CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits.

—ECCLESIASTES 1:6

I dropped to my knees and bent my ear to his face to feel the reassuring warmth of his breath on my cheek. Realizing he had fainted, I unbuttoned his jacket and the top of his shirt, feeling the bulk of bandaging under the thin cotton. Blood had begun to seep through the bandages, making me aware of how serious his wound was.

“You damned fool,” I said to his closed eyes. “You should have stayed at Phoenix Hall, where Charles could care for you properly.”

Blue eyes opened briefly. “I am a damned fool—but not for this.” His voice sounded strained, as if it took all his effort just to speak. “It’s not so bad. Bullet passed clean through.” He took a deep breath, his eyelids fluttering. “I am . . . here to take . . . you back with me.”

I reached under my skirt and began ripping the cotton ruffle around a petticoat. “I can’t go back with you, Stuart.” I had to make him understand, and the only way I could was to tell him the truth. “Sarah’s in great danger. Pamela is holding her hostage unless I help . . .” I could barely say the words. “Unless I help her assassinate General Sherman.”

He struggled feebly to sit up, but I pressed him down. Gasping heavily, he squeezed words between each breath. “I will not . . . allow you . . . to put yourself . . . in danger.”

He winced as I struggled to sit him up against the tree. “You don’t have a choice. You can barely breathe, much less chase me through the woods.”

Narrowed eyes regarded me solemnly. “But my men could.”

I’d forgotten all about the other soldiers. My hands stilled. “Don’t. Sarah’s life is at stake. And I’m the only one who can help her.”

I raised his shirt and wrapped my petticoat ruffle around his chest, tightening the pressure on his wound to staunch the flow of blood, like I’d seen Julia do for Zeke.

He grabbed my wrist and our gazes locked. “Damnit. Why will you not let me help you?”

I shook my head, fighting the sting of tears in my eyes. “Because if Pamela finds out I’ve told you or solicited help, she will kill Sarah. I don’t doubt it.”

He winced as I pulled him forward to reach around him. “Do you have any idea where Sarah might be?”

With a glance over at Matt’s body, I leaned Stuart gently back against the tree. “Only what Matt told me—that she was being held in an old, abandoned church. I have no idea where—except Matt did say it was near where he was born.”

His forehead was beaded with sweat. “Matt’s father was a preacher.” He winced, closing his eyes. “It could be that church. In Alpharetta—about a day’s ride from here.”

I sat back on my heels, my heart heavy. “Will your men find you?”

Panic crossed his face. “You cannot go alone. I will . . .” He struggled to stand, but collapsed against the tree, his eyes admitting defeat.

“Will your men find you?” I asked again.

He paused, then nodded. Between gritted teeth, he said, “Endy will show them.”

Thunder rumbled overhead, as fat blobs of rain pelted the leaves and branches, dribbling their way down to where we sat. He lifted his good arm, reaching for me, and I leaned toward him. His fingers brushed my cheek, then cupped my jaw, sliding around to the back of my neck. He pulled me to him, then kissed me deeply, and I lost myself in it. The smell of the rain and wet wool brought me back to awareness and I pulled back, worried I might hurt him.

His eyes were dark with pain and something else, his words low as he spoke. “I am half out of my mind with pain and with anger, yet still I want you. This wanting of you—it is sure to kill me if nothing else does.”

I gently laid my head on his chest, and his fingers found my hair. “I’m sorry, Stuart. I’m so sorry.” I buried my face in his neck, kissing him softly, then lifted my head and stood.

He grunted, trying to sit up. “Laura, please. Do not go alone. We can find Sarah together.” His eyes burned into mine. “I love you.”

I swallowed my tears, my heart battling with my head. Telling him the truth of my feelings for him would bind us forever; would keep him searching for me long after I had gone. My head won, and I swiped away my nonexistent tears like I could swipe away my feelings. Matter-of-factly, I said, “If Sarah is not where you think she is and I don’t show up to see Pamela, they will kill her. I will not fail my daughter again.”

