Surrender the Wind (17 page)

“Yes,” John returned stiffly, taking the old warrior by complete surprise. It wasn’t the normal greeting he would give his adjutant. Their relationship was beyond that of a commanding officer to his staff. Since the first summer of the war, their rapport had evolved from mentor into friend. “Let’s walk,” suggested John.

Together they walked up on a hill, but the trees kept them from seeing much ahead except for the encampment of his men below. The cook fires were lit for the night and the sights and sounds of men preparing their meager evening meal filled the countryside. John’s bones ached from his travels. He longed for his bed…longed to put his mind at rest. But rest was not in the cards. First, he needed time to absorb and to contemplate all the details from his adjutant.

“Do you ever doubt?” Ian’s drawl mixed with a slight burr, intoned the air.

John gathered he meant the Cause. It seemed like eons ago Catherine asked him the same question. His thoughts echoed.
Only fools never doubt.

He paused. “The Confederacy may be bowed but not broken. There are still enough resources available to maintain the Southern armies, and our armies will stand up and fight. Victory will no longer be measured by the land held, but by the continuation of the will to fight again and again and again.”

MacDougal ducked his chin, and John passed his eyes over the landscape in front of them. The sun was setting through the trees in swells of rose and indigo, foretelling another hot day tomorrow.

“Man is a strange sort, unique to the earth, yet we have to learn over and over again what it is to be human. It seems like it has to be learned with every generation.” Ian let the words drift.

John clamped down on his cigar. The pungent scent of rolled whole-leaf tobacco smoke spiraled through the warm night air. Earthy, pleasant, Virginia tobacco. “There’s good and bad. I’ve only seen the worst of it,” he said through his teeth, unable to keep his bitterness at bay.

He couldn’t stop thinking of Catherine. Was she on her next mission? Trading her body for information? His mind wandered until it touched on a scene of Catherine in bed with that slimy Mallory fellow.

The vision made his stomach roil and he cast it out of his mind, yet his thoughts roamed to when Catherine lay atop him in the glen, their legs entwined, her emerald eyes, the soft silky peaks of her breasts tracing their warmth across his chest. He could almost feel the silken golden mass of her hair, sifting it through his fingers. Her warmth, her parted lips, stirred his passions to a soaring height like a hawk high over the land and sea, burned his insides, hotter and hotter.

Until he remembered her treachery. Without preamble, he transformed the burning thoughts into revenge.

“General Rourke, the men love and admire you. But you’ve changed, subtle but different. I’d bet my eyeteeth it was something those Yanks did up North. Simmering beneath the surface there’s a rage. It’s one thing to hate, but to hold it inside—is unhealthy.”

As the sun’s trail progressed downward from the sky, the sad-sweet tones of “Home Sweet Home” filled the air. There were many voices, baritones, tenor and bass with power among them, and for an hour the camp resounded with their melancholy music. There was a sentiment in the tones of these voices that fitted well with the sentiments of their surroundings.

If anyone would note his change, Ian would. John did not comment. “Tomorrow we will fight at Cold Harbor. We must hold our positions. I’m as sensitive to flanks as a virgin.” He smiled like Satan in a bad mood.

“How strange. Cold Harbor means shelter without fire,” Ian said just as reflective. “The men are feeling very lonely and very bored. I can assure you they are ready for battle.”

“Get some sleep, Ian. You’ll need it before morning comes.”

* * *

John woke early to a dark and damp morning, chilled and soured by swamp odors wafting in from the nearby Chickahominy River. He grabbed some stale Johnnycake and chewed on that while listening to distant shots as Union soldiers engaged his picket lines. His men, battle ready, didn’t even need to hear his orders to rise in their trenches. More than half had already spent the night there anyway. He heard a soldier tell his friend that today was his birthday and he wondered what he would get.

Low mists and fog still clung to the stunted pine thickets as John watched thousands of blue-coated soldiers stumble into companies that had fused to create regiments…which advanced to shape brigades that made up divisions. Like a giant blue viper uncoiling itself, ready to attack.

General Rourke felt a power in the very air, something palpable affected by the raw sight of so many men, shifting to a single purpose.

