have my tea?” She looked up, feeling like a child currying favor from a nanny. When Salome filled the cup to the rim, Abigail sliced the air with her hand. “Stop. You left no room for the cream.”

The cook issued an exaggerated sigh. “Sorry, mistress. I’m not used to being a lady’s maid.” Her face screwed up with anxiety.

“Let me handle this while you check the stove. I smell something burning.”

“I plumb forgot about the johnnycake!” The cook opened the oven door, wrapped a towel around the handle on the pan, and pulled the skillet from the heat. “You sure you don’t want to eat breakfast in the dining room?” she asked over her shoulder.

“I’m sure. I don’t like being alone in a room.”

“When is Miz Dunn coming back?”

“I have no idea.” Abigail tried a forkful of grits, unknown in England but served every morning in Wilmington. “The date on her note was January second. That was three days ago. How long does it take to reach Richmond and then return by train?”

Salome shrugged her shoulders, bewildered. “Can’t say, ma’am. I’ve never been there.”

Abigail studied the woman as though for the first time. The cook’s face was pinched and drawn as she kneaded her hands like bread dough. “It’s no matter, Salome. We shall be patient. Tell Amos to come inside and eat with you. Please sit down and finish the eggs, ham, and grits. Don’t bother with that burnt cornbread.”

“What if Miz Dunn gets back?”

“I doubt she will walk in this early.”

“When is Master Henthorne coming home? He’ll be mighty hungry after being gone.”

“He sent a note saying he had business with Mr. Peterson that might keep him away for two nights. If he was planning to stay at the Kendall House, he will have eaten in town.” Abigail’s composure began to slip as she forced down a bite of eggs. At least they weren’t runny the way Jackson preferred.

Salome tried scraping the burned cornbread with a knife. “Master shouldn’t stay away so long, Miz Henthorne. Not with the baby coming.”

“The baby isn’t due for weeks yet. Stop upsetting me and go fetch Amos. He needs to keep up his strength. You two are all I have left,” she whispered as tears sprang to her eyes.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” Salome offered a sympathetic look, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and bustled outdoors.

With only the sound of a guttering oil lamp to break the silence, Abigail reflected on just how true her observation was. The sole servants left in the house were a cook and an aged butler. Amos had to be sixty if he was a day. No one remained to wash or iron her pretty dresses, polish the silver, or deadhead the last of the roses. What would she do if the pair of them decided to pack their bags and head for greener pastures?

These Southerners thought owning slaves would preserve the workforce. As things turned out, nothing could be further from the truth. At least, Salome wouldn’t leave without Thomas. Abigail made up her mind to start paying them a small salary, even if she had to do so behind Jackson’s back. She could live with dusty chandeliers, but going hungry wasn’t an option now that she was eating for two.

Just as she finished her last bite of breakfast, Salome stomped into the kitchen. “Thomas just drove the carriage into the barn.” She sounded as though the rain had changed to lightning bolts.

“Thank goodness Jackson is home! Make sure Thomas eats breakfast and inform Mr. Henthorne I’ll await him in the parlor. I’m sure he’ll want to bathe and—”

Uncharacteristically, Salome cut her off. “Master Henthorne ain’t with him, mistress. Thomas came back alone. You were right. They were at Oakdale…” Salome’s eyes darted left and right, everywhere but at Abigail’s face.

“What on earth? Why would Jackson stay with his parents, leaving me here to fend for myself?” She sounded every bit as annoyed as she felt.

“Thomas said you’re ’sposed to pack your bags. Take everything you set store by, along with Granddaddy Henthorne’s silverware and candlesticks. Pack everything made for the baby too. And be quick about it.” Salome’s dark complexion took on a rosy hue. “Those be Master Henthorne’s words, not mine, missus.”

Abigail rose from the table with as much dignity as she possessed. “Please tell Thomas he’s to come inside once he’s seen to the horse. While the three of you eat, he will tell me every single word Master Henthorne said.”

“I don’t think—”

“Please don’t argue with me, Salome. I need to speak to Thomas myself.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The cook bowed her head and returned to the courtyard.

Over the next twenty minutes, Abigail drank two more cups of tea. She feared she might burst from fluids if Thomas didn’t arrive soon. Fortunately, the coachman appeared in the doorway before disaster struck.

“You wanted to see me, mistress?”

“Indeed, Thomas. Tell me everything Mr. Henthorne said and leave nothing out.”

