April 1864

 

The water moccasin slithered through a water puddle and inched through the palmettos, inching its long body deftly over the mud.

Jeffrey Couvion kept his eyes on the snake as he adjusted his kneeling position on the ground. His wool pants were heavy with mud.

Marvin and Joseph crouched on either side of him, all of them grinding mud into their blue wool trousers. The early morning fog concealed their presence from the Confederates.

A light breeze gently fluttered golden hickory leaves overhead, breaking the heavy silence.

Marvin spat a stream of tobacco juice which inadvertently landed on the head of the snake. The snake coiled, writhing, creating a stir in the weeds.

“Thunderation!” Marvin lost his balance and fell back, sitting down hard. His musket clattered against the ground.

“What’s wrong with you, Marvin?” Joseph hissed, through his scraggly beard. “Did ya see a Reb?”

“Snake!”

“Geez,” Joseph said, jumping up and moving behind Marvin.

“Look at that thing.”

Jeffrey stood up, raised his U.S. army issued rifle and brought it sharply down on the head of the snake.

As he ground it into the mud, the snake whipped its body up, slapping against the rifle and prompting a string of foul language from Marvin and Joseph.

“What’s wrong with you Bluebellies?” Jeffrey asked, looking back at his fellow soldiers. “Are you trying to alert the whole Confederate army?” His brows furrowed, he studied them. “Maybe you’re just scared yellow.”

“Look at the size of that thing,” Joseph said, lowering his gaze to the snake writhing around Jeffrey’s rifle.

Jeffrey mentally gauged the length of the reptile. “I’ve seen bigger,” he said, lifting his rifle and shaking the snake loose. It continued to writhe in the mud.

“Maybe you should just shoot it,” Joseph said.

“And have the whole Confederate army come down on our heads?” Marvin asked with impatience, keeping his eyes glued to the reptile.

Jeffrey shook his head and rubbed his forehead. “I thought Yankees were supposed to be smart.”

“Yeah, well, we’re smart enough not to use our rifle as a pounding stick.”

“Is that so?” Jeffrey asked with a raised eyebrow and a voice laden with patience. “Then do tell how exactly you planned on killing this snake.”

“I would have shot it,” Joseph said.

Marvin shot him a glance accompanied by an eye roll. “Geez, Joe, you can’t shoot your rifle when you’re laying low.”

“At least one of you has that much sense,” Jeffrey commented, picking up the dead snake with the other end of his rifle.

“What are you doing?” Joseph asked, his eyes trained on the snake as he stood poised to back up - and run.

“I don’t think you boys want to look at this thing the whole time…” Jeffrey tossed the snake behind them, “we’re here.”

With some grumbling, the two men nestled back into place.

Joseph scratched his beard. “We don’t have them things in Boston.”

“I guess that’s one of the many advantages to growing up in the south.”

Both men looked strangely at Jeffrey, then rolled their eyes and looked at each other. Marvin took a tobacco pouch from his haversack and passed it over to Joseph.

“You know,” Jeffrey said, then paused until both sets of eyes were focused on him. “I’ve always heard that where there’s one snake, there will be another one.”

More foul language filled the air as Marvin and Joseph once again jumped to their feet, their eyes searching the ground around them.

Jeffrey laughed. Any potential response was precluded by the bugle signal to charge. Its unmistakable deep tenor rang through the mist shrouded woods, sending birds aflutter and squirrels scurrying. All thoughts of the snake vanished as Marvin, Joseph, and Jeffrey picked their way through the brush and swirling ground fog toward an unseen enemy.

Someone fired a cannon, shattering the silence. What the hell were they firing at when they couldn’t see six feet through the fog?

 

Claire Whitman stood on the porch of her little five-room wooden house and stared across the pond in front of her. Tendrils of late morning fog drifted up from the opaque water. The mossy cypress trees were no more than shadows in the mist. She pulled her long raven hair off her neck and fastened it with a comb

Her hound barked softly – one bark of concern.

“I agree, Romeo.”

She knew the rumble of thunder in the distance was the roar of cannons. Though she’d never heard cannon fire before, she just knew.

She kept up with the war, following it as well as one could in the isolated South. Her neighbor, widower Henry O’Donnell dropped a newspaper by for her at least once a month. She read every word, sometimes several times.

