The Lady and the Officer Read online

  Books by Mary Ellis

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  Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota

  Cover photos © Chris Garborg; Volodymyr Miaskovskyj / Bigstock

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE LADY AND THE OFFICER

  Copyright © 2014 by Mary Ellis

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ellis, Mary,

  The lady and the officer / Mary Ellis.

  pages cm – – (Civil War heroines series ; book 2)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5054-1 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5055-8 (eBook)

  1. United States—History—Civil War, 1861-1865—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3626.E36L34 2014

  813'.6—dc23

  2014000544

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my husband, Ken, who stomped around an inordinate number of battlefields, museums, monuments, cemeteries, historical inns, and bed-and-breakfasts for years in the name of research.

  The man also patiently slammed on the brakes at a countless number of roadside historical markers.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  • Thanks to Mary Elizabeth Massey’s book Women in the Civil War, Phoebe Yates Pember’s A Southern Woman’s Story—Life in Confederate Richmond, and Bell Irvin Wiley’s Confederate Women for inspiration for my fictional characters. Thanks also to Harold Elk Straubing’s In Hospital and Camp and Louisa May Alcott’s Hospital Sketches.

  • Thanks to the Virginia Civil War Trails of Richmond and the U.S. Department of the Interior—National Park Service for a plethora of maps and research information, and fabulous vacations.

  • Thanks to the countless authors of history that I have pored over for years, including Shelby Foote, Bruce Catton, Edwin Bearss, James M. McPherson, and Brian Pohanka.

  • Thanks to Philip LeRoy, who loaned me his copy of Killer Angels by Michael Shaara. The Pulitzer Prize-winning novel opened the eyes of this history lover to the wonders of historical fiction.

  • Thanks to Donna Taylor and Peggy Svoboda, who read the rough draft of this novel years ago and encouraged me to keep at it.

  • Thanks to the Western Reserve Historical Society, Cuyahoga Valley Civil War Roundtable and the Peninsula Valley Foundation of Ohio and GAR Hall, whose appreciation for Civil War history has kept my passion alive locally.

  • Thanks to my agent, Mary Sue Seymour; my lovely proofreader, Joycelyn Sullivan; my publicist, Jeane Wynn; my editor, Kim Moore; and the wonderful staff at Harvest House Publishers. Where would I be without your hard work?

  Contents

  Books by Mary Ellis

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  The Quaker and the Rebel

  ONE

  Cashtown, Pennsylvania

  LATE JUNE 1863

  Gentlemen, please take heed to what your horses are doing to my flowers!” Madeline Howard spoke with the indignation that simmered after two long years of war.

  Four blue-clad officers paused in their conversation to gaze down on her wilted ageratums and hollyhocks. The flowers were trampled almost beyond recognition beneath their horses’ hooves. The soldiers offered faint smiles of regret and then resumed their postulating and pointing, affording her as much attention as they would to a gnat.

  Except for one officer, who straightened in his saddle. Tugging gently on his reins, the man guided his mount out of the flower bed toward the road. “Good afternoon, miss. General James Downing, at your service. I apologize for the damage.” He tipped his hat and then turned his attention back to the others.

  “Madeline Howard, General. Mrs. Howard.” She marched down the porch steps. “If you would kindly move your meeting to someone else’s yard, I shall be forever in your debt.”

  A thin, gangly officer mounted on a sorrel mare was quick to retort before the general could reply. “See here, madam. In case you’re unaware, the war has come to the fine Commonwealth of Pennsylvania with the arrival of Robert E. Lee’s infantry. Unfortunately, your posies are of no importance to the Union Army—”

  “I’m well aware of the war, sir. My husband died on the banks of Bull Run Creek, leaving me alone to run this farm.” Madeline settled her hands on her hips with growing indignation. “Those Rebs you’re chasing marched through last week, stripping every ear of corn from my fields and every apple from my orchard. They stole my chickens, killed my hogs, and led my milk cow away on a tether. They took every bit of food from my kitchen and larder. So if I request that you not trample my flowers for no apparent reason, I would think you could oblige me!” Madeline completed her diatribe with a flushed face and sweating palms. After months of privation, she had finally lost her temper.

  Silence reigned for several moments as the officers stared at her in disbelief. Then General Downing addressed the wiry, haughty officer. “Major Henry, you will order the troops to remain within the confines of the road so as to not needlessl
y damage civilian property.” Along the highway, enlisted soldiers trudged in formation toward town, raising a cloud of dust that would linger for days.

  Saluting, the major and the other officers spurred their horses and rode off, leaving Madeline’s garden empty but ruined.

  “Please accept my apologies, madam. And I thank you for your husband’s sacrifice to our country.” General Downing pulled off his leather glove and extended his hand to her.

  “Thank you.” Temporarily flummoxed, Madeline reached up and gave his callused fingers a quick shake.