He cocked his head to one side. “He wants you to pack everything important, ma’am. Then I am to take you to Master Randolph’s plantation. No telling how long you’ll be in the country, so you should take all of the baby’s clothes and things too.” Thomas ducked his head with embarrassment.

“Why didn’t my husband come home with you?” Abigail threw her hands up in the air. “He could help us pack and offer protection for the ride to Oakdale.” Hysteria was beginning to take hold, turning her voice high and squeaky.

“Please don’t fret, Miz Henthorne. Master gave me his derringer in case army deserters bother you ’long the way. He showed me how to reload too if need be.” Thomas grinned, first at her and then at his wife.

“Don’t you go shooting yourself in the foot.” Salome cautioned, quite perturbed with this piece of information.

Abigail used the moment to collect her wits. “Thank you, Thomas. I will feel safe under your protection, but there is something you’re not telling me.”

The coachman focused on the waxed floor tiles. “Master Henthorne thought we should hurry and leave. You can hear the rest from Mistress Isabelle once we get there.”

The coachman’s mention of her mother-in-law’s name became the proverbial last straw for Abigail. She slapped her palm down on the table. “No, Thomas! You will tell me where Jackson is this minute!”

He looked close to an apoplectic fit. Then he cleared his throat and met her gaze. “Master Henthorne went and joined the army, mistress. He says the South has its back agin’ the wall. He won’t let Yankees take Wilmington without a fight.”

“Jackson…he’s at Fort Fisher?”

“That’s where he was headed. Don’t know if he got there yet. He wouldn’t let me drive him.”

Ten seconds of uncomfortable silence spun out before Abigail could speak. Then she said, “Thank you, Thomas. Be sure to eat heartily, because you’ll have another long drive today. You too, Amos.” She’d spotted the butler peeking around the corner. “When you are finished, why don’t you two pack the Henthorne silver while I collect my clothes?”

“I can do that, Miz Henthorne. I’ll start packing your clothes and the baby’s.” Salome shifted her weight from hip to hip. “That worthless Estelle ran off,” she added in Thomas’s direction.

“No, I want you to pack the kitchen, pantry, and root cellar, Salome. It sounds as if we’ll be gone awhile.”

Thomas tugged on his ear while considering her suggestion. “Amos and Salome can take the open buggy while I drive the brougham. That way we can carry more and get all of the horses to Oakdale too.”

“Won’t it be too cold to use the open carriage?” Abigail glanced from one to the other.

Amos, who had been quiet thus far, shook his head. “Don’t worry about us, ma’am. We’ll wear everything we own. That way we can stay warm and have more room in the coach.”

“Very ingenious.” Abigail smiled at the old man, thinking: I will have trouble fitting my clothes into two trunks, let alone wearing all of them. “If there are no questions, let’s get started.”

Once she was upstairs, she bundled herself into a warm robe and then began to pack as methodically as she could, but hours passed before her trunks were finally filled. Afterward, the mistress and three slaves ate a supper of chicken stew in the kitchen. This time not one of them commented on the impropriety of her actions. There was little talk at all, which suited her fine. She was too weary to think, let alone make polite conversation.

“Are you ’bout ready to go, Miz Henthorne?” asked Thomas. “We done everything you asked down here. Soon as I hitch the horses we could leave. I don’t mind driving to Oakdale at night. I’m getting pretty used to the dark.”

“We’ll leave at first light after we get a good night’s sleep.”

“But Master Henthorne said—”

Slapping her hand on the tabletop, she looked at each one in succession. “Since my husband isn’t here, I’m in charge. Do you understand?”

All nodded their heads in agreement. “Thank you. From this day forward you will refer to him as Mr. Henthorne, not master, because you are now paid workers, not slaves. We’ll discuss wages once we’re settled at Oakdale.”

Three pairs of eyes rounded like saucers, but only Amos replied. “Thank you, Mrs. Henthorne.”

“And because I intend to pay you, there is no need to run off in the middle of the n-night.” Abigail’s voice cracked, betraying her emotions.

Salome’s expression turned sympathetic. “If we were gonna leave, ma’am, we would have done so by now. Don’t you worry ’bout us abandoning you.” She patted the sleeve of her dress. “We ain’t going nowhere.”

Abigail clasped her hand tightly. “Thank you, Salome. Now I must retire. You need to sleep as well. Tomorrow we have a long trip ahead of us.”