He crumpled back against the tree, and I turned to retrieve my carpetbag that Matt had dropped as we flew into our hiding spot. It was stuck under one of his legs, and I shuddered as I moved it to retrieve my bag, the rain hitting it with solid thuds.

I faced Stuart, clutching the red carpetbag. “There’s a bag of gold coins in Matt’s coat. Take it. You’ll need it after the war’s over.” I ducked my head. “Go home, Stuart. If I know you’re being taken care of, that’s one less thing I have to worry about.”

His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Do not go.”

Swallowing hard, I shook my head and turned away, then headed up the hill in the dense underbrush.

*   *   *

The rainstorm ended as quickly as it had begun, and I was grateful that I didn’t have to slog through mud. I was a poor navigator, despite my four years as a Girl Scout. All I knew was that the train I was on had been headed north to the town of Dalton. So I stayed in the woods but kept close to the edge, where I could follow the bends of the rail tracks. I listened for a while for the sounds of pursuit, and when none came, I relaxed a bit. I hoisted my skirts and knotted them as high as I could to make walking easier, only lowering them when the woods gave way to sparsely populated farmland. A road grew out of the fields, and I followed it for a while until a wagon ambled by piled high with lumber. The old man holding the reins showed no surprise at my disheveled appearance when I asked him if the road would take me to Dalton. He nodded solemnly and then offered me a ride. I didn’t need any persuasion to accept his offer, and climbed up onto the running board before he could change his mind. The man did not utter a word, and for a time, I thought he had drifted to sleep. I took off my shoes to examine my blisters, startling as the man shouted and slapped the reins at a bumblebee.

He dropped me off at the Dalton train depot, for lack of anywhere else to go. I thanked him, and he rode on, a single hand held up in farewell.

At the ticket window, I asked for directions for Mrs. Simpson’s rooming house, the place Matt told me Pamela was staying. Dreading every step, I headed off for the short walk.

Full dark had settled over the town, the streetlamps coloring the clusters of Confederate soldiers in a faded yellow. Women, many wearing black, scurried across streets with baskets over their arms or holding on to small children. I wondered if there might be a curfew, and quickened my step.

Pamela answered my tapping on the door. When she looked past me into the hallway, I told her, simply, “Matt’s dead. Confederate soldiers stopped our train and chased us into the woods. He was shot, but I managed to escape.”

I kept my voice steady and my gaze firm, knowing I couldn’t mention Stuart’s involvement. Her eyes flickered over my appearance, and then she held the door wide to allow me in.

“Does anyone know you are here?”

I shook my head slowly.

“Let us hope you are right.” She closed the door behind me with a final thud.

I gave myself a sponge bath behind the screen in the room and slipped on a nightgown, pleased to finally rid myself of my torn and tired traveling dress. If it weren’t for my growling stomach, I would have been too tired to make it to one of the two single beds.

To remain inconspicuous, we ate our dinner of chicken dumplings, yams, and corn bread in our room. Tight knots clenched at my stomach, but I still found my appetite and cleaned my plate, chewing slowly while my mind digested my thoughts.

Pamela’s teeth ground her food, her jawbones jutting out from the colorless skin on her face. As I studied her, my mind skittered in all directions. I hoped Stuart’s injuries ensured his return home to Phoenix Hall where he could completely recover. A part of me wanted him to stay weak for several more months, to keep him out of the war.

We placed our trays outside the door; then Pamela began to dress for bed. As she removed her clothes, I heard the distinct sound of rustling paper. I turned and watched in amazement as she relieved her petticoat of its unusual fullness at the sides and rear by drawing out three newspapers.

On her bed she laid out the Cincinnati Enquirer, the New York Daily Tribune, and the Philadelphia Inquirer. I approached the bed and glanced at the dates—all recent editions.

“What are these for?” I asked, thumbing through the Philadelphia paper.

