:: A Civil War Story ::
Chapter One
Brigadier General Walter Skinner sat rigid astride his black gelding surveying the
desolation and death, inure to the moans and cries for help. He had seen too much blood in
his life, most of it in the last four nightmare years of war. He stirred, reaching into
his dark blue jacket, stirring the acrid reek of his own sweat and fear. Taking out the
cigar that General Sherman had handed him two evenings before the battle, Skinner jammed
the hated thing into his mouth and lit it. At least the pungent smoke masked the smell of
blood and sweat and death that surrounded him; drove off the incessant flies in the late
afternoon July sun.
He waited patiently for Doggett’s report and for word from the rear lines on their next move. He could just barely hear the noise of his men far off to the east, standing down and taking stock after their fierce victory. Ever since the Union’s embarrassing defeat at Chickamauga, where Skinner had earned his star, the generals under Sherman had driven their men hard. Skinner knew his men hated him and that was fine. It was right that they hate a man that sent them out to face death day after day. All he cared about was that they followed his orders without question. Of course it never occurred to him that the main reason they followed his orders was not the harsh punishments that he meted out for the slightest infractions but that he was always at the lead of every charge; always ready with his rapier. Twice in the past year he had had his horse shot out from under him and twice the drunk passing himself off as the company’s doctor had to dig rebel lead from his body.
Watching Doggett make his way across the carnage, a flash of color caught Skinner’s eye. Turning toward the movement, he saw bright blue calico embracing stark rebel gray. Nudging Satan forward, the huge horse delicately made its way through the bodies of the fallen, both union and rebel.
When he reached the woman cradling the rebel captain, he sighed. This was no camp follower - sweetheart, wife, or sister perhaps. As he alighted from the saddle and stiffly walked toward her, the rebel officer stirred and reached out a hand toward the woman’s face. Skinner was just kneeling next to the pair, when he heard the man rasp, "not in this life, my dearest love." Skinner looked into the dying hazel eyes and a shock of impossible recognition skirted across his memory before retreating behind cold logic. Reaching out, he touched the bereaved woman’s shoulder. "Come away, Ma’am. This is no place for you."
The raven-haired beauty jerked away from his touch and keened her loss. He started to stand when she suddenly screeched a curse and grabbing the dying officer’s pistol, cocked back the hammer and aimed it at her enemy. Amazement had barely crossed Skinner’s features when a loud retort rang out from behind him and as the woman fell, the gun falling next to her, she reached out and grasped the rebel’s outstretched hand.
Skinner sank to his knees, gently turning her, he saw she was still grasping her lover’s hand. He had to strain to hear her last shuddered vow. "We die together, my love. You are mine now, not hers."
Major John Doggett, his pistol hanging from his hand, ran forward. "General Skinner! Are you all right, sir?"
Skinner glared up at the man. "Damn you, Doggett." He clenched his jaw in anger and looked down at the dead woman. Carefully, he laid her next to the rebel captain. Reigning in his emotions he looked up at his adjutant. "Sorry, John. I know you saved my life." He looked down at the couple and whispered. "But, was it really worth it?"
Major Doggett studied his commanding officer. Doggett had re-joined Skinner at Gettysburg and subsequently transferred with him, fighting in most of the major campaigns. Few men saw the pain that Skinner suffered at the loss of so many men regardless of defeat or victory. Doggett could remember a time, at West Point and during the early years, when Skinner had laughed easily and gotten on well with the men under his command. Even during their years together out west in Indian country Skinner had joined in during parties and overlooked minor infractions. Of course, those were the days when Sharon Skinner had kept the Skinners’ small quarters neat and clean. Doggett had transferred out east for several years and had not been around Skinner when his wife had left him to return to their home in Maryland. When he rejoined his old comrade he had asked about Mrs. Skinner, but look in the Colonel’s eyes had stilled all further questions.
Staring down at the woman he was sure would have killed the man who had saved his life twice, Doggett ground out, "we have word from General Hooker. He’s sending orders this evening. Come away, sir. Pendrell has the tent set up at the top of the hill about a mile down the picket, sir. There’s even a creek and I made sure that Frohike dug the latrine downstream this time." Holding Satan’s bridle, he watched as Skinner started to mount the steed.
Abruptly, returning his foot to the ground, Skinner turned and went back to the dead couple. Kneeling next to the captain he quickly searched the coat until he found a large packet of papers. Standing up, he opened the blood soaked oilskin. Several papers fluttered to the ground and as he stooped to retrieve them another heavier paper poked out of the package. Catching it before it fell, Skinner turned it over and stared. The daguerreotype showed a couple in wedding attire. Looking down he could tell that the groom lay dead at his feet, however, the bride in no way could be the woman Doggett had killed. Wearily, Skinner collected the papers and after finding what he was looking for, shoved them back into the packet and started to put them back on the body. Something stopped him however and instead he put the packet into his coat pocket. "Very well, major. Lead the way."
