PROLOGUE
AUGUST 17, 1863
In the hills surrounding the Union-occupied city of Nashville . . . First Lieutenant Ridley Adam Cooper peered through the stand of bristled pines, his presence cloaked by dusk, his Winchester cocked and ready. Beads of sweat trailed his forehead and the curve of his eye, but he didn’t bother wiping them away. His focus was trained on the Negro hunched over the fire and what he was certain—if his last hour of observation proved true—the slave had hidden just over the ridge.
Best he could tell, the man hadn’t spied him, else he wouldn’t be going about making supper like he was. Beans and pork with biscuits and coffee, if Ridley’s sense of smell proved right. Real coffee. Not that foul-tasting brew the Rebs scalded over an open flame until it was sludge, then drank by the gallons.
Rebs. His brothers, in a way, every last one of them. Two of them the blood kind. And yet, the enemy. He hoped Petey and Alfred were all right, wherever they were.
A northerly breeze marked evening’s descent, but the air’s movement did little to ease the sweltering heat and humidity. Someone raised in the thickness of South Carolina summers should be accustomed to this by now, but the wool of the Federal uniform wore heavy, more so these days than when he’d first enlisted.
Yet he knew he’d done the right thing in choosing the side he had. No matter what others said or did. Or accused him of.
Ridley felt a pang. Not from hunger so much, though he could eat if food was set before him. This pang went much deeper and hurt worse than anything he could remember. God, if you’re listening, if you’re still watching us from where you are . . . I hate this war. Hated what this “brief conflict”—as President Lincoln had called it at the outset—was doing to him and everyone else over two bloody years later.
And especially what it called for him to do tonight. “At any cost,” his commander had said, his instruction leaving no question.
Jaw rigid, Ridley reached into his pocket and pulled out the seashell, the one he’d picked up on his last walk along the beach near home before he’d left to join the 167th Pennsylvania Regiment to fight for the Federal Army. The scallop shell was a tiny thing, hardly bigger than a coin, and the inside fit smoothly against his thumb. With his forefinger, he traced the familiar ridges along the back and glanced skyward where a vast sea of purple slowly ebbed to black.
It was so peaceful, the night canopy, the stars popping out one by one like a million fireflies flitting right in place. Looking up, a man wouldn’t even know a war was being waged.
When his commanding officer had called for a volunteer for the scouting mission, the man hadn’t waited for hands to go up but had looked directly at Ridley, his expression daring argument. Ridley had given none. He’d simply listened to the orders and set out at first light, nearly three days ago now. Ridley knew the commander held nothing personal against him. The man had been supportive in every way.
It was Ridley’s own temper and his “friendly” disagreement with a fellow officer—a loud-mouthed lieutenant from Philadelphia who hated “every one of them good for nothin’, ignorant Southerners”—that had landed him where he was tonight. The fool had all but accused him of spying for the Confederacy. Their commander had quashed the rumor, but the seed of doubt had been sown. And this was the commander’s way of allowing Ridley to earn back his fellow officers’ trust again, which was imperative.
Ridley wiped his brow with the sleeve of his coat, careful not to make a noise. He’d tethered his horse a good ways back and had come in on foot.
He didn’t know the hills surrounding Nashville any better than the rest of his unit, but he did know this kind of terrain, how to hunt and move about in the woods. And how to stay hidden. The woods were so dense in places, the pines grown so thick together, a man could get lost out here if he didn’t know how to tell his way.
They’d gotten wind of Rebels patrolling the outlying areas—rogue sentries who considered themselves the law of the land—and his bet was they were searching for what he’d just found. So far, he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them. But he could imagine well enough what they’d do to a Union soldier found on his lonesome—especially an officer and “one of their own kind” to boot—so he was eager to get this thing done.
Gripping his Winchester, Ridley stepped from the tree cover, still some thirty feet from the Negro. He closed the distance—twenty-five feet, twenty—the cushion of pine needles muffling his approach. Fifteen, ten . . . But the man just kept puttering away, stirring the coffee, then the beans, then—
Ridley paused mid-step. Either the Negro was deaf . . . or was already wise to his presence. Wagering the latter, Ridley brought his rifle up and scanned his surroundings, looking for anyone hidden in the trees or for a gun barrel conveniently trained at the center of his chest. It was too late to retreat, but withdrawal of any kind had never been in his nature, as that cocksure, pretentious little—he caught himself—lieutenant from Philadelphia had found out well enough.