She snatched it out of my hands and stacked them on the floor next to her bed. “They are for our army, of course. To give General Johnston and his staff some insight on the status of Yankee morale and some such. Our neighbors to the north are worried about Grant’s losses in the east. One more staggering defeat of Federal forces and I do believe the Yankees will be ready to sue for peace.” She grinned widely at me. “The death of Sherman and the resulting loss of morale among his men will be the turning point in this war—you mark my words.” She practically beamed as she pulled the bedclothes from the bed. “Mrs. Simpson is a friend of mine and will be sure to deliver these to General Johnston tomorrow.”

I watched as she placed a revolver under her pillow and lay down. “Go to sleep, Laura. We have a very busy day ahead.”

Pamela turned down the lamp, and as I watched the flickering shadows disappear from the walls, a thought occurred to me. “How will we get to Chattanooga? It’s held by the Federals, and I can’t imagine them letting us walk right in.”

Her voice was sharp in the quiet night air. “We will have to depend on our own resources and the fact that you are related to an officer on General Sherman’s personal staff.”

I sat up straight in the bed, my eyes squinting in the dark in Pamela’s direction. “What do you mean?”

I heard the smile in her voice. “Your new brother-in-law, dear. Captain William Elliott, aide-de-camp for General Sherman. Stuart’s older brother.”

I recalled the arrow scar on Stuart’s chest and all the things I had heard about William. Knowing William’s relationship with his brother and Julia, I was unsure if he could be relied on to be an ally. “And he’s supposed to help us get rid of General Sherman?”

“No. And I know you are smart enough not to enlighten him on the matter. He believes me to be a Yankee spy. How else do you think I have been able to get the information to pass on to Stuart? William is merely our passage into the general’s company. And then you will take it from there.”

I thought of the red velvet dress with the low neckline I had brought with me. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that, Pamela. I haven’t a clue how to be a seductress.”

“Then you had better start practicing. But I do not think you will have to do much; men seem to flock toward you regardless.” I saw a dark shape against the whiteness of the wall, like a shadow in a nightmare, and realized she was also sitting up in bed, looking directly at me. “I will arrange for you and the general to be alone, to get to know each other. You will suggest a secret rendezvous and your complete discretion. When he meets with you, I want you to blow his head off.”

She’s insane. The thought struck me again as an owl hooted in a tree not far from our window, and I suddenly wanted to climb up the tree with him and watch all of this from a safe distance. Instead, I found myself an actress in the middle of this macabre play, with only one way off the stage. I placed my hand on my heart and felt it fluttering rapidly. I willed it to slow by taking deep breaths. What if I succeeded in killing General Sherman? Would the war continue longer and the blood of thousands be on my hands? It was immeasurable, unfathomable, and certainly unpredictable. Then I thought of Sarah, scared and alone, her fate now an unknown, and knew I didn’t have a choice.

I lay back down on the cool cotton sheets, and eventually fell asleep in the early hours of the morning.

We left the rooming house before dawn, sneaking down the back stairs and out the door without detection, and headed north through the woods. I shivered in the dark air, trying to make out the moonlit-backed shapes in front of me. My long skirts caught on brambles and dead twigs, so I eventually hoisted them up over my knees, exposing stockings with more holes than fabric. After a couple of hours, I stopped from near weariness, cool prickles of sweat beading my forehead. I dropped my carpetbag, opening hands that had been clutching the handle and the skirts, and painfully stretched the small bones and muscles. The bloodred sun appeared low in the sky, bleeding light into the dark forest.

“Do you have any idea where you’re going, Pamela?”

She stopped about ten yards ahead of me. “Of course. I have studied this terrain for years. Now pick up your bag and keep going. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

I stayed where I was, swaying with exhaustion, tiny gnats flitting about my face. “How many miles from Dalton to Chattanooga?”

“About thirty. But do not worry—we will commandeer a horse as soon as we see one.”

I grabbed my bag and hurried up behind her. “You want us to steal a horse?”

She didn’t answer, and we plowed on. We followed closely to the railroad tracks of the Western & Atlantic, trying to stay out of sight of the tracks while using it to direct us. A few miles west of town, we had to walk on the tracks through a narrow gap in two facing rock walls, which Pamela called Rocky Face Ridge. I said a silent prayer that no trains would come, as there would be no room for us to escape.

