Surrender the Wind (29 page)

She eased out of the chair. The floor groaned beneath her feet as she moved toward him. There was a knife on the nightstand. His muscles tensed. Would she stab him? He probed the darkness, his hand moved to the hilt.

Slowly, painstakingly, she lowered herself to the bed. He remained silent, did not move while she pulled the sheet up to her neck and exhaled. Their bodies did not touch. Her scent and heat entwined him.

He tucked the knife under the mattress…just to be safe. “I thought you’d see reason. Now go to sleep.”

Her body went rigid, and then she flounced on her side, her back to him. He waited until she was asleep. Her breathing was soothing, and as he lay, feeling her there in the soft, cozy bed, he drifted off to a warm dreamless slumber.

Several days passed and then another. Catherine barely noticed. Her days had become a precedent of work and sleep. The war had tainted her husband and there was no way out of this mess. No proof of her innocence…no evidence…nothing to exonerate her. Her heart ached, as if torn in two.

From the first day when she awoke to find John gone, she discovered her full-time guard, Danny Boy, with an armload of mending to do. Other jobs were assigned, from helping Brigid in the kitchen to hospital work, to serving John’s meals. Each morning, she dressed in one of Mrs. Briggs gowns, and brushed her hair into a neat chignon, only to have it fall in disarray by noontime from lack of pins. Why should she bother to look properly groomed? Instead she let it swirl about her shoulders as she worked, concentrating on completing the day’s labor before dusk, so that she could return to the tent and go to sleep.

Accustomed to the rigors of the day, she was no longer as exhausted as she had been at first, lending more time to writing letters for the men. Far away were the glittering ballrooms of New York and so distant the accompaniments of wealth that afforded her every leisure. With irony, she found the grueling routine satisfying, preferring the distraction, relative to spending it with her husband. So far he had not touched her, treating her with icy civility, giving her orders and going about his soldier business without so much as a glance in her direction. Catherine, in turn, did as she was told, whether fetching his meal or darning his socks, biding her time in hopes of escape. A mountain of rock had emerged between them, and as far as she was concerned, that suited her just fine. The less she had to do with her husband, the better.

Danny Boy on the other hand was another matter. He was a tall, strapping boy of eighteen years with an infectious grin, a thick crop of blond curly hair, and mischievous blue eyes. From the Old Country, he held an Irish lilt, was outgoing, exhibiting an uplifting zeal for life—unlike the staid harshness of her husband. He was a hard worker and cautioned her not to overdo. He carried the heavier loads for her, insisting she take time to rest. How could she not be charmed by his fresh appeal?

Catherine had developed a fond attachment to Danny Boy, grateful for his companionship. He made her laugh at the simplest of things and entertained her as if they were experiencing the gaiety of any formal party, indulging her with his comic illustrations and wit. Working side by side with him, a warm and wonderful friendship grew.

One bright and blustery day, Catherine laughed aloud at one of Danny Boy’s hilarious stories and caught John staring at her.

“Danny Boy, fetch another pile of mending for Mrs. Rourke. She has too much free time on her hands.”

When Danny returned, he spat. “Other commander’s wives live quite well in the camps—in contrast to the servitude the general puts upon you. I do not care for it, not one bit, and someday I am aiming to tell the general to his face.”

“Do as you are commanded and remain silent.” She advised Danny Boy. Why should Danny suffer repercussions by championing her cause?

For her laughter, Catherine was rewarded with a pile of hopeless mending. Prior to her camp experience, her sewing had been confined to an embroidery hoop. The bottomless pants were beyond the miracle of a needle. Did she dare throw them into the nearest campfire? She glared after John, boring holes into his back. Oh, if she were a man, she’d snap his arrogant neck. Yet the same man who showed her such harshness was compassionate to his men.

“Danny Boy, would you be so kind and fetch me the red satin dress in my tent?” she asked sweetly. Ideas spun, and at once, she decided to use her embroidery talents in repairing the men’s breeches. The satin dress was the one John had ruined and so, she cut with her scissors perfect hearts and stitched them on the bottoms. Not content with just hearts, she added butterflies, flowers, kittens, and a myriad of other frivolous items. She even held the finished product up for Danny Boy’s perusal, earning a broad smile for her creative efforts and admiration of her bold rebellion. He did caution her on the larger pants, belonging to Samuel, speculating what calamity might become of her inventiveness.