For the next three hours she lay awake on her bed, staring at the ceiling and worrying. What would happen when Amanda came home and found them gone? Was she wandering through Yankee territory with only a maid? She could be arrested as a spy and thrown into federal prison. And Jackson—was he a sitting duck with dozens of Yankee cannons aimed at the fort? How could he survive a battle when, by his own admission, he never even shot a rabbit as a boy? Despite kind assurances from the three domestics, Abigail felt adrift without her twin and her husband.

“Please keep them safe, God,” she prayed softly. “And grant us an uneventful journey to Randolph’s plantation.”

But Abigail wasn’t going anywhere the next day or the one thereafter. Not long before dawn, around the same time Thomas was feeding the horses and attaching their harnesses, she experienced a searing pain in her abdomen. Without a shadow of a doubt she knew it wasn’t indigestion or a case of spoiled food. Her baby was on the way sooner than anyone imagined. And she was alone in a cold mansion with a handful of former slaves, not one of which was a midwife. Her optimism for the future plummeted another notch. Right about now, she would be willing to tolerate the disagreeable personality of her mother-in-law to be in more capable hands.

Evening of January 6 

“This is the end of the line, folks.” The conductor’s ominous announcement roused Amanda from a nightmare. In the dream she had been jostled and pushed by indignant travelers, questioned by surly Union officers, poked in the ribs to make certain she concealed no weapons, and then prodded onto a ship’s narrow wooden beam that extended over a raging sea. Except for walking the plank, her dream hadn’t been too different from reality, considering the last few days. Even with British documents, crossing into the city of Washington from Alexandria hadn’t been easy.

Finding Helene suitable accommodations within walking distance of the harbor had been nearly impossible. Amanda parted with a substantial amount of gold for Helene’s room, along with a ticket on the next ship to Liverpool. Her offer of a cheque drawn on an English bank had been met with either laughter or a sniff of indignation. At least Helene only had another five days in the chaotic American capital. The hotel had an adequate dining room that served a decent shepherd’s pie and a delicious cup of tea. Amanda knew Helene wouldn’t set foot on the crowded city streets until it was time to board, even if she ate shepherd’s pie for every one of her meals.

Then Amanda had as much trouble reentering Virginia as she had exiting, perhaps more. Her short stay labeled her a suspected spy in the eyes of military authorities. Battle lines had recently changed, so that what had been Confederate territory no longer was. Her explanation of seeing her maid off to their homeland begged the obvious question: Why didn’t you get on the boat with her? Why, indeed? Doubtlessly, that’s what a wise woman would have done. But not a woman in love.

After changing trains no less than seven times, they approached Rocky Point, the last town of any size before reaching the coast. End of the line? The conductor’s announcement sent a frisson of dread through her veins. A quick glance out the window revealed they had not arrived in the city of Wilmington.

“Please, sir, why have we stopped?” Amanda adopted the American penchant for shouting in public instead of waiting for a more decorous moment to make an inquiry.

The conductor ambled back to where she sat. “Tracks torn up, missy. No telling who did the mischief this time. But don’t you worry. The local boarding house has plenty of rooms for gentlefolk with money to pay. Everyone else can sleep in the stable’s hayloft. Not many horses are left in town anyway.” He produced an indulgent smile. “Tomorrow I’ll call for you at the inn. Then we’ll walk to where the tracks start again. Be ready by noon, let’s say.” He tucked his watch back into his pocket.

“I must reach Wilmington as soon as possible, sir. My sister will be frightfully worried. I’ve been gone far longer than intended and—”

“Now, now. You’ll be home by nightfall tomorrow, midnight at the latest.” With that he tipped his hat to her and took his leave.

“Excuse me, sir. Where is that stable you mentioned?”

He glanced back with a frown. “You can’t sleep there, miss. It wouldn’t be safe. Speak to Mrs. Hawkins at the inn if you’re short—”

“I wish to inquire about another matter. Please, sir.”

With a sigh the conductor pointed in the general direction of town. “Follow the tracks to the square. Turn right on Greene Street and walk three blocks till you come to the end. You can’t miss Waite’s Livery.” He came back to pull down her bag from the overhead rack.

“Thank you kindly.” Amanda grabbed the handle of her valise and moved toward the door.

“Don’t forget to meet me on the inn’s porch at noon.”

But she had other things on her mind than a night at the local boarding house, no matter how comfortable the furnishings. She walked to Waite’s Livery as fast as possible without running. Amanda had never run in her life, not even as a child. I’m developing new abilities in America, she mused, giddy from fatigue.

When she reached the stable, she was too breathless to speak. “Do you have a carriage for hire?” she croaked between gasps for air.