By midmorning we reached a clearing. Pamela motioned me back, and I peered from behind her to see a wooden rail fence enclosing a large pasture. The morning breeze carried the pungent aroma of horse manure, and I knew we had reached the right place. A saddleless horse stood on the far side of the pasture, its head buried in the tall grass. I looked past the horse to the farmhouse with fading whitewash, where a woman stood next to a wood pile, her ax raised before she drove it into a log. Two little boys ran around barefoot in the dirt, causing the mother to stop her chopping and bark at them, with little to no effect.

A husband was nowhere in sight—a familiar occurrence in these times. I worried about her vulnerability, perched as she was between two opposing armies. My eyes traveled down the side of the house until I saw her only protection, a long rifle leaning against the brick chimney.

“We can’t take this woman’s horse,” I said. “It looks like it’s the only piece of livestock she’s got left.”

Pamela snorted. “If we do not take it, the Yankee Army will. Probably kill it, too, just to prevent the rebels from getting it. It is well past its prime, but it will do.”

“But she’s got a gun.”

Pamela patted her pocket. “So do we.”

I turned to see if she was bluffing, but could tell from the glint in her eye that she wasn’t.

“Follow me to the other side of the fence to the gate.”

She led me to the edge of the woods before ordering me to crawl. I longed for my jeans. Maneuvering in long skirts on this journey had been the hardest part so far. We reached the other side without incident and stopped by the rail fence, not ten feet away from the horse. It regarded us with lazy eyes and resumed munching.

“What now?” I whispered.

“Give me your bag.”

I complied, not sure what my other options were. She reached inside and pulled out a carrot, one of several we had taken from a root cellar earlier in the morning, and handed it to me.

“Go show this to the horse and make him come to the fence so we can mount him.”

I still hated horses, even though I had eventually learned how to get along with Endy. But even mild-mannered horses like this one made me jittery. I knew it was hopeless to argue, so I took the carrot and entered the fenced-in area.

The horse showed only mild curiosity as I approached, but at least raised his head from the grass. I showed him the orange vegetable and he began walking toward me. The reverberating thwacks in the distance told me the woman was still chopping wood and hadn’t noticed that her only form of transportation and plow pulling was being stolen right from under her nose.

I backed up, the carrot raised in front of me, until I felt the fence at my back. Pamela had climbed to the top rail and easily slid her leg over the back of the horse. I flattened my hand, as Stuart had shown me, and gave the entire carrot to the horse. While he busily munched, I handed up the carpetbags, climbed the fence, and settled in front of Pamela.

It was then I noticed that the chopping sounds had ceased. We both turned in time to see the woman race toward the side of the house and grab the rifle.

I dug my heels into the sides of the horse just as I felt a ripple of air to my right and the resounding report of a gun behind me. The horse lurched forward, nearly toppling both of us off his back, and then began what passed for a gallop. Luckily, the horse wore a halter, which gave me more of a grip. I leaned forward over the neck, Pamela clinging tightly to my middle, the carpetbags tucked securely between us. I felt us listing to the right but maintained a tenacious hold as I heard another shot fired from the house. I threw one last look behind me and saw the woman standing in the middle of the pasture, her arms loose at her sides, staring forlornly at us as we disappeared with her horse into the woods.

We slowed our pace once we were within the shadow of the woods. We found a well-worn dirt road through the forest and headed north. Soon after, we heard hoofbeats in front of us. Quickly guiding the horse off the road, we hid among the tall trees and underbrush as a detachment of Yankee soldiers rode by, their navy blue uniforms a marked contrast to the well-worn and varying uniforms of the Confederate soldiers we had seen in the previous days. As the last soldier passed us, Pamela whispered, “We are almost there. Be prepared to be stopped by the Yankee’s advanced guard. Do not protest—they will shoot.”