Hours later, in the light of the rising moon, Skinner trudged back from the small creek. He had shed everything but his short summer underwear and washed with his men. When he reached the tent, Private Pendrell waited to shave him. He stretched out in the camp chair and nearly fell asleep while the man carefully rid him of his two-day growth of beard. He had gotten no sleep last night as he moved his men forward toward their assigned position. The battle had raged non-stop for nearly 12 hours starting just before dawn ending only with the hasty, yet still costly retreat of the rebels. Finally allowing his senses to open again, he was able to make out harmonicas and quiet singing around him. Fires had been erected and food cooked, the smell combining with the ever-present stench of the festering wounds, improperly treated, made his bile rise once again. He felt rather than heard Doggett’s approach.
Pushing Pendrell away, he wiped the residue from his own face. "What is it, John?"
Doggett stepped around into view. "Sir, Sergeant Byers is here with our orders."
Sighing deeply, Skinner rose and pulled his suspenders up over his shoulders. "Very well, lets do this inside." Skirting the small fire, they entered the stiflingly hot canvas tent. Large enough for a camp bed, the bags that followed him everywhere and a large folding table, Skinner lit the lantern swinging from the center pole. Wearily sitting behind the table he reached up and took the proffered packet of orders from Hooker’s messenger. Taking a moment to search around behind him, he found the small case he had flung away when he had stripped for his bath. He pulled out a pair of wire rim glasses, perched them on his nose and then began to read what Hooker and Sherman had planned for him.
Doggett and the sergeant warily eyed each other as they stood at parade rest, awaiting their orders.
"About damn time." Skinner’s mutter caused Doggett and Byers to stand at attention. "Byers, it says here that you know this area?"
Byers gulped but nodded, "Yes sir. I worked for a surveyor before the war. I’m very familiar with the surrounding hills and valleys."
Skinner studied the nervous man before him. "Hooker wants me to set up the rear guard near by. He wants me to find a suitable plantation with enough rooms so that he can hold planning sessions for Sherman’s attack on Atlanta. He also wants me to set up hospital facilities." Pausing to take in Doggett’s relieved sigh, he continued. "You know of any likely spots around here, Sergeant?"
Byers squeaked. "Do you have a map, General?"
Skinner snorted and snapped his fingers. "John? Do we have any maps?"
Doggett reached underneath the table and pulled out a huge round rawhide cylinder. Pulling it open he pulled out and heavy roll of large papers. Spreading the maps out on the table, Doggett searched until he found a large layout of their surroundings. The three men bent over the table, the lantern casting strange shadows.
Pulling a small pencil from his pocket, Doggett took a moment and then circled a small area on the map. "This is where we are."
Byers got down very close to the detailed map and then reaching out his hand silently demanded the pencil. He circled two areas. "Either of these would do. They are both big enough; both of them have large tracts of land where the troops can bivouac, sir." Pointing to one of the spots, "this one is owned by one of the Confederate Senators, Spender. I don’t remember his first name, sir."
Skinner pulled his lips back in a parody of a grin. "We wouldn’t want to disturb a high ranking southern official now would we." Looking over at Doggett he ordered, "Prepare the troops, we will embark at dawn." Something pulled his attention back to the map. "Sergeant, who lives on the other plantation?"
Keeping his head down, Byers mumbled quickly. "An old family, lived there since before the Revolution from what I understand. One of the original settlers in these parts, sir."
Sensing the man’s hesitation, Skinner snapped, "The name?"
Byers quailed at the intensity of Skinner’s voice. "Uhm…Mulder…old…German family…."
Skinner’s sharp intake of breath was let out in a slow hiss. "Major, see that the Sergeant gets something to eat. Find a place to bunk down Byers and tomorrow return to General Hooker with my compliments. Advise him we will investigate the two likely sites and send word by tomorrow evening as to which one best suits our needs.
Doggett led the sergeant out, forcing himself not to look back at his commanding officer. Skinner had shown him the fallen rebel’s identification. While Doggett was not a superstitious man, he also didn’t like coincidences. He wondered silently the connection between Captain Fox William Mulder and the owners of the plantation they were heading toward tomorrow.
:: :: ::
12-July, 1864
My Dearest Husband & Friend,
Forgive me for still addressing you in such a manner. I know that it must offend you now. Our parting this morning has me troubled and in tears. I know I have betrayed everything that you hold dear and honorable, but I cannot stop. I will not give him up. I thought you would understand.