“Nope. It was stolen by some Yankee major.” A teenager in enormous overalls replied while chewing on a long tasseled weed.

“Then I would like to hire two horses. Surely you have some. I see one right there.” Amanda pointed at a brown rump and swishing black tail.

The lad pondered for a few moments. “What you be wantin’ them for?” He eyed her traveling suit, broad-brimmed hat, and high-topped shoes suspiciously. Thankfully, she’d left her hoop at her sister’s.

Once her heart stopped pounding, she recovered a bit of dignity. “I need two horses—one for me and one for you. I want to hire you as my guide. It’s a matter of the upmost urgency that I reach Wilmington as quickly as possible.”

“You know how to ride a horse? Ha! That’s a good one, missy.”

“Young man, you apparently have no idea what an Englishwoman’s childhood education consists of. I’ve had years of riding lessons and happen to ride quite well. I will pay you two twenty-dollar gold pieces if you accompany me to Wilmington.” She hoped she wouldn’t have to beg.

The young man scratched the sparse stubble on his chin. “Trouble is, I only got the one horse—Bluebells. I hid him in the woods when Yankees rode into town. That’s his name ’cause he likes to eat them flowers, not because he’s a sissy.”

“Fine. I’ll rent Mr. Bluebells and see that he’s returned safe and sound. I am a woman of my word.” Amanda lifted her chin and crossed her arms.

The boy mimicked her posture. “Bluebells is my horse, miss. I wouldn’t loan him out to Jeff Davis himself. I don’t want to lose him to thieves or stragglers looking for a way home.”

Weary beyond forbearance, she broke into tears. “Forty dollars is all I have, but I’ll pay you whatever you demand once I reach home.”

“Ain’t no call for cryin’. Let me think on this a minute.” The young Mr. Waite snaked a hand through his thick hair and lifted one boot heel to a bale of hay to assist the process.

Amanda swabbed her face with a handkerchief much in need of laundering.

“Wilmington ain’t exactly ’round the next corner. You would get lost for sure if you took Bluebells alone. More likely he would throw you off, and then Yankee cavalry would find him wandering around. They’re always crisscrossing these parts.”

“What do you suggest?” Amanda asked, trying to stifle her sniffles.

“The name is Bobby Waite. This was my pa’s place.” He indicated the surroundings with a wave. “’Spose we could both ride Bluebells, seeing as neither of us weighs much. I can take you where you need to be, collect forty dollars atop the forty you pay me now, and then hightail it back home. That second forty includes the price of shipping.”

“Shipping?” she asked, straightening her hat.

“For your satchel.” He pointed at her valise. “I’m only taking you and the little purse on your wrist. Bluebells ain’t no pack mule.” Bobby narrowed his eyes, the point obviously nonnegotiable.

“You have a deal, Mr. Waite.” Amanda offered her ungloved hand. She was becoming an American by leaps and bounds.

“Bobby. Mr. Waite was my pa.” He shook her hand as though pumping a handle.

While Bobby hung a “Closed” sign on the door, Amanda prepared herself for an unladylike ride minus a sidesaddle. Soon Bluebells was tossing his mane down the road, seemingly pleased to be leaving Rocky Point.

Regardless of whether Amanda was a new American or still an Englishwoman on holiday, it was dawn before the flower-eating beast, the stable heir, and textile mill heiress arrived at the Henthorne residence. She paused at the back door to address her companion of the last several hours. “You’ll find plenty of hay and oats in the barn for Bluebells. Once he is situated, join me in the kitchen for breakfast.” She pointed at the entrance. “I’ll pay you what I owe and show you to a guest room. You can rest before starting your journey home.”

Bobby’s gaze traveled skyward to the roofline three stories above them. “If it’s just the same to you, Miss Dunn, just set my plate of vittles on that bench along with the money. I prefer to bed down next to Bluebells for the night and keep an eye on him.”

“All right. I’ll also set out a quilt and a pillow for you.” Suddenly, a piercing wail distracted Amanda from her guide. “Thank you for helping a damsel in distress, Bobby.” With that she left him and hurried into the house. Upstairs she found her sister bathed in sweat. Abigail’s wrinkled nightdress was sodden despite the room’s cool temperature.

“Goodness! Is the baby on the way?”

Salome jumped to her feet from where she sat on a bedside stool. “Praise the Lord! You’ve returned, Miz Dunn.”

Abigail opened her eyes. “Mandy, you have come back. I thought surely you were on your way home.”