We pulled back on the road and resumed our ambling pace, the old horse frothing slightly at the mouth. I felt sorry for it, and tried hard not to shift my weight too much.

I swiped my forehead with my sleeve. “How did you come here to this time?”

“The same way all of us marked as Shadow Warriors travel. Wrapped in the atmosphere of a comet intensified by a lunar eclipse.” The droning of a fly interrupted her and she swatted it away with her hand. “Every comet has a set orbital time period. For instance, Halley’s Comet reappears every seventy-six years. It has been doing this since the beginning of time and will continue until the end of time. And a Shadow Warrior, being in the right place and the right time, can be swept up in the tail of the comet and moved within the comet’s orbital time period.” She took a deep breath. “With practice, one can navigate within any orbital time period.”

“What do you mean, ‘navigate’?”

I glanced back at her, and she gave me a look with the exaggerated patience of a teacher talking to a slow student. “If I want to travel back two hundred years, I do not necessarily need to find a comet with a two-hundred-year orbit—just one in which the time period between now and then is divisible into two hundred. Like a fifty-year comet. One would just need to navigate to arrive in the correct time.”

“But how does one learn to navigate?” I asked, more confused than ever.

She touched my forehead with a long, pale finger. “You use parts of your mind that are usually ignored.” A thin smile appeared on her lips. “But sometimes it happens accidentally. Just like you and Sarah with Genetti’s Comet.”

The name startled me. “How did you know about Genetti’s Comet?”

She laughed, a dry and brittle sound. “I know the orbits of every comet that have been and will be. And I also know the places where the powers are strongest. Moon Mountain is one of only three.”

My heart beat faster. Finding the answers to my questions would allow me to control my own future—assuming I had one. “One of three? How did you learn about this phenomenon? It’s not exactly science-textbook material.”

She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her face, then placed it back in her skirt pocket. Taking a deep breath, she continued. “For centuries the Cherokees and other native people around the world have passed down legends. As a history major at Vanderbilt, I became fascinated, obsessed almost. And when I found a picture of an ancient Cherokee carving that matched my birthmark, I knew there had to be some truth to the stories. The legend of the dragons on Moon Mountain that would mysteriously appear and disappear certainly fascinated me. There seemed to be a void or a warp there that would trap ancient, or perhaps future, creatures in this place. But they were always hunted down and killed. As were the people who were caught traveling through time. They were an aberration of nature and needed to be destroyed.” She shrugged. “The one thing I have not been able to ascertain is how many there are of us. I suspect the number is quite small—perhaps one every generation—otherwise we would not be alone.”

I shifted, her words making me uncomfortable. “Don’t you miss your family, your friends? Aren’t they worrying about you?”

She snorted. “People disappear every day. My disappearance certainly would not be beyond the usual. Besides, there was no one to miss me. I made sure of that.”

I thought of my parents and my friends, my coworkers and students, and wondered if they were still looking for me and how long they would continue searching before they gave up. And then I thought of Stuart, and I knew in my heart that he would search for me forever.

The plodding pace soothed me, each step lulling me closer to sleep until I felt myself fall over the horse’s neck. Pamela yanked me up by the back of my dress. It was then I noticed that the sounds around us had changed. The birds had stopped twittering in the trees; even the sound of chirping crickets had ceased. I looked up through the thick canopy of trees and saw clouds creeping over the sun and casting us in shadow. But there were no storm clouds; nothing to cause the rippling of flesh up my spine.

I stifled a scream as a man in a dark blue uniform stepped out of the trees in front of us, his rifle pointing at my chest.

“Halt!”

Leaves above us rustled and I craned my neck to see another soldier roosting on a branch, his weapon trained on a spot near my head. I pulled on the horse’s mane, assuming it would know to stop. A speckled yellow leaf drifted down on my lap as the tree climber swept down to stand in front of us. He was at least a head shorter than the other soldier, with light blond fuzz covering his cheeks. He looked no more than nineteen.

The taller soldier walked over to us. “What have we got here, Johnny? A couple of rebs, if you ask me.”

