The Sun Rises (Southern Legacy Book 4) (3 page)

Derek had been shot twice: once in the back left shoulder—shattering his left arm—and once in the leg. He lost his arm. Moreover, he developed a life-threatening fever. Jenna never left his side during his long recovery and was thankful he improved enough to return back to Charleston.

The family celebrated, but Jo found Derek a different man than the one who had left so enthusiastic for the war. His appearance had changed. He had lost weight and his face was gaunt from his illness. Like so many other soldiers, he had grown a long, thick beard, but it was more than his physical features. Derek’s once outgoing personality had become reclusive, dark and brooding.

Derek tried to be cordial and smiled
to the point his face was fixed with a hardened expression of embarrassment and exasperation. A proud man, he had no desire to be coddled by the women on the plantation.

Only recently had Derek begun to leave his room and interact with the family. He had not added much to the conversation at dinner, but everyone was pleased with his company. His efforts gave Jenna hope he was healing.

As she neared the end of her confinement, Jo relaxed most evenings in the cool, languid breeze on the piazza.
The sound of tree frogs and chirping crickets was laden with peaceful serenity. From her view, she watched her young son toddle behind his grandmother.

By the massive live Virginia oak, Mother Montgomery glanced over her shoulder and then nodded to her maid, Louise. Louise sat down a bundle package and to the delight of Percival, began digging a hole with a shovel.

“What is Mother Montgomery doing?”

Breaking her gaze, Jo turned to find a solitary figure in the open parlor doors, watching the scene. The next moment, Derek eased into a chair across from her.

“Our neighbor, Cora, told Mother Montgomery that she had buried her silver in case the dreaded Yankees invade.”

A strange expression crossed his face. “But she is doing it in full view of everyone on the plantation.”

A small laugh escaped Jo. “We haven’t the heart to tell her that if the Yankees ever made it to the plantation, there would be little doubt that one of the slaves…or Percival…would show them exactly where she had hidden them.” She looked back at the sight. “We have Amos dig it back up after Mother Montgomery comes in the house. We have used one excuse after another why the bundle appears back on the dining room table in the morning…there are only so many times you can tell her that the dogs dug it up.”

“She doesn’t question it?”

“I believe it is more of a distraction for her. We all have a need to find something to take our minds off the conflict.”

“For me, it seems the war is so far away from here,” he said in a distant voice. “It is my hope that it never rears its ugly face around these parts.”

“It is impossible not to feel the effect of the fighting.” Jo swallowed back her obvious pain of losing her husband and refused to let melancholy overwhelm her. “Our spirit will endure, for our cause is just.”

“Do you not fear that it will get worse…much worse before it gets better?”

Jo turned back to her brother-in-law. There was no mistaking a distinct bitterness in his voice. “I wake each morning and face the day because it was Wade’s wish and to ensure his sacrifice was not in vain. His children, family, and Magnolia Bluff are my focus. I have control of little else.”

“You must realize that the war isn’t going well for the Confederacy,” he pressed. “In Richmond, the residents are frustrated and anxious, especially now with Lincoln’s proclamation he intends to free the slaves.”

Taken back by his frankness, she met him with her own. “I am not a fool, Derek. At last count, seventeen of our slaves have run off to Beaufort. Grace Ann wrote me that it is worse at Whitney Hall. Three hundred of their negroes have gone over to the Yankees.”

“That does not concern you?”

“Andrew and I have made no effort to stop any who want to leave,” Jo acknowledged. “If we tried to contain their leaving, it would only facilitate an undercurrent of resentment that we don’t need.”

Derek scratched his nose and twisted the end of his beard in an anxious manner. “Sometimes it feels hopeless…all of this. My sweet Jenna believes everything will work out…that everything will go back to the way it was.” His voice echoed his despondent thoughts. “It is I who have been a fool. To come back here…marry Jenna. I am a burden. It would have been better if I hadn’t survived.”

“Dear God in Heaven!” Jo cried. Gripping her swollen stomach, her heart went leaden upon the utterance. “How dare you even think such a thing!”

Stunned by her reaction, he rose and waved his hand down toward her in a vain effort to calm the distracted woman. “Miss Jo, I didn’t mean to upset you. It was only…”

Gasping for air, she breathed out with an anger she had no knowledge she held within her. “Do you not believe that I would not change places with Jenna quicker than a heart could beat? I …I have dreamed that it had been a lie…that Wade did not die…but then I wake and realize it is only a foolish dream and have to face life without him.”