“You haven’t called me that since we were little girls,” Amanda said as she smoothed her sister’s damp hair from her forehead. “I wrote that I would return after sending Helene off, and here I am.”

“I’m very glad to see you. Salome doesn’t think she can handle one wee babe, even though she’s already birthed four children.” Her weak voice still managed to convey amusement.

“All I said was that I never seen it done from the other end of things.” Salome wrung out a cloth in the basin and placed it on Abigail’s brow. To Amanda she said, “Don’t know why it’s taking Miss Abigail so long. She’s had the birthin’ pains since early yesterday morning.”

With Salome’s observation, Abigail’s face blanched with terror. “I don’t know what to do.”

Amanda turned to the Henthorne cook. “Could you fix a plate of food for the young man who brought me home from Rocky Point? He’s tending to his horse in the barn. He’ll also need a quilt and a pillow. He insists on sleeping in the hayloft.”

Salome nodded, relieved to be useful in a familiar way. “Be happy to, Miz Dunn.” She practically flew out of the room.

Turning to her sister again, Amanda said soothingly, “Aunt Mandy is here to convince her new niece or nephew it’s time to make a grand entrance.”

Tears streamed down Abigail’s cheeks. “I’m so grateful to you, sister.”

Amanda took her hand and squeezed. “We’re not just sisters; we’re twins. I’m not going anywhere, not now and maybe not ever. Don’t you worry. Salome and I will figure this out one step at a time.”

When Nate looked back on his brief career as an infantryman in the Confederate army, everything would be a blur of confusion. Had the troops been organized and efficient during the early days of the war? He’d heard reports that both battles of Bull Run, along with the battle of Antietam Creek, had been resounding Confederate victories. Reportedly, generals and other officers in command displayed finesse and military brilliance. Perhaps the thing causing morale to falter so badly was fatigue from lack of good food and insufficient rest. Or perhaps it was the ennui and despondency that set in when a war lasted too long. Or, most likely, it was the fact that the Rebels were outnumbered and under-gunned in each confrontation. But no matter the reasons, conditions deteriorated with each passing day of bombardment.

The Union navy began shelling Fort Fisher on January 12. Several ships that had been blockading the mouth of the Cape Fear River aimed their guns at the battery mounds and palisade and opened fire. Nate would learn later that fifty-six Union ships were used during the artillery assault. Had Confederate soldiers inside the fort known that one fact, they may have thrown up their hands in surrender, saved hundreds of lives, and prevented hundreds more from becoming prisoners of war. Instead, the artillerymen manning the guns and mortars did their best to repulse the barrage for a full two and a half days. During this inordinate period of time, Nate couldn’t form a concise thought, let alone sleep or eat or prove useful as an infantryman. His regiment was ordered to remain underground in a bombproof shelter along the rampart on the inland face. On January 15, at three o’clock under a low winter sun, the Union army attacked from both the inland side and the beach where the sea wall met the land face of the fort. Nate would remember no clear command to load and fire, parry forward and retreat, or any semblance of a plan. He focused only on his task at hand against enormous odds—to fight beside Joshua and die for him if necessary. After several hours of attempting to repulse the uninvited guests, the Yankees entered the fortification at Shepherd’s Battery. Wave after wave of bluecoats swarmed through the hole in the palisade like black ants from a threatened colony. After battling for several hours in fierce hand-to-hand combat, Joshua’s commanding officer had little alternative but sound the retreat from Fort Fisher—Nate’s military home for a scant twenty days.

“Head upriver to Fort Anderson, men! We’ll regroup and form ranks to give it another go.”

Amid the smoke and appalling carnage, it occurred to Nate that his brother might not know where to find Fort Anderson. Nate knew it was on the western side of the river, visible from the river road back to Wilmington. He knew exactly how to get back to town. After fixing bayonets, Nate and Joshua fought their way out of the fort in a melee that if he lived another hundred years he could never describe adequately. Once they broke free of the hailstorm of artillery smoke, gunfire, and savagery, they received their first accurate assessment of how outnumbered they were.

“Head north into the marshlands, men! We’ll reconnoiter upriver.” The hoarse cry of their major cut through the din moments before the thrust of a bayonet ended his command forever.

“This way!” yelled Nate. Joshua and half a dozen comrades quickly fell into step behind him. He tried not to focus on the fact their detail had thrice that number when they exited the doomed fortress.

“Keep your heads down and don’t fire your gun!” shouted Joshua. “That will only draw bluecoats onto our trail.” His brother resumed control of their little group with no idea as to where they were going.