He tried for a casual yet not too pleasant tone. “Evening, friend . . .”
The man’s head came up. Then, slowly, he straightened to his full height, which was still a good foot shorter than Ridley. He was thicker about the middle, older than Ridley too. In his thirties maybe, or closer to forty, it was hard to tell. The Negro was broad shouldered, and judging by the thickness of his hands and forearms, Ridley guessed that years of hard labor had layered a strap of muscle beneath that slight paunch. He hoped it wouldn’t give the slave a false sense of courage.
“Evenin’,” the man answered, glancing at the stripes on Ridley’s shoulder. “Lieutenant, sir.”
Not a trace of surprise registered in his voice, which went a ways in confirming Ridley’s silent wager. The man’s knowledge of military rank was also telling.
The Negro’s focus shifted decidedly to the Winchester, then back again, and Ridley couldn’t decide if it was resignation he read in the man’s eyes or disappointment. Or maybe both.
Ridley surveyed the camp. Neat, orderly. Everything packed. Everything but the food. Like the man was getting ready to move out. Only—Ridley looked closer—not one cup but two resting on a rock by the fire. He focused on the slave and read awareness in the man’s eyes. “How long have you known I was watching?”
The Negro bit his lower lip, causing the fullness of his graying beard to bunch on his chin. “’Bout the time the coffee came back to boilin’ sir.”
“You heard me?” Ridley asked, knowing that was impossible. He hadn’t made a sound. He was sure of it.
The man shook his head, looking at him with eyes so deep and dark a brown they appeared almost liquid. “More like . . . I felt you, sir.”
A prickle skittered up Ridley’s spine. Part of him wanted to question the man, see if he had what some called “second sight,” like Ridley’s great-grandmother’d had, but the wiser part of him knew better than to inquire. He had a job to do, one he couldn’t afford to fail. Not with his loyalty to the Union being called into question by some. “I take it you know what I’m here for.”
There it was again, that look. Definitely one of resignation this time.
“I reckon I do, sir. It’s what all them others been lookin’ for too.” The slave shook his head. “How’d you find me?”
Only then did Ridley allow a hint of a smile. “I don’t know that I can say exactly. We got rumor of horses being hidden in these hills. I volunteered, you might say, and then just started out. I followed where my senses told me to go. Where I would’ve gone if I was hiding horses.”
The man’s eyebrows arched, then he nodded, gradually, as if working to figure something out. He motioned to the fire. “Dinner’s all ready, Lieutenant. Think you could see fit to eat a mite?”
Ridley looked at the pot of beans and meat bubbling over the flame, then at the tin of biscuits set off to the side, his stomach already answering. The man was offering to feed him? All whilst knowing what he was here to do? Ridley eyed him again, not trusting him by any stretch. Yet he had a long journey back to camp, and the dried jerky in his rations didn’t begin to compare. “I’d be much obliged. Thank you.”
They ate in silence, the night sounds edging up a notch as the darkness grew more pronounced. The food tasted good and Ridley was hungrier than he’d thought. He’d covered at least seventy-five, maybe a hundred miles since leaving camp in Nashville.
Just four days earlier, Union headquarters had received rumor of a slave out in these hills, reportedly hiding prized blood horses for his owner. Word had it the horses were bred for racing and were worth a fortune. Ridley would’ve sworn they’d confiscated every horse there was in Nashville when they first took the city. But he’d bet his life that the man across from him right now was the slave they’d heard about.
He lifted his cup. “You make mighty good coffee. Best I’ve had in a while. And this is some fine venison too.”
“Thank you, sir. My master, he got the finest deer park in all o’ Dixie. Least he did ’fore them no-good, thievin’—” The Negro paused, frowning, then seemed to put some effort into smoothing his brow, though with little success. “I’s sorry, sir. I ’preciate all your side’s tryin’ to do in this war, but there just ain’t no cause for what was done at Belle Meade last year. ’Specially with Missus Harding bein’ delicate o’ health, and Master Harding packed off to prison like he was. Them Union troops—” He gripped his upper thigh, his eyes going hot. “They shot me! Right in the leg. I’s just tryin’ to do what I’s been told, and they shot me straight on. Laughed about it too. And here we’s thinkin’ they come to help.”