Shaking his head slightly, he pressed his lips together tightly. “Pardon me, Miss Jo. I am sorry for your loss, but I am a cripple. Plain and true. I will only add to your misery.”

“You, sir, are part of this family.” Indignation swept through her and she pulled herself to her feet. “I’m frightened to death, but look around you! Too many people depend on me…and you also. We need you…Jenna needs you!”

Derek bit his lip and his jaw hardened. With a blank expression, he said nothing, but walked backed into the house. Jenna appeared at the door and wrapped her arm about him. Glancing back, she gave Jo a questioning look.

Disheartened, Jo sat back down.
Oh, I have gone and irritated Jenna once more!
The poor man had not asked for the brunt of her veiled frustrations, but he had weighed on her already frayed nerves. How could he think he wasn’t needed?

Jo looked back at Percival, who sat in the middle of the fresh turned dirt and played without a care in the world. She watched his face glow with his evident delight and with the realization these moments were too short-lived.

* * * *

The Earth turned. Another season had once more begun to transform the landscape of Magnolia Bluff. The September sunrays of the late afternoon filtered into the room, but Josephine was unaware of anything but this moment.

She basked in the joy of the sounds of the healthy baby girl she delivered earlier in the day. Her newborn’s cry resonated through her like a song from Heaven. Her prayers had been answered and Wade’s dream a reality.

She had picked out a name long ago for her daughter, Madeline Marie. She had thought Wade would have been pleased to have his daughter named after his mother. Never had Jo seen a more beautiful baby. Fairer than Percival had been, she was perfect, with ten little fingers and ten little toes and quite a strong set of lungs.

Cradling Madeline in her arm, Jo wiped away happy tears that escaped down her cheek as the baby suckled upon her breast. The ever resourceful Percival climbed up in bed and snuggled against his mother. The warmth that contentment brings suffused through Jo; she had her children.

To the chagrin of the war-torn South, Lincoln held to his stance on slavery and kept his promise. On January 1, 1863, he signed the Emancipation Proclamation. According to the federal government of the United States, slaves within the rebellion states were freed. The South was outraged, but Jo heard that celebrations were reported in Beaufort.

Once the Charleston newspapers boasted the just and mighty Confederacy would vanquish their oppressors quickly and decisively; now questions in the Southern leadership began to be asked. While never questioning that the soldiers in gray had done their duty and honored their new nation, headline after headline boldly declared that the statesmen had forgotten the interest of the people they represented.

Nowadays, Jo gave little thought to politics. The plantation claimed all her attention that wasn’t directed for her babies.

Life had a way of carrying on even with the war raging in the background. Magnolia Bluff entertained visitors and the family visited Charleston. Despite the drain on their resources, Jo resisted the urge to curtail the friends and neighbors from calling. Mother Montgomery took such pleasure with her friends and there had been so little that made her smile.

Magnolia Bluff seemed to suffer less than their neighbors. Jo credited Andrew. He had done such a good job of running the plantation in the midst of the most turbulent of times.

Relieving one burden on the family, Derek slowly began to take an interest in the demands upon the plantation. At times, he was still aloof and distant, but the dark moods had become less frequent. Quite determined, he had trained himself to use his one arm to do most tasks any two-armed man could do.

Jo found her days busy. She rose before sunrise and did not stop until well after she put the children to bed. Exhaustion would set in by late evening. The moment she laid her head on the pillow, she slept soundly—at least, until Madeline would wake for a feeding.

This night had been no different, except before she could ready for bed, Rosa informed her Andrew requested her presence in the study. Jo found him at his desk with his head braced between his hands. His eyes rolled up slowly on her entrance. His somber look caused her to slip quietly into a chair across from him.

“Josephine, word has come in from Whitney Hall. There has been a slave revolt.”

Immediately, her blood ran cold.
Grace Ann!

Andrew reached down and took hold of the telegram on top of the desk. He handed it to Jo. “There is not much information. Your cousin, Grace Ann, has been injured, but was fortunate to have survived.”

Overwhelming relief flooded Jo that her cousin was safe, but as she read the telegram she was also stunned. Her hand shook while her eyes skimmed over the correspondence. 
The house had been burnt to the ground. Louis, Peggy, Sarah, and two of Sarah’s children had been killed.

Andrew rose and stoked the fire in silence. Sitting the poker back against the hearth, he turned. “We should know more in the morning. I will make inquiries.”

“I need to go to Grace Ann.”

“We need to get more information before making a move,” Andrew said firmly. “I cannot in good conscience allow you to go into danger, but we will do all we can to help your cousin.”

Quietly, she excused herself and made her way back to her room. There was nothing more to be said, not until the revolt was put down.