I hate this war. I hate the death and the destruction. But, selfishly, most of all I hate what it has taken from me. You. Your kind consideration and understanding. Who shall I speak to now? With whom will I share long hours discussing everything from philosophy to Sookie’s latest sightings?
Please write and tell me you understand and will someday find it in your heart to forgive me.
Dana
Skinner reread the letter and scowled. <<<She begs his forgiveness and he dies bemoaning the fact that he cannot be with his mistress. What sort of couple was this? She won’t give some man up and hopes that her husband will understand.>>>
Throwing his glasses on the camp table, he stared at the sealed envelope he had found in the oilskin pouch. It was address to Mrs. F.W. Mulder, Pine Bluff, Cobb County. It was sealed and Skinner was loath to open the letter. It was one thing to read a loose sheet of paper, but to break a seal on such a obviously personal missive was something that went against the grain of Skinner’s inner code of honor. He stood and went to the camp bed. He had never put his boots back on after his bath in the small creek so now he merely dropped his trousers and sank to the cot. He lay there for a long time as the images of the daguerreotype burned in his mind. The innocence of the two people who had somehow been so corrupted by life. He sighed deeply and tried to close his eyes. Who was he to contemplate another’s failure? As he finally drifted off to sleep he remembered his lovely Sharon and how she had finally given up on the awfulness of Army life and left him to return to Maryland, only to die, pregnant with another man child, of Yellow Fever six months later.
:: Chapter 2 ::
The sun was directly overhead when Skinner finally called a halt. They had ridden along a dusty, blood soaked road for nearly 10 miles before passing through a lone stand of pine trees, the path gently sloping upward, until they crested the rise and Skinner could see the vast plantation spread out below him. Off to the east he knew was the beginnings of the Chattahoochee River. From his vantage point he could make out the large mansion with center portico and two large wings. To the south were the outbuildings and slave quarters and far to the west he could make out the smoke rising from another plantation, no doubt the home of Senator Spender. The fields below them showed field hands working the cotton crop, a lone horseman posted in the center.
Skinner heard a surprised grunt and cast his eye over to Doggett. Skinner quietly asked, "is there a problem, Major?"
Doggett nodded his head toward the scene below. "They’ve been free for over a year and a half. I’m surprised to see so many still working the fields."
Skinner shrugged. "Where would they go, Major? North? Not now. Though I’m sure we will get some recruits to march toward Atlanta. Ah, we’ve been seen."
Doggett looked back at the fields and saw the hands moving swiftly toward the main house. The man on horseback though hadn’t moved except to turn his horse toward the men at the top of the hill. Skinner sighed and looked around him. It was a daunting sight, as officers on their mounts surround by infantry came to stretch out on either side of him. "Major Doggett, assemble a small party, no more than 10 men, no more than three of those on horseback. Pull out the white flag, Mr. Doggett, hopefully these people do know what a truce is."
They rode slowly down the hill past the fields and up the oak lined lane. From down here the house disappeared and even though he had seen it in the distance it reappearance through the trees was still impressive. The river was far enough away that someone arriving by paddle wheeler or by carriage from the south would have little warning of the palace awaiting them. He was surprisedwas surprised to see the house in such good repair. The fighting had ebbed and flowed around here for over six months, the latest battle giving the North a tenuous superiority for lord knew how long.
Skinner pulled his horse to a stop in front of the house. The man on horseback sat on his piebald mare off to one side. The only other people visible were a dignified looking butler at the door and, standing alone in the center of the porch, a small woman, her flame red hair held back by crocheted netting, her simple poplin dress a somber brown. This was an older, more tired version of the woman in the picture resting in his pocket. He felt a shudder run through him and chalked if off to the fact that he hadn’t been with a woman in a very long time. The sun was just over his shoulder now forcing her not only stare up at him but also causing her to squint into the early afternoon sun. He made to dismount and Private Langley ran forward to hold the reins. He straightened his coat and as he approached her he found that he was suddenly sweating and it had nothing to do with the torturous heat. Standing before her he nodded his head. "Ma’am, General Walter Skinner."
The woman cocked her eyebrow at him. "Indeed, General. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company on this fine July afternoon?"
A small smile played at the corner of his mouth. She was trying so very hard. The man from the field, still on horseback made a move forward, but a mild rebuke from Doggett halted his motion. "May I have the honor of your name, ma’am?"
A shadow past across her face but she held his gaze. "Mrs. Mulder, sir."
"Perhaps, Mrs. Mulder, we could go inside and discuss our business in private." Skinner held out his hand toward the door.