Johnny took his hat off. “Looks like a couple of women, Corporal.” His rifle wavered but remained fixed on us.

Without lowering his gun, the tall corporal asked, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

Pamela shifted the carpetbags, which seemed to have made a permanent wedge in my back, and reached for her pocket.

“Stop!” The corporal approached the side of the horse and, without apology, stuck his hand in Pamela’s pocket. I forced myself to remain calm and reminded myself that Pamela was smart enough to have removed her gun.

My heart sank as he pulled out a folded letter. I stole a glance at Pamela, but her eyes were on the soldier, staring at him expectantly. “Open it.”

He did, and then looked back at Pamela, while Johnny reached for the letter. “Are you Mrs. Pamela Broderick?”

She nodded, her eyelids downcast in mock servitude.

He indicated me with his rifle. “And who is this?”

“This is Laura Elliott, William Elliott’s sister-in-law.”

“And you are Captain Elliott’s mother-in-law?”

Again she nodded.

“Is he expecting you?”

She shook her head. “No. But I am carrying important information for him to pass on to our General Sherman. Once I obtained it, it was too late to notify Captain Elliott—and far too dangerous. The information I am carrying is much too sensitive for it to fall into enemy hands.”

I peered down at the letter in his hand. I recognized the handwriting from an old letter from William that Julia had shown me.

“Why is this young lady with you?” The shorter soldier spoke to Pamela but stared at me.

“I needed her for protection. I am an old lady—not as strong as I used to be.”

The boy raised his eyebrows and looked at me. “Are you armed?”

Pamela answered, “No, but she is a lot stronger than she looks.”

I sat quietly on the horse, my hands clenched tightly in front of me.

The older soldier ordered us to dismount, taking a step backward as I reached the ground. His gaze traveled up and down me while he spoke. “Ladies, we will escort you to our sergeant. He will bring you to the provost marshal, who will decide if you will see General Sherman.” He turned his head slightly and spit a long stream of dark brown juice out of the side of his mouth, then wiped the remaining bits clinging to his lip with his sleeve. “And if you ain’t who you say you are, Uncle Billy will probably string you up, women or not.”

The younger soldier led the way and we followed him down the path. I saw more shadows in the woods and knew we were being watched by other soldiers on picket duty. Our two guards no longer pointed their rifles at us but still held them where they could easily be aimed and fired. The taller one led the horse by his halter.

“Why do you call General Sherman Uncle Billy?” I asked.

Johnny answered with a shy smile, “On account of him being one of us. Real personable. Me and the corporal been with him since Shiloh—and there just ain’t a better soldier.” He paused for a moment. “But he don’t much like women, preachers, or newspaper people in his camp, that’s for sure. I recommend telling him what you need to and then getting out of the way.”

For the first time in this odyssey, I was nervous. I remembered pictures I’d seen of the sour-faced Sherman, and his reputation in Georgia as being the Nero of the nineteenth century. This was the man I was supposed to seduce. Being shot sounded like a fine alternative.

We walked in silence, our footsteps punctuated by the occasional wet slap of tobacco juice and spittle against dead leaves. We crested a ridge, and I felt a tightening in my chest. Below me lay the South’s destruction. White canvas tents, filled with men in blue uniforms, covered the green slopes and hills. I sighed into the breeze as I eyed the show of strength before me. Soldiers filled the ground between tents like ants at a picnic, scurrying from one place to another. Horses and artillery crowded the far rise, and I sucked in my breath, imagining the force behind these placid pieces. History said that all the pride and patriotism of Johnston’s Southern army would be laid low in the deep grass of Georgia’s hills, bowed down in the face of the awesome power of lead and the sheer numbers that lay before me. But the ink in the history books was apparently not indelible.

Our procession attracted stares and downright leers as we were led deeper into the encampment. Campfires littered the ground, and the smells of bacon fat and burning coffee made my mouth water. I hadn’t eaten since dinner the previous evening. I was acutely aware of my status as a female in a sea of males who were prepared to die. I gathered my skirts closely around me and hugged the carpetbag over my chest.