Her grandfather warned her about wearing out her eyes reading. She read everything—all the books in the house. Of course there weren’t that many—twenty-three to be exact. She knew because she’d counted them. Her favorites were by the Bronte sisters. Her grandmother, before she died three years ago, had attempted to convince Claire that love was a luxury that common people couldn’t afford. Claire failed to reconcile her grandmother’s attitude concerning romance with her ownership of a dozen novels filled with tales of love.

Perhaps Granny was right. There wasn’t time or opportunity for a lot of romance in Claire’s life, but that didn’t keep it out of her thoughts.

She supposed she had an active mind, thirsty for knowledge. When she was younger, she longed to travel to the city where she could read and study to her heart’s content.

However, once her grandfather took to bed last year, the dream had begun to evaporate.

Her days were filled, from sunup to sundown, with chores. She had to feed the hogs. Feed the chickens. Collect the eggs. Milk the cow. Make the cheese. Dip the candles. Chop the wood. Sew their clothes. Cook the meals. Tend the garden. Tend to Grandpa. The list never ended.

At the end of each day, she read by candlelight until she fell asleep exhausted. More than once, she’d fallen asleep with the candle burning, only to wake up with one less candle. She was thankful she hadn’t burned the house down around them.

The cannon fire was joined by the sound of gunfire. That told her the battle approached her doorstep. Her heart tripped at the thought of having her home invaded by Yankees. If they trampled her ground, at least it was too early in the year to have planted crops.

The house, though, was another story. She’d read about houses being destroyed, even burned to the ground by Yankees. She would have left already, except that Grandpa couldn’t travel.

Romeo barked again, this time with more concern.

“Claire,” Grandpa called from inside.

She immediately went inside, down the hall to his bedroom. The little house had a kitchen in front, with what she liked to call a parlor next to it. Down the hallway, there were three bedrooms. Though the house was sparsely furnished, Claire made sure it was always clean and tidy.

Grandpa sat in his bed, propped on pillows. “Is that a storm I hear?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said, automatically filling a glass with water from a pitcher and handing it to him.

“The Yankees,” he said, taking the glass and drinking.

She nodded.

“I knew it would come to that,” he said, handing the glass back to her. “You have to leave.”

Her stomach dropped. “Leave? What do you mean?”

His voice was matter-of-fact, defeated even. “You have to go. It isn’t safe here.”

“But you can’t travel.”

“I’m not going,” he said, looking at her through gray eyes fatigued with illness and age. “You’ll leave me and go someplace safe.”

“Don’t be daft,” she said, dismissing the notion. He must be addled to think she’d go away and leave him. She hadn’t even stepped off the property in two years—since the war started. “Anyway, where would I go?”

“You’ll go to Shreveport,” he said. “Stay with your great aunt. She has a boarding house.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Anyway, I don’t have the money.”

He took a deep breath. “The time has come for me to tell you something.”

Trepidation stabbed into her heart.

“I have some money hidden,” he told her.

She looked at him askance. She’d cleaned every inch of this house countless times. Even before Granny died, she and the older woman would clean every nook and cranny twice a year—spring and fall. She knew everything in this house. He was addled. That was all there was to it.

He held out his hand and as she put her hand in his large, weathered one, her heart broke. He pulled her toward him and she sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. When he had something he considered important to tell her, he always took his time.

“Over the years,” he began, “your grandmother and I put a little money aside.”

She eyed him speculatively. If they had saved some money, she would know by now. In the last few months, since he got sick, she’d been through all his personal things. Not by choice. She’d needed to know what they had. They had just enough to pay Henry O’Donnell for the supplies he picked up for them every few weeks. Of course, he never asked for money, but something in his eyes made her want to not be obligated to him.

Nonetheless, they never went hungry. That much she was proud of.

“I should have already told you this, anyway,” he said. “You have to take the hammer and pull out the top right stone of the fireplace mantle. Just slide it out. Behind it, you’ll find some money.”

Money behind the fireplace? If there was money there, it was probably burned up by now from the heat.

“All right,” she said, “I’ll look.”

The cannon fire was louder now.

“Go ahead and find it. Then you can leave here.”

“I won’t leave you,” she said.

He held her hand tightly. “You have to. I won’t have it any other way.”

She kissed him on the cheek and went to look for the money.  

 

 

Jeffrey marched forward, through the fog, through the mud, toward an enemy he couldn’t see. It made absolutely no sense to go into battle blind. What were the Yankees thinking? He fought the impulse to balk. He knew the Confederates would merely sit and wait for the attack. Then pick off the Yankees as they came into view.