When she had finished her task, Danny Boy suggested they take a walk…, the long way…before they began their work at the hospital. Since it was a warm sunny day, and she was still feeling mutinous, Catherine was more than willing to oblige. Soldiers passed the time with a cockfight. Two multi-colored game birds, one named Grant and the other Lee circled one another, baring their vicious talons while the men cheered them on.

Soon they came upon Brigid working in the kitchen in a terrible tempest from the lack of supplies. Brigid complained she didn’t care for the way the general was treating Catherine and as soon as she laid eyes on him would bring her complaints again. Then she kicked the cook awake, which he answered in a dreadful howl, and then ordered him to finish scrubbing the pots. The cook fell to order wearing a look of formidable concentration as if scrubbing pots required all the strategy in the world and every whit of his attention.

“They are the dirtiest, rag tag group I have ever seen, but they have a bit of dash that the northern men lack.” Brigid winked at Catherine, and then noticing something wrong, she pulled her mistress to the back of the cook shed.

“You seem very happy with your marriage,” Catherine said to ward off any questions Brigid might pose.

“I am very happy with Ian.” Brigid told her and brightened as any newlywed bride in love with her spouse. Brigid was willing to ride out any storm, any unpredictable future, to endure any hardships.

Catherine was envious of that love, a love so simple, so sincere, and without the complexities that life would throw its way. The war created hurtful divisions. She and John’s relationship, a casualty, and any kind of happiness remained precluded by an awful and complex schism.

“The general does love you,” Brigid told her, pinning laundry on the line to dry. Nothing escaped Brigid’s notice.

“I talked to him at length, told him he was dead wrong about you. He’s a brute for now, but I see how his eyes follow you when you are unaware. I see how he comes to attention when the men sing your praises. Oh, it isn’t much of a movement, but I see it. I hear him ask Ian from time to time of your whereabouts. Is this the behavior of a man who does not care? Men have different ways of reacting to things than women do. Your general is a great man with many responsibilities on his head. His reactions will be even stronger. Weather it for now. The future will be bright, of this, I am sure.”

Catherine sagged against a tree. “Deep down, I know he believes me. I feel it in my bones. But something else is bothering him that keeps him from wanting any attachment, and I believe it stems from the betrayal of his first wife. Somehow, I’m woven into that same fabric. He cannot be vulnerable again.”

Brigid snapped damp pants into the air, then took two clothespins from her mouth and anchored the garment on the line. “Men are curious creatures. When he figures it all out, he’ll be on his knees, begging your forgiveness.”

Catherine rubbed the heel of her palm against her chest. “I suppose I could tell you that I am unhappy, but that is not true. I feel useful and have a sense of home and place here. Sometimes it breaks my heart to write the men’s letters of loneliness to their loved ones, knowing not what their future will bring, but at the same time, I find it fulfilling for it is a communication that they would not have. I enjoy taking care of the sick in the hospital, and look upon it as a privilege, but wish there would be no more suffering caused by this horrible war. The divisions have become blurred for me, Brigid. I can no longer tell the difference between Yankees and Rebels. They are all flesh and blood men, coming from mothers and fathers, they have sisters, brothers, wives and sweethearts.”

“And when this war is over, they all will be reunited again. We must have this faith.” Brigid flashed Catherine a smile then glanced around the cook shed. “Now, I have a wayward cook to keep after. He is the laziest human this side of Ireland.”

The cook was sneaking away when Brigid put her foot upon him again. Catherine laughed and picked up a pair of long-john’s to pin on the line. Through the divide of two large oaks, Rourke stood surrounded by his men.

“Here’s Ben,” greeted the men.

“What took you so long?” Her husband scowled. “Anything to report?”

“I walked a hundred miles, Sir, not for the exercise but on account my horse was shot out from under me by some Yanks.”

“Couldn’t you have stolen a horse?” asked Lieutenant Johnson.