Our horse had been left on the outskirts of the camp. I wanted to ask someone to take it back to the woman we had stolen it from, but thought again that perhaps the woman wouldn’t welcome the soldiers on her isolated farm with only her single rifle to protect herself.

It was late afternoon before we found our way into Chattanooga. We had been given horses to ride and escorted from the encampment by four soldiers from 7th Independent Company, Ohio Sharpshooters. I could feel my hair springing loose from its pins and straggling against my neck. My skirt had a jagged tear up to the knee, exposing my ripped petticoat and holes from my two days of walking through the forest, and I was sure dark circles of exhaustion ringed my eyes. I hoped my brother-in-law would have pity and take us in without question.

We entered a large house at 110 East First Street. I was told that the house had been commandeered from the wealthy Lattner family, who had fled from the city when the Yankees had first captured it in 1863.

Rich carvings accented the tall ceilings, and crystal chandeliers glittered light into the rooms. Our feet tapped on the black-and-white marble floors, heralding our arrival. We were shown into the parlor and left alone to wait for my brother-in-law.

Pamela seated herself on a red velvet sofa and stared at me with level eyes. Desperate for a mirror, I searched the room for anything reflective. I noticed a mirror at the bottom of the buffet, a petticoat mirror for the ladies to unobtrusively check to see if their underskirts were visible under their dresses. Being unobtrusive wasn’t a current concern, so I knelt on the floor to inspect the damage to my hair and face.

I licked my fingers and began to remove a dirty smudge from my chin. I was in the midst of scrubbing when I heard a throat being cleared, too deep to be Pamela. I stood, hitting my head on the bottom of the buffet and knocking a dish to the floor, shattering blue and white china into tiny pieces.

Rubbing my head, I stood and found myself staring into familiar blue eyes. My heart skipped a beat as I looked at his face and saw the beloved similarities. The hair was the same, straight and dark, and parted to the side. The nose a trifle longer, a bit haughtier. The same strong jawline. But there was something else—a fundamental difference. No light shone behind these eyes. I peered into them and saw something cold shivering in the icy blue depths.

I forced myself to smile at him. “You must be William.”

He looked at Pamela in confusion. “What is going on here?” He looked back at me and let his gaze travel up my costume—from my mud-encrusted shoes to my dirty face and wayward hair. He narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

“I’m Laura Elliott. Your sister-in-law.” I couldn’t stop myself from staring.

“My sister-in-law?” Without preamble, he grabbed my left hand to examine my ring. “This was my mother’s.” An angry flush stained his cheeks.

I could see the effort he made to smile back at me. “Then let me welcome you into our family, sister.” He embraced me, crushing me to his chest. I felt his moist lips linger on my cheek and I resisted the impulse to wipe his kiss off my skin.

I studied his face again and knew that I could never count on this man to be my ally.

Our attention was turned by a commotion in the foyer and several loud voices reverberating throughout the hallway. One in particular caught my attention. Deep and clear with staccato accents, it seemed to be a voice of authority. “Tell those busybodies that my trains are for supplies for my army. I have no room, and I repeat, no room, for do-gooders and those damned newspaper people.”

Footsteps approached the parlor, and I waited expectantly for the owner of the voice to appear. He walked in and stopped abruptly, taking us in with a bold appraisal. The elusive aroma of cigar smoke entered the room with him.

He was tall and very thin, his weathered face lined with deep crevices. His dark red hair, standing up as if at attention, somehow did not make this man a comical character. The stars on his shoulders belied the stained and sloppy appearance of his dark blue uniform. There was no doubt who this man was. I had heard him referred to by various names—from Nero to Satan to Georgia’s Nemesis. And, recently, as Uncle Billy. This man was without a doubt no other than the man who would coin the phrase “War is hell”: General William Tecumseh Sherman.

He blinked rapidly at us before turning his attention to William. “Captain Elliott. Who are these women and why are they here?”