Reminded again of another reason he hated this war and why the South no longer felt like home and never would again, Ridley held the man’s gaze, trying to think of something to say. Something that would make up for what had been done to him. But he couldn’t.
Ridley laid aside his tin and, on impulse, reached out a hand. “First Lieutenant Ridley Adam Cooper . . . sir.”
He knew a little about the slave’s owner—General William Giles Harding—from what his commanding officer had told him. To date, General Harding still hadn’t signed the Oath of Allegiance to the Union, despite the general’s incarceration up north last year at Fort Mackinac—a place reportedly more like a resort than a prison—and the lack of compliance wasn’t sitting well with those in authority. Not with Harding being so wealthy a man and holding such influence among his peers. It set the wrong precedent. Union superiors hoped the outcome of this scouting mission would provide General Harding with the proper motivation he needed to comply with the Union—or suffer further consequences.
The Negro regarded Ridley—the crackle of the fire eating up the silence—then finally accepted, his own grip iron-firm. “Robert Green, sir. Head hostler, Belle Meade Plantation.”
“You been at Belle Meade long, Mr. Green?”
“Since I’s about two years old, sir. My folks and me, we was a present to the first Missus Harding on her and my master’s weddin’ day. Been at Belle Meade ever since.”
Ridley nodded, then stared into the fire as the man’s comment settled within him. We was a present . . . It didn’t settle well. According to a proclamation from the president eight months earlier, most of the slaves had been freed. But words on paper didn’t always match the reality of a situation. Especially when newly freed slaves attempting to exercise their freedom ended up shot in the back or hanging by a rope.
“You must’a met with some of them Rebs, Lieutenant.”
Ridley looked up to see Robert Green gesturing toward him.
“Seein’ them bruises, sir, looks like somebody got a piece of you ’fore you took ’em down.”
Ridley fingered his cheek and chin, his jaw still tender and now roughly bearded with several days’ growth. “Actually this was from a fellow officer. He and I had a . . . difference of opinion, you might say.”
Green chuckled. His laughter had a comforting sound about it. “From the size of you, Lieutenant, I be guessin’ that man looks way worse off than you do.”
Ridley shook his head. “He got a few good punches in before he went down.”
“That may be, sir. But with one good lick from you, I’m bettin’ he done stayed down. For a week!”
Ridley allowed the trace of a grin, then felt the need for sleep creeping up on him and sat straighter to keep his wits about him.
“Lawd . . .” Robert Green sighed and stretched. “I used to love me a good fight. I used to could hold my own too. Don’t you think I couldn’t just ’cause I’s built low to the ground.”
“No, sir . . .” Ridley shook his head, humored at the way Green described himself. “I wouldn’t begin to think that.”
Robert Green locked eyes with him then, and the man’s smile faded. Green blinked, as if just now seeing Ridley in his uniform again and remembering why he was here.
The brief ease of conversation between them left as quickly as it had come.
Feeling precious time slip past, Ridley rose, bringing his Winchester with him. “I thank you for dinner, Mr. Green. And now . . . I need to ask you to show me the horses.”
Robert Green rose as well, reaching for a knobby cane to steady himself. He grabbed a nearby lantern and lit it, then picked a path through the darkness. Ridley followed, still wary and more than a little watchful.
Slivers of moonlight fingered their way through the trees, lending the night a silvery glow. When they reached the top of the ridge, Ridley peered over and counted three—no, four—horses. His gaze narrowed in the pale moonlight. Their size and stature. Their build . . . Though he wasn’t an expert on horse flesh, he knew enough to realize everything his commander had said was true. Magnificent was the foremost word that came to mind.
If these horses were worth a dollar, they were worth a thousand. Each. Easy. And they flocked to Robert Green like newborn pups to their mama. All of them. The man whispered low and stroked their necks, scratched them behind their ears. The gentleness of the animals in contrast to their brute strength was something to behold.
“You open to me askin’ you somethin’, Lieutenant Cooper?” Robert Green turned back, and as if on cue, the horses lifted their heads. All seemed to look directly at Ridley.