“That’s breaking the seventh commandment. However, I did entertain borrowing a horse. But the matron of the house was loathing parting with it and me, seein’ how comfortable her musket was in her arms, like nursing a newborn babe, I felt right poorly on separating her from her horse.”

“I see,” said John, smiling around his cigar.

“There’s a lot more to tell. I skedaddled on account I hear General Grant wasn’t fooled by General Early’s raid and he means to make the Confederate’s acquaintance with General Sheridan’s Cavalry riding down the Shenandoah real soon. Reinforced to close to ten thousand strong. So I say to myself, better hurry on up, so I can tell the general and be ready to show those Yank boys some real Southern hospitality.”

John rested his booted foot on a stump. “If we are met, we will fight back with due haste, giving them a taste of our generosity.”

Hidden behind a sheet, she peered over the line. It was well done. His men raised a cheer. His doggedness, calm, tranquility, a Caesar-like steadiness, would encourage his men to fight on. He was their commander, like a champion of some ancient lineage at the head of his legions.

A roughened cavalry unit galloped into the camp, leading twenty well-stocked wagons. The dirt kicked up from the horses’ hooves spraying a thick yellow veil of dust around the camp. There must have been sixty soldiers, dark bearded, menacing, yet filled with laughter.

“General Rourke!” The dark haired leader spoke without dismounting. “I have some well needed supplies and ammunition, courtesy of our northern brethren.”

“My compliments to you Colonel Mosby. You timing is impeccable,” John said.

Brigid pressed forward into the crowd of men and contraband.

“Woman, don’t chastise me for stealing,” John warned. “I’ve got what you want.”

Brigid lifted her stubborn Irish chin, meeting John’s gaze without a blink. “What took you so long?”

John turned to Colonel Mosby, unruffled by Brigid’s impertinence, to which he was accustomed. “If I put that frightful female at the border it’d scare away all of the Union Army. But I do have to admit, she’s one hell of a cook.”

“That’s if I can be stocked with good supplies instead of the rubbish you throw my way.” Brigid set in, her hands fisted on her hips.

“As you see, Colonel, Brigid and I never disagree.”

“Is an elephant disturbed by a cricket? She demanded over her shoulder then ordered soldiers to help her unload foodstuffs from the wagons.

“Quite unusual.” Colonel Mosby nodded his head in direction of the insolent woman.

“Be careful what you say,” John cautioned. “I would not desire to offend Ian for she is his new bride.”

“I hesitate,” said Mosby, “whether to offer Ian my congratulations or my condolences.”

John threw back his head and roared with laughter, and then the former cook came forward, turning round like a trout circling its bait. “What is it you want?” John barked out.

“You misunderstand me, General, please, speaking serious, first it may seem kind of different to you but you will see it is a tad unusual.”

“I’m not in the humor for your jokes. So have a care what you say,” John demanded.

“It’s just that I’m not particular to having holes in my britches but having butterflies…well that makes me feel as I might swoon over in a faint.” The cook turned around and showed two dazzling red satin butterflies, embroidered on his breech bottoms.

Samuel elbowed his way through the crowd and turned his giant backside for all to see. “Hearts! Can you imagine the look on the Yank’s faces when they see red hearts?”

Mosby and his men rocked with hilarity.

John was in a different humor. With certainty, he
identified
the defiant intentions of the artist.

“Catherine!”

Squirrels and birds scattered from the safety of their nests to the treetops. She tried to back away without being seen, but he knew exactly where she had been all the time, his eyes burning a hole through the sheet. Squaring her shoulders, Catherine walked around the laundry and forward into the crowd of men with the regal dignity of a queen before her subjects.

“Did you wish to speak with me, General Rourke?” she inquired with captivating sweetness, knowing the full reason for the murderous rage crossing her husband’s face.

He pointed to the derrieres of his men and Catherine stifled a giggle for truly her artwork was—incomparable.

“Could you explain the reason for this?”

“Well I didn’t have anything to patch them with.” Catherine protested, attempting to lull him with her innocence. “With the terrible shortages and all, I was forced to use what resources were at my disposal.”

“You will overhaul every pair of pants. I assure you we will have a discussion later.”