"If you will forgive me, General, I was not expecting company this afternoon. I haven’t had company in a long while."
Skinner put his boot on the first step. "I’m quite sure that the house is in perfect order, madam. And, we have much to discuss."
Her mouth set in a hard line. "I do not want you in my house, General."
He was standing two steps below her and he was still able to look down into her eyes. "Regardless, Mrs. Mulder, I do not plan to discuss this outside."
A rough growl escaped from the man on horseback and this time he got down and bounded up the stairs, his crippled left arm clutched to his side. Mrs. Mulder looked over at the man and then at soldiers suddenly pointing rifles at him. She sighed, "it’s all right, Alex. Please put Romeo away and tell the hands they have the rest of the afternoon off, but that I would appreciate it if they could finish up in the barn." Turning a glare to Skinner she nodded. "Very well, General." Turning and picking up the hem of her skirt she led the way into the large hallway. Turning to the butler she calmly requested, "Alvin, please have Ellie bring refreshments into the parlor. He seems intent to swelter in the afternoon heat."
She opened a door down the hall and motioned him to enter. Instead, he looked up at the long stairway leading upstairs and turned to Doggett who had followed him into the hallway. Looking behind the major he saw the man ‘Alex’ still standing there. In a voice not to be argued with, he commanded. "Major, have Sergeant Ashley accompany that man, and find out his particulars. You and Captain Stone check the rest of the house. Don’t disturb anything, just make sure there is no one up there we don’t know about."
"How dare you, sir!" Mrs. Mulder spat out.
Skinner eyed the woman carefully. "You don’t strike me as a naïve woman, Mrs. Mulder. My men will search the house." Indicating the open door he continued, "you said something about refreshments, ma’am?"
He waited until one of the servants brought in a tray with a tall pitcher of tea and two glasses. Allowing Mrs. Mulder to pour Skinner took a moment to glance around the room. He noticed that while everything was extremely neat and clean, several pieces of furniture that he would have expected in such a room were missing. He rather suspected that the rest of the house had been carefully plundered of valuable items, which had either been hidden away from the advancing Union Army or had been sold to help keep the plantation running. And lord, she was right, he wished now that he had suggested that they go somewhere equally private but outside where some movement of air would reach them. He felt the cool glass touch his hand and he looked down into her deep blue eyes and suddenly felt lost. "If you are hot, madam, the perhaps, if there is a private place, outside?"
She pulled her lips together and then led him through the French doors, leading out to the side of the house, shaded by large oaks. "Now, General, the business that you so desperately need to speak of."
Remembering his first task, he suddenly wanted nothing more than to turn and run. Instead, he brought the cool glass to his lips, only to pull it back and study it for a moment.
Mrs. Mulder caught his look. "Sugar is scarce here, General. We flavor our tea with mint." A hint of a smile tugged at her lips, "is it, perhaps too strong, sir."
Taking a long drink, he was surprised that while pungent, it was very good and very cooling. "No, ma’am. It’s just fine."
She stood next to him, her back ramrod straight. "Why have you come to my home, General. I have little to loot, the few farm animals give milk for the children of my field hands."
"Your slaves, you mean, Mrs. Mulder?" Skinner asked snidely.
She jerked her head to face him, a look of intense loathing and something else clouded her eyes for just a moment. "Regardless, General Skinner. The vegetable field will yield you little, but if you must, take what you will and leave us in peace."
Skinner stared at her in amazement. "In peace, Mrs. Mulder? We are at war, remember?"
She turned away from him then, but not before he caught the tears in her eyes. She folded her arms around herself and whispered so softly he barely heard, "please go, sir."
A fierce tenderness clutched at his heart. He gulped and moved to stand behind her. "Madam, I bring you bad news."
"What news, General?" The voice was stronger now.
Taking the packet from his coat he held it out to her side so she could see it. "I am sorry to tell you, Mrs. Mulder but your husband fell in yesterday’s battle."
She turned and studied him. "Did you kill him, General Skinner?"
A look of embarrassment flushed his face. "No ma’am."
Cocking her head she finally looked at the man hidden behind the enemy’s uniform. "Then why? So many fell yesterday." She released a deep shuddering sigh. "Thank you for bringing these papers, General, but I already knew." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I knew the moment he fell." Pushing her way around him she moved to re-enter the house. "Now if you will excuse me General, I need to return to my duties."
Skinner studied the woman in shocked disbelieve. <<<What kind of nonsense is this? She knew! How! Her letter clearly stated that there was a breach between them and that she loved someone else. Who? That cripple with the scowling, soft face?>>> "Your pardon, Mrs. Mulder, but how did you know?"