Ridley got a spooked sort of feeling. A little like . . . if Robert Green were to give the word, those thoroughbreds would charge that hill and stomp the life right out of him. All because Robert Green wished it so.
Hearing in his mind the question Mr. Green had asked, Ridley pulled his thoughts taut again. “Yes, sir. Go ahead.”
“Where you from, Lieutenant? I know by your speakin’ you ain’t from nowhere north.”
“No, sir. I’m not. I’m from South Carolina.”
Robert Green whistled low. “I’s guessin’ what you done ain’t gone over too well with your kin.”
Ridley pushed aside the painful images of his father and younger brothers. “No, sir. It hasn’t.” He turned his thoughts to figuring how he was going to get these thoroughbreds back to camp. He was a fair rider, but he’d never been especially good with horses. Not a fact he’d been eager to share with his commanding officer. He’d handled this many horses before, but not spirited blood horses, and he certainly lacked the knack for it this man possessed.
“But still . . . you’s fightin’ for what you think is right, Lieutenant. Speaks high of a man to do that, sir. ’Specially when it costs him dear.” Robert Green paused. “Anythin’ I can do to change your mind on this, Lieutenant Cooper? These here are the general’s favorites. And he trusted ’em to me special, sir. To keep ’em safe.”
Ridley leveled a stare. “I appreciate that, Mr. Green. But no. There’s nothing to be done. I’ve got my orders.”
The older man bowed his head, nodding. “Mind if I water ’em up ’fore you take ’em?”
“No. Long as you don’t mind if I come along.”
Robert Green took hold of the leads of two of the thoroughbreds and led them to the stream. The other two horses trailed behind. Ridley followed, rifle in hand.
The largest of the thoroughbreds, a black stallion, nudged up beside Green similar to how Ridley remembered Winston—his hunting dog as a boy—doing. He hadn’t thought of that ol’ dog in years, buried on the hill behind the house back home.
But it was how Robert Green leaned into the stallion that caused Ridley to study the scene. He’d never witnessed anything like it. Animal like that reacting toward a man this way. And he felt a disquiet inside himself, one he tried to dismiss. But couldn’t. He had a direct order. He had no choice but to do this. He couldn’t return without these thoroughbreds. And wouldn’t.
He followed Green back to where the horses had been.
Green turned to him. “You know anything ’bout horses, Lieutenant?”
“’Course I do.” Ridley heard the defensiveness in his own voice, for some unknown reason eager to prove himself to this man. He gathered the reins of two of the thoroughbreds, noting they were none too eager to follow him over the ridge. But finally, with firm insistence, they did.
“Blood horses like these,” Green said, coming down the hill behind him. “You gotta take special care with ’em, Lieutenant. They got high spirits, and they can—”
“I know about horses, Mr. Green.”
Green didn’t say anything, but his silence did.
“Lieutenant Cooper?”
His patience thinning, Ridley paused and looked back.
“If you got a mind to let me, sir, I go with you, a ways anyhow.” The man looked at the horses with fondness akin to what Ridley had felt for old Winston. “I go as far as the road runnin’ north of here, then I turn back. That rebel patrol . . . they catch me out in these woods—” He shook his head. “I be better off bein’ trampled by Olympus there.” He thumbed toward the black stallion. “Either way, I be dead.”
“If the Rebs catch either of us, Mr. Green, we’ll likely both be dead.”
Surprisingly, Green chuckled. “That’s God’s honest truth, sir. I’s thinkin’ they might just take to killin’ you ’fore they kill me.”
Ridley considered that possibility and found no comfort in it. But having Green along to help with these horses did have advantages. Finally, he nodded, and Green packed up the camp.
They were on their way inside of fifteen minutes.
Ridley was grateful—and also not—for the full moon. It gave them light, but did the same to anyone else in the woods. He led the way, reins to a dark bay stallion and a handsome chestnut in his grip. He glanced back at Robert Green every so often. “We’ll head north about a quarter mile to where I left my horse, then we’ll take the path over the next ridge. There’s a deer trail running through there that I followed a day or so back. Unless you know of a better way?”
“No, sir. That’s the best way. And fastest.”