William snapped to attention and began introductions. “General, you have met my wife’s mother, Mrs. Pamela Broderick, at a dinner in Nashville at the home of Andrew Johnson. And this is my brother’s wife, Mrs. Laura Elliott.”

The general peered at me through narrowed eyes and then turned back to William. “Captain. I believe your brother is with the rebel army.”

“Yes, sir. As much as it pains me, he is.”

“I see.” General Sherman scratched his short beard. “And your sister-in-law. Is she a rebel, too?”

“That would depend,” I interjected, smarting at being treated as if I weren’t in the room.

The general raised his eyebrow at me. “I see. And what would that depend on?”

“On who is asking the question.”

Pamela stepped forward. “I beg your pardon, sir. Mrs. Elliott and I are both staunch supporters of the Union. We are here to pass on information that might be of some use to you.”

On our long journey she had divulged the information she was speaking of. Direct from Confederate General Joseph E. Johnston’s headquarters in Dalton, she had a list of the full strength of the Southern armies—down to the last mule. She handed the small stack of papers to him without pause, knowing it would be of little use to him or his army once he was dead.

He took the papers from her and examined them, the crease between his brows deepening. “Where did you get these?”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I must keep my sources secret. Suffice it to say the gentleman in question is a member of General Johnston’s own staff.”

He nodded and folded the papers in half. His hands were callused and spattered with dark brown freckles. “Very good. I will, of course, verify these figures. But your efforts are greatly appreciated. I hope the two of you will do me the honor of dining with me and my staff this evening.”

Not pausing to wait for an answer, Sherman faced me, his eyes flickering over my appearance. “Madam, have you traveled far?”

My knees nearly buckled with fatigue, and my weariness pushed all thoughts of politeness and the purpose of my visit out of my head. “No. I always look like I’ve been in a train wreck.”

There was a stunned silence to punctuate my remark. I heard the passing of a carriage outside and someone shouting. He raised an eyebrow.

“I see. And does your husband approve?”

One knee did buckle, and I tried to estimate how many steps backward I’d have to take to make it to the nearest chair. “I don’t think my appearance is a major concern of his, General.”

He coughed into his hand, but I could see he was grinning. “Actually, I meant does he approve of your Unionist sympathies.”

“Uh, not exactly.”

He rubbed his beard, the rasping sound grating on my nerves. “Are you still on speaking terms?”

“Yes, you could say that.” I took another step backward and felt the backs of my knees at the edge of a chair. I dropped into the seat without looking. The cushion vibrated in startled movement and erupted with a loud meow.

I jumped out of the chair. “Shit!” I exclaimed, as the black-and-white feline escaped through the doorway. All eyes were on me as the blood rushed to the tips of my ears and a small gasp came from Pamela.

Ignoring my outburst, General Sherman said, “You must be tired.” He turned to William. “Captain, please see that these ladies have a room.” He emphasized the word ladies. “Dinner is at eight o’clock.” He bowed sharply and left, but not before I saw the grin through his beard.

I plopped back down in the empty chair. William came and stood before me, offering his hand. “My, my. Where did my brother find you?”

Ignoring his hand, I stood. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

He threw his head back and laughed—Stuart’s laugh. Tears sprang to my eyes. I needed him now. I needed him to tell me I was doing the right thing. I turned my head away.

“What I need now is a room and a bath. Perhaps after that I will be in the mood to chat about Julia and your family, since I’m sure they’re your primary concern.” It hadn’t escaped my notice that he hadn’t mentioned Julia’s name once.

“Yes, I would like that.” His face registered annoyance as he picked up our bags and indicated with his hand that we precede him through the door. “Ladies.”

With a heavy sigh, I followed. Low voices carried toward me from the library, like murmurs of ghosts from the past. I felt eyes on my back and I turned to see General Sherman and another officer watching our progress. I inclined my head slightly, then turned back, my feet tapping against the marble floors. The sound made me think of footprints in history. I wondered if my own would be indelible, with thick, deep impressions in the soil, or fade with time, like yellowed pages from an old history book.