The voice was bitter and yet very sad. Her hand on the handle, she turned her head back over her shoulder. "There is much you couldn’t understand about my relationship with my husband, General. Tell me, was she there?"
Skinner clinched his fist. "Who, madam?" His lie was apparent on his face.
She smiled sadly and opened the door. "Do what you will, General Skinner, but I beg you, please leave me and mine alone."
The plea was simple and touched his heart. Making his decision he stormed through the parlor and out into the hall to find Stone and Doggett waiting patiently. Doggett stepped forward, "Sir, the house is empty, save for various servants."
Captain Stone, a short officious little man who had proved to be surprising good at procuring any supplies that Skinner’s men needed stepped forward and offered, "sir, the house is perfect. The rooms are large and most are furnished, though many rather sparsely." He had the decency to cast an embarrassed eye at Mrs. Mulder, who had paused at the top of the stairs, obviously listening to the conversation.
Skinner, his eyes boring into the small ramrod back, ground out. "I don’t think this will do at all. I want to see Spender’s place."
A small gasp floated down from the landing and he watched as she firmly placed her foot on the next stair.
Growling for them to follow, Skinner led his men out onto the porch. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the scene from the porch and understood the draw of this kind of life. The oaks cast a cooling shade over the house. Taking in a deep breath he realized that the smell of pine and the river were the first clean smells he could remember in a very long time. Something else hung in the air, a lighter fragrance; he refused to consider its import and stomped down the steps toward his horse.
His foot was in the stirrup, his hand on the pommel when a shout froze him in place. A rider came barreling down the lawn, his hat lost. Corporal Pendrell looked like the hounds of hell were chasing him as he pulled his horse to a stop just in front of his commanding officer. "Sir!" He jumped down and nearly fell on his face.
Standing there, panting so hard, his face so red, Skinner was sure the young soldier was going to pass out. Snapping his fingers he ordered, "Langley, your canteen." Private Langley ran up to the corporal, the canteen already outstretched. Waiting while the man calmed down, Skinner tossed the reigns back on the saddle. Doggett got down from his mount and together the men waited for the urgent report.
"Sir, Colonel Farrell sent me. Oh sir, it’s terrible!
"Damn it, Pendrell! Report!" Skinner was rapidly loosing his patience with the boy.
Getting himself in hand, Pendrell stood at attention. "Sir! The Spender plantation house is in flames. The slaves, sir. They saw us coming down the lane and this cheer went up. But, then all of a sudden, all hell broke loose, sir. Me and the Colonel was closest to them, ya see. The Colonel had just come up to this one large slave, sir, and started a-talkin' to him. You know, askin' about the place and the master and all and out of the blue a shot rung out. Only h’it weren’t the Major what got shot, sir. The nigra fell. We looked up and we din’ see nothin' at first but all of a sudden the others started pointin' and we all saw a man. Skinny feller, he were; standing behind a ole' hick'ry tree, giggling, and still holdin' his gun. He started to point the thing at the Colonel when this other nigra come up behind him and hit him with a big ole stick. That’s when things really got crazy, sir. I heared a shout and all of a sudden all these men come a-runnin' from the field in every which way. Next thing I knowed the house was this dialect is not consistent in its use of were for was…this person would say was here)were ona-fire and this old gent comed stumbling out of the door, blood running down his face and out his chest. The Colonel sent me ‘n Jackson inta the barn and we found these fellers startin' to set fire to it too, but we chased em out and got us a wagon hitched. Weren’t nothin' we could do bout the house, General. H’it were up in flames." Pointing to the blacking sky he pointed. "See, lookee there."
Skinner pushed his hat back on his head and looked toward the south. The first wisps of gray smoke could be seen floating above.
"Oh my." He turned and saw her standing there her fingers to her lips. He wasn’t sure how much she had heard. Meeting his gaze for a moment she turned to the butler. Skinner was taken aback by what he heard next. "Oh dear, Alvin, it must have been Joe. I’m so sorry." The butler’s face was unreadable and he merely turned and went back into the house.
Now more shouts could be heard coming down the lane. Colonel John Farrell leading the company he had taken to survey the other plantation. A large wagon, driven by two privates followed at a slower but still rapid pace. Farrell jumped from his horse and saluted. "Sir, we have a gravely injured man here. I sent for Dr. Graves, but I don’t know how long he will last."
Skinner sighed, "Get him inside. There’s a sofa in the parlor, see if you can find something to put over it though, keep the blood off as much as you can." The wagon finally reached the house and several men helped unload the moaning man. Skinner turned to watch them carry the man up the steps. Mrs. Mulder was standing in the door staring at them and for a moment Skinner thought she was going to try and keep them out, a look of such utter loathing skittered across her face. He started to say something but she suddenly got out of their way and they carried him down the hall. He followed them into the house. "I’m sorry Mrs. Mulder, but he is one of your neighbors, perhaps you can help until our doctor gets here."