Then the battle began.

Dense clouds of acrid, burnt gunpowder rolled upward over artillery and infantry emplacements. The crack of gunfire and cannons burst into the air. A Union shell screamed through the length of his Confederate line, coming close, and its wind seeming to slam every man in the regiment. An agonizing cry emitted from a soldier as the shell tore his arm off.

“Now!” General Rourke ordered. The Confederate response was quick in answer. Ranks of Union soldiers exposed across the ridge were reduced to the terrific gunfire of Confederate musketry. The Yank soldiers pressed to a hundred yards of his frontline before they stopped cold. An awful trail of dead and wounded lay abandoned in their wake.

“Give them double charges of canister. Fire, men, fire!” John roared above the din. The order was obeyed with promptness, but still an ocean of blue came again and again in appalling numbers creating frightful gaps in his line. General Rourke’s men labored under murderous fire, and it looked as if a thousand deaths awaited them. The rebel soldier whose birthday it was went down with a ball in his thigh.

So near was the regiment to the Confederates’ second line that many Yanks were captured before John’s intent to fall back. They waited for the onslaught of the next Union column that hit like a battering ram. John jumped astride his horse, hustling more Confederates into flanking trenches.

“Wait ’til close enough to fire.”

The Rebels behind the entrenchments rested their guns upon the works, firing volley after volley. The blue line fell, carried away like wheat from the chaff.

John worried about their lack of ammunition with the ceaseless drumming and plowing of shot, making the field look like a boiling cauldron.

He waved his sword high over his head. “Charge!”

With a bloodcurdling Rebel yell, his men broke into the sea of blue, striking, hacking, firing. On they rushed with General Rourke spurring his horse, leaping high over the works and into the terrible melee of death. His horse reared and many balls that would have struck him missed their intended target as John fought on, bringing his horse under control. In retreat, the Union line melted into the distant forest, leaving a swath of blue carnage.

Later, in Richmond, General John D. Rourke was hailed as a hero returned. A combat artist, who captured his image in the great struggle of Cold Harbor, rushed his artwork to be copied onto boxwood blocks by staff engravers of the Richmond Examiner for several thousand printing runs.

John did not feel like a hero, nor did he feel the bloody standoff was the portended victory the newspapers allowed.

The Fitzgerald home in Georgetown was a modest, red brick mansion that boasted a huge foyer, drawing rooms, a library, dining room and sitting room, yet was nowhere near the luxurious comportment of her family’s New York home and one her father had built when he visited Washington to secure government contracts.

It was a hot steaming night toward the end of June when Mallory, Catherine, and Agatha arrived home, staying late from yet another ball.

Mallory chided her as they mounted the steps. “You’re very quiet this evening.”

He meant she wasn’t acting the part he wanted her to play. “I have had a headache forming all evening.”

The butler opened the door. “You’ve been having quite a few of those lately,” Agatha snapped, her rolls of flesh sweating around her neck from the humidity

“It was a lovely ball, don’t you think, my dear?” Mallory prodded.

Catherine jumped when he clamped his hand on the back of her neck and began to knead there. She stiffened with the familiarity, didn’t dare move, the bruises on her throat had barely faded. “Yes, lovely,” Catherine echoed what Mallory wanted to hear. A cat and mouse game to keep him at bay and to stall for time. Her movements had been non-existent. Mallory’s army of thugs followed her everywhere. Her chest tightened. If only she hadn’t endangered Father Callahan in her affairs. When the butler took their coats, she stepped away from Mallory.

Her likeness had appeared in Harpers Weekly, announcing her engagement to Francis Mallory. Of course, a young socialite from New York was sensational news in Washington, especially since it was wartime and her company furnished rifles for the war effort.

Her life had taken on a surreal nature, receptions and glittering galas were given in Washington to receive the striking couple. The circle which claimed Catherine as their own now included Francis Mallory, proclaiming them as the toast of Washington society. Francis shined and beamed every minute. A bitter taste rolled over her tongue.