Throughout the night they picked their way across tidal flats thick with cordgrass, stunted pines, and scrub-covered hillocks. They were wet, covered in bloody scratches if not battle wounds, hungry, and exhausted when they finally reached a patch of dry land where a lone swamp willow held its ground against shifting tides. Pulling up their jackets to protect their faces against ravenous insects, the six men huddled beneath the tree without uttering a single word. Confident the Yankees were no longer in pursuit, they fell into an exhausted sleep without posting a guard. None of them could have handled such a task anyway.

If the Yankees end our misery, so be it, thought Nate. Better a well-aimed bullet than a poisonous copperhead or cottonmouth. He had never been particularly fond of snakes. Before drifting off, he thought about Jackson Henthorne and his odd change of heart. Of course, it wasn’t more peculiar than his. He uttered a silent prayer for Henthorne’s life for the sake of Abigail and their coming child. And he prayed for Amanda, that she would remember him fondly if this night turned out to be his last. Nate fell asleep with the mental image of her lovely face framed by an array of blond curls etched on his eyelids.

His sleep, however, would be brief in duration. Just after daybreak an enormous explosion shook the ground they reposed on. Dry leaves, still clinging to winter branches, showered down on the sleeping soldiers.

Joshua drew his sword with his right hand and aimed his pistol with his left into the scrub brush. The sky brightened eerily as though the sun itself had exploded at the southern horizon.

“What was that?” asked Nate, rising to his full height.

“I believe the powder magazines at Fisher just exploded. It was definitely from that direction.” Joshua lowered his weapons.

“Why would the Yankees do that? If they control the fort, they could use the munitions for their own artillery.”

“I have no idea. There’s no figuring bluecoats.” Joshua busily plucked chiggers and burrs from his coat and trousers. “Let’s get moving. We’ll rest once we get to our destination.”

“Where would that be, Lieutenant?” asked a bearded private.

“North of here. We’ll try to join up with others who escaped. We need to move closer to the river.” Joshua looked to Nate for confirmation.

Nate suspected Joshua had no particular plan. How could anyone prepare for a chaotic rout in the dead of night? But he had to give his younger brother credit—he sure seemed as though he had a plan, and his choice to seek the Cape Fear proved beneficial. Within an hour they came upon a detail of pickets patrolling the perimeter of an impromptu encampment. Blessedly, all uniforms were Confederate gray or butternut.

“CaptainTucker,” Joshua called once they drew close enough to recognize the man. He snapped their commander at Fisher a salute. Besides having a bandage around his upper arm, the captain also sported a gash above his right brow, the blood already drying into a scab.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Lieutenant. How many men are with you?” Tucker returned a quick salute.

“Five, sir. My brother and four others.”

Nate stepped forward to salute, uncertain if this was proper or not. His abbreviated training didn’t cover the finer points of military protocol.

The captain nodded, assessing their party with a cursory glance. “I hoped more from our company had escaped from the fort.”

“Plenty more did, sir. We’re not licked yet.”

“Infantry and artillerymen have found their way here all night. I suppose that will continue throughout the day.” Shielding his eyes, Tucker scanned the bank. “At least there has been no sign of Yankees this far upriver.”

“We’ll be ready for them, sir, when they come.”

“Oh, they’ll come, Cooper. The Yankees are as relentless as hounds after a fox.”

Considering his optimism, it was hard to imagine that Joshua had enlisted four years ago. Nate’s respect for his brother grew with each passing day.

“How bad is your wound, sir?”

Tucker smiled. “Not bad enough to kill me, Lieutenant.”

“What are your orders?” Joshua stood at attention.

“After you get some food and rest, try to find more from your company.” He gestured toward soldiers milling around campfires or sound asleep on bedrolls. “General Whiting and Colonel Lamb were both wounded. General Hoke has positioned three brigades along this eastern ridge, or he will have once we are assembled. Across the river, General Hoke positioned another brigade at Fort Anderson. That fort is the last stronghold between here and Wilmington. We can’t allow the last southern port to fall into enemy hands. We must hold our ground here on Sugar Loaf to protect Anderson. I cannot overstate how important our jobs are today.”

“My men and I are prepared to do our duty.” After a final salute, their company left to seek familiar faces, a hot meal of cornmeal mush, and some sleep. There would be no more fighting for Joshua’s bedraggled band of Confederate infantry that day. They would have time to lick their wounds.

Nate had plenty of time to think about Amanda, and how close several Union soldiers had come to ending his earthly existence forever.