Pointing to the back of the house she snarled, "the kitchen is back there. Your men will take what they need, but he can die in agony before I step into the same room with the old bastard."
Shocked at her vehemence, he stood and watched her storm up the stairs. She turned and demanded. "And, as soon as he is patched up I want him out of this house, or so help me, I’ll set this place on fire too."
:: Chapter 3 ::
In the gathering twilight, Skinner stood on the porch, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The view showed a sliver of river off in the distance. Down the hill and around the side of the house trees and shrubs hid the slave quarters but. The kitchen, in its separate building, still bustled as his men worked with the cooks to try and feed his officers. He, Doggett and Farrell had eaten in the dining room earlier before Skinner sent them off to make sure that the men found places to set up their tents. "Try and keep them out of the fields if you can. There’s plenty of woods around here so they might be able to find some game." The men left and Skinner found the lead crystal goblet to pour the whiskey from his flask into. He had checked on Senator Spender, but Graves was still working on the man, sweat pouring from his brow. The slight tremor in his hands made Skinner shudder and he had made his way out to the portico.
"How long are you staying here, General?" He turned at her quiet, desperate question. She had changed into a lighter, silkier dress, complete with hoop skirt. The netting around hair gone and it hung in a gather across one ear. She had stayed in her room while they ate, taking the small tray that the cook had sent up with the child, Sookie.
Returning his gaze across the fields to his right, he noticed that several men were slinking toward the vegetable patch. "Pendrell!"
The carrot-topped face of his corporal followed a faint answering, "Sir," from the kitchen.
When the man made it to the foot of the steps, Skinner pointed to the men just entering the garden. "Run down there and tell those men that I said to stay out of it."
At his tone Pendrell’s eyes grew wider than they normally were and ran off. Even from this distance Dana Mulder thought she could see the men stiffen. She did see them suddenly return to the trees. She sniffed. "They’ll only wait until tonight."
"No, Mrs. Mulder. My men obey my commands or suffer the consequences. And believe me, madam, when I say that no one will offer the excuse that they didn’t know. They will all know in less time than it takes for Congress to recess for lunch."
Moving to stand beside him, she looked up into his stern continence. "You still haven’t answered my question, General Skinner."
Meeting her gaze he took another drink before answering. "There is nothing to be done about it, Mrs. Mulder. I’ve been ordered to set up temporary headquarters in a large house with acreage enough for men and their tents, your barn will serve as the hospital." Remembering her earlier threat he started to ask about Senator Spender, but instead promised. "As soon as the doctor says we can move him, the Senator will be our first patient there." Finishing the drink he continued, "It was between your house and Senator Spender’s house. The choice has been made for us all." Seeing her rage build he tried to head it off with another question. "Why did they do it, Mrs. Mulder. The man who killed young Spender has been offered a position in my army. I would have allowed all of them spots in the army, just as I will offer your freed slaves. Surely they knew that. Why did they take that moment to attack their master?"
Her laugh was tinny and false. "How would they know that you offered so much, General? And, perhaps, even if they had known, nothing would have changed. The Senator and his son deserved to die more horribly than Jeffery did and to suffer more than his father is. You cannot understand the depth of the crimes of men like Spender. Would you have tried them for those crimes?" At the confused look on his face she shook her head and looked away. He could barely hear her whisper over the encroaching sounds of cicadas. "You couldn’t understand. You’re a damned Yankee."
Even though her vehemence had turned to an almost quiet desperation, Skinner was shocked by her attitude. Slapping his empty glass down on the porch rail he snapped. "Why don’t you try me, Mrs. Mulder? What makes you think a damned Yankee can’t understand?"
"Because I couldn’t understand. For years and years after we were married, I couldn’t understand." Sighing and turning back to the house she finished, "I still don’t understand, a lot of the time."
He grabbed her elbow and looked down at her. "What do you mean? She raised one eyebrow and looked down at his hand. He dropped her elbow quickly but persisted. "Make me understand."
Taking a deep breath she considered a long moment before answering. "I was born and raised in Boston, General Skinner. I met my husband when my father, a merchant sea captain, brought our family with him on a trip to Savannah." Her voice dropped and she turned back to stare out into the gathering night, no longer really speaking to him. "We met at a dance and he said he’d never met anyone quite like me. I was so outspoken, so interested in things not dealing with the latest fashion or the latest gossip. We talked until poppa dragged me away. He visited the ship before we returned to Boston. He wrote me such wonderful letters, huge, thick letters. And I answered every one with thick letters of my own. We thought since we could talk so well on so many different things that we were meant to be together." Suddenly realizing what she had admitted she turned and fled into the house.