* * * *

Death was in the air. The well-remembered mansion was in ruins, burnt to the ground. In the late morning, the sun’s rays gleamed eerily down on the ruins, giving light to an unearthly quiet. Every building on the grounds, the stables, the cookhouse: everything was gone. Nothing of the magnificent plantation remained; only two bricked chimneys stood over the ashes as a memorial of what had been.

Jo walked along the edge of what had been the main house, horrified at the sight. The souls who died that heartbreaking night loomed before her. As she drew in a deep breath, she gathered up her courage to do what she must.

Despite Andrew declaring she had lost all common sense, Jo had traveled with him to Camden. She adamantly refused to be left behind when she discovered the revolt had been contained to the Whitney plantation and had been swiftly put down.

She had reasoned she would be in little peril, but along the journey, she, too, wondered whether she had ventured on a fool’s errand. So much had changed since her last visit. Moreover, she had brought little Madeline with her. She had refused a wet-nurse for Madeline when she was born, so Jo had little choice.

Perhaps she had been irrational in her thinking, but she had an immediate need to see her cousin. In so doing, ignored the fact that the world around her had been spun on its axis. Despite the desperate desire to cling to a semblance of what had been, Jo could not deny what had been in the past as clear as black and white had become hazy and distorted.

The revolt at Whitney Hall had sent shock waves throughout the community. The countryside was besieged under a dread of the unknown. Fear encompassed the town, regardless of being in no immediate danger. Ramblings reverberated throughout the streets. 
Damn Yankees, instigating slaves to kill whites! Heathens! We aren’t safe laying our heads on our pillows at night.

The people of Camden’s fears were unfounded. The uprising had been contained at Whitney Hall to a group of unruly bucks. Furthermore, the slave patrol had been vigilant. Less than a day after the massacre, all of the rebellious blacks who had been credited with the attack had been captured and hung.

On her arrival, Jo settled Madeline at the Camden Inn with Rosa and then immediately sought out her cousin. A cry erupted from her throat when she first saw Grace Ann. She hadn’t been prepared for the sight. The poor dear was battered and bruised; her shoulder sagged. Her face was scratched; one eye swollen, black and blue.

Grace Ann burst into tears and incoherent mumblings. Jo took Grace Ann in her arms and rocked her cousin, but she couldn’t be calmed.

“I hear screams,” Grace Ann bemoaned. As if reliving the moment, her hands covered her ears. “Make them stop! Make them stop!”

“Darling, it’s over. Over,” Jo whispered. Tears burned Jo’s eyes, knowing she hadn’t the power to stop the noise for Grace Ann. “Perhaps it would be best not to talk of it. I’m here. Let me take care of you.”

“No…no,” Grace Ann pleaded as she gripped frantically at Jo’s arm. “I need to tell someone. I can’t talk with Mr. Whitney…. He’s worried about me and the children…he’s lost so much…Oh, Jo!”

Jo wanted to say it was best to forget, but Grace Ann was inconsolable and calmed only after she had cried herself to sleep.

Throughout the night, Grace Ann would wake. Sometimes, Grace Ann would have to be reminded where she was; other times, she talked. Jo listened and her heart ached.

With the morning sun, Jo had traveled out to Whitney Hall to where she stood now—to salvage anything that survived the fire. Sadly, Jo looked over the pile of burnt rubble. There was nothing.

Charred remnants crackled under her foot. In her mind, she conjured up the house that had stood proudly only a short time ago. With each step, she heard Grace Ann’s haunting voice recite the tale…

It was as most nights since Louis returned from the army. We were in the parlor, waiting for Mr. Whitney’s presence so we could continue in for dinner. Louis was upon his four or fifth glass of wine, expounding on the failings of Davis and then the wine ran dry.

The house black stepped forward with another bottle. Cursing under his breath, Louis grabbed it. Immediately, the houseboy retreated as Louis threw the empty container at him. He missed and it shattered against the brick hearth.

“Louis!”

I turned to see Mr. Whitney in the doorway. It was obvious he was upset. His face was blotted red; his chest heaved violently.

“Ah, Father, you have returned. Now, finally we can eat.”

“The ladies can lead; we will follow. There is a matter I wish to discuss with you in private, Louis.”

“Where are your manners, Father? It would be rude for us to exclude our women. For shame!”

“Shame! You talk to me of shame! I have just returned from the banks of the Wateree River. Agy’s body has been recovered…you do remember Agy!”

“The black wench from the kitchen,” Louis answered caustically. “She drowned?”