The thoroughbreds were surefooted and grew easier to lead as they went, which Ridley knew better than to attribute to his own skill. “When I came into camp, Mr. Green, you looked about packed up, ready to move out. Where were you headed?”
“I got me some good hidin’ spots in these hills. I move around some. Mainly at night. Ain’t seen nobody for a while.”
Almost back to where Ridley had tethered his gelding, he heard the horse whinny, then felt a touch of relief when he found the mount as he’d left him. The gelding was a mite high-strung. Temperamental at times too, even obstinate, and Ridley wasn’t overly fond of the animal.
The thoroughbreds tossed their heads, as though hesitant to welcome the newcomer to their ranks, but Green quieted them with soothing whispers and a touch.
“May I, sir?”
Ridley glanced up to see Robert Green gesture to the gelding. Gathering what he was asking, Ridley granted permission with a nod.
Robert Green walked to within three feet of the gelding then stopped and stared. Just stared. The gelding stared back, its withers rippling. Then with an outstretched hand, Green closed the distance between them, moving slowly, patient as sunrise in winter, never breaking the stare. The horse suddenly blew out a breath and stomped. Green halted and lowered his arm.
Ridley watched, not knowing what the man was doing but about to tell him in no uncertain terms that they didn’t have time for this foolish—
“You’s a good boy,” Green said, his voice low and soft. “Little scared sometimes, I’m guessin’. But we all is. We all got somethin’ we afraid of . . . You ever talk to him?”
Ridley blinked. It took him a second to realize Green was speaking to him now and not the horse. “Beg pardon?”
“You ever talk to this horse, sir? Tell him what a fine boy he is? How grateful you are for what he done for you?”
Ridley stared at Robert Green, wondering now if the man was a mite touched in the head. And knowing he was wasting his time with the gelding.
“Horses are like women, Lieutenant. You gotta talk to ’em, let ’em see what’s inside you ’fore they can start to trust. You kin to that understandin’?”
Ridley started to admit he wasn’t, then decided his personal experience was none of this man’s business. “Mr. Green, I’m sure you mean well, sir, but we don’t have time for—”
The gelding took a decided step toward Green. And another. Then lowered his head as if giving Green permission to touch him.
Ridley exhaled. “Well, would you look at—”
High-pitched laughter cut through the darkness and Ridley instinctively brought his rifle up. He put a finger to his lips. Robert Green nodded. The stallions tossed their heads as though sensing the tension around them, and the gelding edged closer to Green.
Ridley motioned to Green to gather the reins of the thoroughbreds, but the slave already had them in hand, as well as the gelding’s.
More cackling laughter and occasional whoops annoyed the night’s silence, the telling sound of liquored-up Confederate soldiers. Ridley crept through the trees to get a better look, betting they weren’t as drunk as they sounded. It occurred to him again that, with one hearty shout, Robert Green could use this chance to turn him in. The slave might try to work a bargain—the Rebs would get the thoroughbreds, the gelding, and one Federal lieutenant, and Robert Green might go free.
But Ridley knew the chances of Green going free were close to nil. He only hoped Robert Green knew that.
Watching through the trees, he could see the patrol passing by on horseback not twenty feet from where he stood. The rhythmic plod of their own mounts provided coverage, but if the thoroughbreds—or the gelding—spooked . . .
One of the Reb’s horses snorted and pulled up short, no doubt smelling—or at least sensing—the thoroughbreds. Ridley tensed.
The soldier swore and dug his heels mercilessly into the mount’s flanks, spewing a curse-laden tirade about “the worthless piece of horseflesh” beneath him.
Ridley didn’t dare look away but wondered how on earth Robert Green was managing to keep their horses so quiet. Then a thought occurred. He jerked his head back to make sure Green hadn’t—
The slave and the horses were just where he’d left them.
Not realizing he’d been holding his breath, Ridley slowly let it out and then filled his lungs again, willing his pulse to slow. He waited. The patrol passed. As did a full minute. Then another. But he knew better than to let relief come quite yet.
These Rebs . . . they were sly, some of them. This could be a trick.
Ridley allowed a full five minutes to pass—silently counting and glancing back on occasion to check on Green.
“I think they’s gone, sir,” Green finally said, his voice a feather on the wind.