Skinner wanted to chase after her, to ask for more. But he let out the breath he was holding and, picking up his glass went back into the house, meeting Corporal Frohike and Private Langley dragging in his kit. Melvin Frohike, grandson of a Polish officer who fought in the Revolution gazed around him, licking his lips. Skinner growled out, "Corporal, a minute of your time."
Walking up to the General, Frohike’s eyes never stilled. Skinner knew that a year from now the little man could tell him the position of very candlestick and nick-nack in the house, what pieces he didn’t procure for himself, that is. "Yes, sir, General, sir."
Inclining his head, Skinner pursed his lips. "Corporal I have a problem and a concern."
"Now, General, sir. You just tell me what I can do, I’ll make it right. Lickity-split, sorta speak."
"Ah, yes. Well you see, Corporal. We are setting up headquarters here for a while. And that means that the men will have time on their hands, seeing that they won’t be expected to do much more than forage for food and take their guard duty when it is time. You understand, Corporal. A break from getting shot at for the most part."
Frohike sniffed. "Bout time, if ya ask me, General, sir."
"Yes, well there will be a lot of staff officers floating in and out and I just want to make sure that none of the enlisted men get so bored that they might be inclined to, shall we say, forage for non-edibles here in the house."
An innocent look of outrage came to Frohike’s face. "Who would be so draft, General, sir?"
Shaking his head sadly, Skinner sighed. "I don’t know, Corporal, because if I find that any of Mrs. Mulder’s possessions are missing I’m afraid that I would have to send the head of her security detail to the front lines immediately."
Melvin Frohike was not a stupid man and he suddenly paled. "Ah…General Skinner, sir. Just…uhm…who would be the…Ah…head of Mrs. Mulder’s security detail?"
Smiling wolfishly, Skinner straightened and slapped Frohike’s back. "Good man. You’re quite right! You are just the man for the job. Good of you to volunteer like that." With that he ambled out to the front porch to find Major Doggett and make a quick tour of the grounds before turning in.
Grumbling all the way up the stairs, when Frohike reached the landing he found Langley holding a small bisque statue. Slapping the private’s arm, he growled. "Put it down, it ain’t seemly for the assistant to the head o’ Mizz Mulder’s security to be touching stuff."
It was nearly midnight when Skinner returned from making the rounds of the camp and talking with his officers. He sent word back to General Hooker that the headquarters site had been found and, grabbing his glass from the table where he had left it, made his way up the stairs to the room with the door standing open and Private Langley just leaving it. "Sir. Got everything set up for yer. Oh, and sir, I’ll try not to let you down."
Wearily, Skinner paused to look at the blond soldier. "How aren’t you going to let me down this time, Private?"
Mizz Mulder’s security, sir. Me ‘n Frohike are on it. We’ll make sure that nothing is taken."
Keeping his smile to himself, Skinner nodded and as he was shutting the door, murmured, "I sure everything will be fine…Now."
He stripped and washed at the pitcher and bowl. He saw that a complete, clean uniform hung from a hook on the wall. Underwear and clean socks lay piled on top of the dresser. Instead of donning any clothes he studied himself in the mirror for a moment. Touching the latest scar on his abdomen, he shuddered at the thought of any man being worked on by that butcher, Graves. <<<What a truly perfect name for the bastard.>>> However, the look in Mrs. Mulder’s eyes made him wonder if perhaps justice just might be served. He hadn’t checked on the Senator when he returned, but since there was only one guard in the hallway, and no noise coming from the parlor, he had to assume everything was finished.
It was so hot and humid he decided to sleep naked. Making sure that his trousers were within easy reach, he crawled into the plush featherbed sighing at the luxury. His last coherent though was of deep red hair and radiant blue eyes.
:: :: ::
The bitter weeping woke him with a start. Looking wildly around he stared into the darkness and grabbing his trousers, he pulled them on. He started to yell for Langley, but something stopped him. In the moonlight, he fumbled for the matches, lit the small taper next to the bed, and then proceeded to open the door. The crying grew louder and more pitiful. He looked down at Langley who had pulled his sleeping roll up the stairs and was curled up in the hallway, snoring, oblivious to the weeping.
The house had obviously been built in several phases, the main house, where he was sleeping the oldest. His room was at the top of the stairs. He knew that Mrs. Mulder lived in the right wing of the house and that until Hooker and whoever else planned on staying here arrived, the left wing was closed off. But he could swear that was where the weeping was coming from.