He’d been fighting with the Yankees for close to a year, but they still referred to him as the Reb. He knew they watched him closely, and for good reason.

Jeffrey was a Southerner—born and bred.

Within minutes, before they even reached the enemy, he found that he was right. The bugle call for retreat came loud and clear through the early morning fog. The cannon must have missed its mark, alerting the Rebels to their approach.

He turned, as did Joseph and Marvin. All together, they turned and ran, eager to be away.

“This way!” Marvin yelled, veering them toward the left. Jeffrey followed. He didn’t care which direction they went, he just wanted to be out of harm’s way. He didn’t mind fighting, but he wanted to be able to see what it was he was shooting at—or at the very least, what was two feet in front of him.

Joseph tripped over something, landing hard on the ground. Jeffrey stopped. “Come on, get up.”

“Go ahead. I’ll catch up,” he said from the ground, obviously stunned.

Jeffrey held out his hand. “Get up,” he repeated.

Joseph took it and managed, with Jeffrey’s help, to stand on his feet.

Marvin must have run on ahead. They didn’t see him anywhere. They were away from the others in the troop now. Except for their heavy breathing, it was quiet. Only an occasional shot rang out behind them.

If only the fog would lift, he could figure out which way they should go. He wasn’t familiar with this area. He had grown up in south Louisiana, near Baton Rouge, and this was the northern part of the state. Nonetheless, the terrain was similar enough for him to navigate—or could be.

“Do you know where we’re headed?” Joseph asked.

“I can’t see a damned thing.”

“Aren’t you from here?” Joseph asked, limping along much more slowly than Jeffrey would have preferred.

“No, I’m from down south.”

He felt Joseph glance at him. “This is down south.”

Jeffrey felt the laughter bubble up and spill out. He supposed from Joseph’s perspective, they couldn’t be much more down south. Only a Southerner from Louisiana could tell the difference. The trees were different. And the people had a different accent.

“What’s so damn funny?” Joseph asked, holding his elbow as he tried to run.

“Over here,” Jeffrey said, slipping behind a fallen log. He silently prayed there would be no snakes. Joseph followed, gasping as he fell to the ground.

“Are you all right?” Jeffrey asked.

“Of course, I’m all right.”

“If you say so. We’ll just hide out here until things clear out.”

They crouched behind the log.

“Is it always this foggy around here?”

“How should I know? I’m from down south.”

Joseph laughed. Coughed. Spit up.

Jeffrey looked over, forgot what he was going to say. The front of Joseph’s jacket was wet. “What is that?” Jeffrey asked.

“What?” Joseph asked, following Jeffrey gaze. “Oh hell,” He swiped the wetness.

“It’s blood,” Jeffrey said, kneeling in front of Joseph to pull his jacket open and reveal the wound in his right shoulder. “You’re hit,” he said.

“Dang.”

“You didn’t feel it?”

“No, man. It must be bad.”

“Let me take a look,” Jeffrey said, ripping Joseph’s shirt and using it to wrap his shoulder.

Jeffrey leaned back against the log. Joseph must have been hit back in the fray.

He strained, but heard only silence – except for Joseph’s heavy breathing.

Now what? They had no provisions. And Joseph wouldn’t be able to travel far. He’d lost a lot of blood.

We can’t stay here.

“Can you walk?” he asked, getting up and holding out his hand for Joseph.

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s see,” Jeffrey said.

Joseph got to his feet and they walked a few yards before Joseph fell back to the ground. “I can’t,” he said.

“Come on,” Jeffrey said, “At least get to the tree.”

Jeffrey propped Joseph up next to a tree. “I’ll go see if I can get some help or at least find some provisions. Wait here.”

“Ha. Like I’m going anywhere.”

“I’ll be back.”

 

 

Whoever would have thought of hiding paper money in a fireplace?

Claire sat on the floor of the parlor holding a cloth bag of paper money—Confederate paper money. Only now, the three hundred dollars of hard saved money was only worth about one hundred. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that his money was all but worthless.

No, she corrected herself. It was more money than she had ever seen—even if it was Confederate money. Wrapping it back up carefully, she replaced it. Thank God he had told her where to find it. If he’d passed away without telling her, she would never have known it was there. It was likely that it would never have been found by anyone.

The money didn’t change anything. Even if it had been Yankee currency, she wouldn’t have left him here. Alone with the Yankees at their doorstep.

Nothing could convince her to leave him.

Not even the whole Yankee army descending upon them.