“You tell me to my face you didn’t know she walked into the river with her two small girls, who drowned as well. You bastard! After I threatened Davie, he told me the whole sordid tale! The woman could take no more from you.”

“Father, you are unjustly condemning me. How is it my blame that a madwoman kills herself and children?”

“It was you who drove her to this! Willy is mad with grief. Now I will have to handle him. You have cost me much with your careless behavior.”

Mr. Whitney’s voice resonated within the room. He stomped over and jerked the bottle of wine out of Louis’s hand. “Disgraceful. Your brother is fighting for our honor and you have behaved in the most reprehensible manner.”

Louis grabbed back the bottle and shoved Mr. Whitney. “You are making too much of this. Upset with a dead nigger!”

It was then I saw a red glow growing out the window. Confusion turned quickly to alarm. The slave cabins were on fire…clamorous voices erupted. Then, without warning, Willy appeared in the room, holding a field knife.

He was a tall, black man, muscular defined even through his shirt. His white teeth and eyes glared with a frenzied look. Mr. Whitney screamed for us to leave the room. I did as I was bidden, only glancing back to see Willy lunge at Louis. A gut-wrenching cry cut through me as I ran out the door.

In the foyer, my heart froze in terror. Three more bucks had bolted in the front door. Danta, our butler, lay on the floor in a puddle of blood. Peggy refused to leave Louis. Sarah and I had no time to argue with her, but scrambled up the stairs. A strong hand grabbed my leg, sending me sprawling down.

Cries of fear…of pain surrounded me. I fought, kicking and screaming. A shot was fired. Then I was freed. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Mr. Whitney holding a pistol, still smoking.

Mr. Whitney yelled. “Run! Get the children! Don’t look back!”

Frantic, I fled…leaving Sarah at the top of the stairs, running to save her children. Upstairs, the nursery girls helped me…thank God because there was no other help. The other house slaves had disappeared. I grabbed Mirabella and held Elijah’s hand and we raced down the back stairs.

The children…all of Peggy’s children…we saved them, even the baby. Sarah tried to save all of hers. The older ones got out, but Lord have mercy, Sarah and her youngest two, Teresa and little Joshua…couldn’t be saved. Everything happened so fast. We ran all the way until the woods. Only then did we turn…the house was engulfed in flames.

Rising from the ashes, a story was spun of discontent slaves—striking out at their master and incited by Yankee propaganda—who had caused the revolt. The truth—that Louis had abused the slave girl, Agy, for years…had fathered children by her—would never be acknowledged.

Jo shuddered at the thought of what Agy must have endured to have chosen to take her own life and those of her daughters. The hopelessness…the bleakness. In turn, her husband, Willy, had struck back, violently and brutally.

He avenged his wife’s death. In the end, Louis, Sarah, Peggy, and Sarah’s two small children died torturous deaths, along with twelve faithful slaves. So senseless. So tragic. For what? It gained nothing. Willy and the four other slaves had, too, lost their lives.

“I’m sorry you had to see this.” Mr. Whitney walked through the rubble to Jo’s side. “I knew there was nothing that was salvageable. I hadn’t the heart to break it to Grace Ann.”

“It needed to be done. There is no need for her to see any of this.” Jo spoke abstractedly in a low voice, looking out over the ruins. Silence followed.

Grief gripped her soul, encased in an overwhelming sadness. She had no more tears. Her tears had long dried, replaced with an endless void of her yesteryears.

“Spawn of Satan!” Mr. Whitney suddenly uttered under his breath, his face blank with consternation. “To lash out in such a rage! To kill innocents! It is this damn war!”

Jo made no response. She had known him as a kind and wise man. Strong in his silent manner. She had never seen this side of him. His rage scared her.

The fire’s haze still covered his heart. Mr. Whitney saw only insolent slaves: unfaithful, unreliable, and vicious. Though, she could not deny that even the slaves at Magnolia Bluff were acting differently, as if they sensed freedom on the horizon, but she could never imagine them taking such a violent act.

Common sense dictated that she couldn’t ignore that times had changed. Had not the massive defection of slaves in Beaufort shown that slaves were not as content with their situation as white plantation owners had proclaimed? The slaves had not only refused to join their owners and flee into the woods when the Yankees arrived—why, the Yanks themselves had to stop the looting and burning of their masters’ mansions! Then the question became would open defiance become commonplace or Heaven forbid, as it had here at Whitney Hall, insurrection?

Andrew assured her that would never happen at Magnolia Bluff, but she had begun to wonder whether the South hadn’t, in its own disregard of human life, brought down the wrath of God himself upon them.