Skinner approached the double doors that closed off that part of the house and touched the doorknob. He pulled back his hand in surprise. He hadn’t felt anything that cold since that winter in Hancock, Maryland when old Stonewall himself held them under siege. He remembered walking the lines and trying to keep his men awake. After that winter, he didn’t think he would ever mind the heat of summer again. The knob was so cold he expected his skin to stick to it, but the knob turned easily and as he pushed it open the sobbing became clearer, almost compelling. Stepping into the pitch-black hallway, he held up the candle trying to shed some light ahead of him, but it seemed that the darkness swallowed it.
Walter Skinner had seen much in his life that sickened him; senseless brutality from ally and foe alike. He remembered the Smith Farm, the house and barn smoldering. Tom Smith hacked to death, his scalp ripped away. The bodies of the two Smith children huddled together in the charred ruins of the barn. They had never found Mrs. Smith. He approached a door that seemed to glow, almost pulsate in the darkness and he remembered the keening of the Sioux women as he rode through their village after Captain Gleason has massacred all of the men, most of them very old or very young, one no older than six. He had tried to bring charges against Gleason and his men, but had instead gotten himself transferred to the arid dessert of the Arizona Territory to fight Apaches.
As he reached for the knob of the glowing door, he felt no fear for himself; that emotion had been burned away in the aftermath of Antietam and Gettysburg. The door opened on it’s own accord and he stepped through the portal.
The cold surrounded him, steeling the light. It froze his heart and drove all the air from his lungs. The sobbing rose to a crescendo and the shriek filled his head. As he fell forward, the bloody apparition’s maw opened wide as if to engulf him.
"General Skinner, General Skinner. Can you hear me?" The soft voice and cool touch of her, followed by the bitter smelling salts cleared his head and he opened his eyes and promptly fell into the intense blue of Mrs. Mulder’s. She was leaning over him, her expression worried, the cool hand gently caressing his stubble. "General Skinner, there now." As he came out of stupor, he became aware of movement behind her, flashes of color and murmurs of concern, but he was loath to tear his eyes from hers.
Suddenly aware of his scrutiny, she pulled her hand back and turned her gaze to someone behind her. "Ah…Major Doggett? He seems to be awake now."
She moved away and a moan escaped Skinner’s lips. She looked back at him for a moment, suspecting that the moan was not one of pain. He noticed the bright red glow on her cheeks and would have pursued her with his eyes, but the white undershirt and open blue field jacket blocked his view.
John Doggett lifted Skinner’s head, bringing the rim of a glass to his lips. The pungent smell of good brandy finished the job of bringing Skinner to his senses. Struggling to sit up Skinner noticed he wasn’t in ‘his’ bedroom. This room’s furnishings were still covered in white sheets. Even the bedding had a heavy, scratchy material on it. "What happened?"
Doggett shrugged. "Jenkins heard the thud from downstairs and came up to investigate."
Shaking the last of the cobwebs from his head Skinner muttered, "I don’t understand. Why am I in here?"
"We found you, sir. Jenkins swore the sound came from right over his head." At Skinner’s confused look, Doggett explained. "Private Jenkins is watching over Senator Spender. The parlor is directly below this room. Sir, why did you come in here?"
Skinner thought for a long time. "I heard something. Someone crying."
Mrs. Mulder’s sharp hiss caught their attention. Doggett sat back on the chair and Skinner could see her pale face in the lamplight. "You heard it too?"
She shook her head violently before whispering. "No. No I’ve never heard it." Turning suddenly, she left the room.
Skinner swung his feet to the floor and growled at Doggett when the Major moved to help him stand. Whatever had caused him to pass out left no aftereffects and Skinner made his way down the hall under his own power. As they approached the corridor to his room he looked around. "Where’s Langley?"
Doggett snorted, "I sent his worthless behind downstairs to stand watch with Fleming."
"Why? He was sleeping in the hallway. I don’t remember trying to wake him. Of course, that man will sleep through the second coming."
"That’s just it, sir. He should have awakened when you opened your door. He has to learn there’s a price to be paid for not having to sleep in a tent."
Skinner entered his room and looked back at his subordinate and friend. "You’re a hard man, John Doggett." He sighed and put his hand on Doggett’s shoulder. "But, I guess you learned from the best."
Closing the door firmly behind him, he walked over to the window and stared down into the shadows. He didn’t remember much except the sobbing and the incredible cold. Even in the clammy warmth of the early morning he could still feel the chill in his soul. Dropping his trousers, he returned to the bed, but this time, he pulled on his underwear and pulled the sheet up. He was almost asleep when he remembered what she said "No. No, I’ve never heard it."