“I think they are too,” Ridley whispered back. “But we can’t go the way I was planning.” Not when that way meant trailing the patrol party.
“What you gonna do, Lieutenant . . . with the general’s horses?”
“I’m taking them back to camp, near the capitol building.”
“Aw, no, sir. Please, sir. These is too fine’a horses to be cavalry mounts, Lieutenant.”
Ridley sighed, admiring the man’s stab at persuasion. “They’re not meant for cavalry mounts. They’re to be presented to officers as gifts.” At least that’s what he’d been told, but he wondered again, as he had at the outset. His commander had said they wanted to make an example of General Harding. How far his superiors would go to do that, he didn’t know.
But looking at the thoroughbreds now—at what fine animals they were—he questioned those lengths.
One thing beyond question was the trust this slave had earned with these animals. Looking at the black stallion—Olympus, Green had called him—Ridley would’ve sworn the animal was thinking something intelligible. What, he didn’t know. But the disquiet he’d felt earlier that night returned a hundredfold.
He couldn’t define it. He only knew he couldn’t set it aside. Not without a cost. And for reasons he couldn’t explain—and knew were a far cry short of sane—he walked over and reached out to touch the stallion.
The animal flinched and took a backward step, the whites of its eyes visibly stark against black pupils. Then Green’s voice came, hushed and gentle, whispering whatever it was he said to calm them.
Green looked over. “You ain’t earned his trust yet, Lieutenant Cooper. That’s all. Trust takes time and lots of doin’. You got to prove yourself worthy of it, sir.”
Feeling rebuked by this man, yet appropriately so, Ridley said nothing at first. “You didn’t try to bargain with the patrol, Mr. Green. Or turn me in.”
“Oh, I thought about it.” Green’s smile was briefly lived. “But I knowed me too many white men who’s thirsty for blood. I reckon I best take my chances with one who don’t seem so eager to spill it . . . sir.”
There it was again. That sense of unease. Ridley looked at the thoroughbreds and felt a deliberation inside him, warring against his judgment, against what he knew he should do as a Federal officer. “Has it always been this way for you, Mr. Green? With horses?”
Green didn’t answer immediately, his focus on the thoroughbreds. “’Fore I could walk, I knew how to ride a horse. That’s what my papa said anyway. I was right about three years along when my mama woke in the night. Couldn’t find me nowhere. She and Papa went lookin’.” Green’s smile was full of memory. “Say they found me sleepin’ in the barn. Hunkered down with a stallion, right between his hooves.”
Ridley studied him. If anyone else had told him that story, he’d have discounted it without a second thought. But he couldn’t. Not with it coming from this man.
“God made a wondrous thing when he made these creatures, Lieutenant Cooper. In some ways, they’s smarter than we is. They know things. They remember things too.”
Ridley stared, his decision made. He just didn’t know how to go about explaining it to this man. Or what he would tell his commander.
The sky to the east showed a pearly gray slowly giving way to dawn. “It’ll be light soon, Mr. Green. If you aim to keep these horses in your possession, I suggest you find another good hidin’ spot.” He phrased it much as Green had earlier. “And find it right quick.”
Green stilled. And stared. “Are you sayin’ that—” The question in his features melted into cautious gratitude. “Why you doin’ this, sir?”
Ridley laughed and took the reins of the gelding. “I have no idea. I only know I can’t be responsible for destroying so—” How had Green put it? “So wondrous a creature as these animals are.” Ridley briefly looked away, the tightness in his throat betraying his weariness, both in body and soul. “Not when there’s so little wondrous left in this world.”
Weary and eager to be gone, Ridley mounted the gelding, aware of Green closing the distance between them.
“I thank you, Lieutenant Cooper. And I promise you, sir, as sure as God is listenin’ to me right this minute, I be prayin’ he pays you back for your kindness. And that he keeps you safe, sir.” Green extended his hand.
But Ridley only stared at it. “Thank you, Mr. Green . . . But I don’t believe God hears our prayers anymore. Or if he does, he sure doesn’t seem to be heeding them.”
Sensing Green’s argument, Ridley urged the gelding in the opposite direction of the patrol and didn’t look back.
The story continues in
To Whisper Her Name by Tamera Alexander.