He determined what she should wear, who to speak to, what to say, and who to dance with. If she spent too long conversing with someone of whom he did not approve, he would be at her side, clamping his huge hand on her elbow, guiding her away. The past week wore on her nerves, anything to get through the daily tedium of social engagements and his incessant ultimatums.

“Lovely idea, don’t you think,” Mallory said, “traveling to Washington, killing two birds with one stone. I can sell more rifles to the war department and enjoy some balls and parties with my exquisite fiancée.”

He pinched her to get her attention. “What an enchanting little symbol you are, overwhelming the public. Washington women are quite dull and plain-faced in comparison. I noted, Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton, paying particular attention to you. That’s good for business. Our venture to the Capitol will be a profitable one. Your presence will sell more rifle contracts than I’d ever dreamed.”

Mallory perused the high plastered ceiling decorated with medallions of shells and
fleur-d-lis,
and summoned his blessings. “We were quite the honored guests. It was Catherine they seemed to pay the most homage to. Don’t you agree, Agatha?”

Agatha begrudged Catherine even the merest of compliments. But when Mallory spoke, she fell all over herself to answer. “It was quite an occasion.” Agatha pursed her lips, causing the fine purple lines webbing up her cheeks to darken.

Shoulder to shoulder, Catherine and Mallory mounted the stairs in what had become a ritual. With her back straight, she stared straight ahead, never looking at Mallory, afraid that if she did it would be all the encouragement he’d need to enter her chambers.

Outside her room, Mallory tugged her hair loose and coiled it in his hands. She froze. “Soon I’ll sample your charms and the experience will be delightful. I would not want a soiled dove…you are sure that the Confederate General took no liberties?” When he saw her quick intake of breath, he laughed. “Remember your uncle is comfortable as of present.”

“And what about General Rourke? Have you released him as promised?” She knew John had escaped, yet dared to taunt Mallory.

Mallory slammed his knuckles into the wall, withdrew his hand from the hole he made through the plaster, wiping the dust to the floor. “Do not ask that question again.”

She flinched when he brushed his powdered knuckles across her cheek, his lips twitched back from his teeth. “You are so lovely, but I am not convinced your relationship with the rebel was as innocent as you profess. Are you sure you are telling all there is to tell?”

Never would she rise to Mallory’s bait. After a moment of strained silence, she pulled her hair from his grasp, moved into her room and closed the door. The clink of a key rasped in the latch. Mallory locked her in. Her hands shook, pressing them to her temples. Dear God, she needed more time. Where was Jimmy O’Hara?

* * *

The city grappled with darkness and heavy mist. Low hanging clouds dribbled fine droplets of moisture casting every surface in an obsidian-like sheen, while below, the swollen Potomac purled and foamed around rocks and islands. Catherine jumped when a dark figure scratched at her window. Jimmy O Hara. She pulled him in, and then lit a lamp. Jimmy produced a newspaper and she ripped it from his hands. Francis had prohibited any periodicals for her to read. He wanted to keep secret the fact that General Rourke had escaped.

Thirsting for outside knowledge, she snapped open the paper.
The Richmond Examiner
dated June sixth, a couple weeks old. “How did you get this from across the lines?”

“I have my sources.” Jimmy smiled cheekily.

On the front page, a dedicated combat artist had sketched John through daring enterprise during a dramatic instant in the Battle of Cold Harbor. In the center of the chaos was General John D. Rourke, portrayed as she had imagined him in battle, armed to the teeth, gauntleted, jackbooted, wielding a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other, astride a rearing black stallion. According to the report, he was insurmountable in glory, a valiant hero.

He was a fool. Bullets blazed around him. Swords thrust. He would get himself killed.

Not that she cared.

But she did care.

If only she had told him the truth about her circumstances. He deserved no part of her personal war. With a sigh, she was glad he escaped. She could not stop from thinking about their time together, never to forget a single detail of his face, the warmth of his touch, and his mouth upon hers. Memories would haunt until her dying days.

She loved him.
Her heart lurched, unable to deny the evidence. What a fool she had been not to tell him. Yet to John, the greatest sin was betrayal. With certainty, he believed she had betrayed him. She glanced again at the picture and froze. Fixed in his eyes breathed determination and his ruthless resolve to fight northward.