  “I will do my best to protect your town from further harm.” He held her fingers and gaze far longer than necessary… or proper.

  Tugging her hand free, she retreated backward so quickly she trampled the few remaining blooms missed by the horses. She felt a flush climb her neck as she picked up her skirt and ascended the steps. Pausing in the shelter of her porch, she looked back at the man who still sat watching. He bowed a second time, replaced his glove, and galloped away, adding another cloud of dust to the heavy air.

  Madeline retreated inside and slammed the door, not pleased with her behavior. She wasn’t a woman who normally became flustered in the company of men. Remembering the trampled flowers under her feet, she shook her head. At twenty-six years old and widowed for the last two, she had no time for silly flirtations or coquetry. When her wits returned, Madeline went out to her stable to check the animals. The din of artillery shelling all morning had made her mares skittish. If it hadn’t been for quick thinking last week, her beloved horse stock—Tobias’s pride and joy—would now be in the hands of the enemy. She stroked their sweaty flanks and scratched their noses, trying to calm them with soft words and a gentle touch.

  Her own fears were another matter. Widowhood had inspired a determination to keep her husband’s livelihood flourishing. War had created a constant demand for the horses she had bred and raised from brood mares. Although she would never become wealthy, the bills were paid. Tobias would have been proud of her.

  Tobias. It seemed so long ago when he marched off proudly with the Sixth Pennsylvania Volunteers. He died at a battle the papers were calling First Manassas—first because a second unsuccessful battle was fought at the same loathsome place. He died before she’d grown used to the idea that he was a soldier. Madeline had missed him fiercely during the first year. Now, with the responsibilities of a farm, endless chores filled her hours, allowing no time for grief. She couldn’t remember a day she hadn’t fallen into bed exhausted. Usually, though, a sense of satisfaction accompanied her fatigue, so she persevered.

  The marauding Confederates had taken everything she had, all but her beloved horses. The moment she spotted ragged butternut uniforms on the road, she had hidden her horses in a nearby cave—a place known only to her and the neighborhood children. Today, while her mares munched hay from their bins, Madeline stood in the barn doorway and watched wave after wave of boys in blue march toward the center of Cashtown. The war had come to Pennsylvania soil. What would happen to her sleepy little community?

  JUNE 30

  “Reverend Bennett?” Madeline called the man’s name through an open window because no one had answered her knock on the door. From every indication, her preacher and his wife were both home. Laundry fluttered on the line, the barn door was open, and the back door stood ajar to catch the breeze. As she’d ridden her mare through the town square and down cobblestone streets, she’d seen very few people—nothing like the way things usually were, with friendly neighbors hanging over picket fences or milling on the church steps Sunday mornings. “Reverend Bennett!” This time she hollered his name in an unladylike fashion.

  The middle-aged preacher’s face appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Howard. Come in, come in. Why are you out and about on a day like today?”

  “I hoped to hear something of what is going on. Because it’s been so hot, I rode my mare instead of driving the carriage. I tied Bo to your water trough in the shade. I hope you don’t mind.”

  The reverend lowered himself onto an upholstered chair. “Of course not. Please sit and make yourself comfortable. I was referring to the commotion on the roads, not the heat. With so many soldiers afoot, my wife insists we remain below in the cellar. So you haven’t heard the news?”

  Madeline sat on the edge of the couch and shook her head. “All I know is that I’ve seen troops on both sides moving for several days. First the Rebs stripped my farm, and now our boys in blue are stirring up the dust.”

  “Everyone appears to be headed to Gettysburg. Entire brigades of cavalry have been spotted, along with long caravans of wagons. And all those poor boys marching in this heat.” He fanned himself with a folded newspaper. “Many of my neighbors are scared. They packed up their possessions and left.”

  “Where were they going?” Madeline asked, sounding childish. The fact she had no nearby relatives to offer shelter undermined her confidence in her ability to wait out the war on her farm.

  “North, east—anywhere away from what’s about to happen. But the time to leave is long past. It’s no longer safe to travel. Rabble-rousers follow every army. You must stay with us until this ordeal is over. There most certainly will be a great battle.”

  “No, Reverend. I couldn’t possibly stay. I need to tend Tobias’s horses. If I’m not home, who knows what will happen to them?” She rose to her feet, regretting her decision to ride to town for news.

  “All right, but at least come below and share a bite with Mrs. Bennett. She worries about you alone on your farm.”

  Madeline loved the preacher’s wife like a dear aunt, so she followed him down the rickety steps to the cellar.

  Later, after arriving home safely that evening, she relaxed and rocked serenely on her front porch. Lamplight from the kitchen window illuminated the handiwork of a spider. The thin gossamer strands weren’t organized into a web, but were tiny trapezes strung between porch rails. Madeline stared, mesmerized by the insect’s artistry. As she waited for the spider to reappear, the glittering yellow eyes of some creature peeked from the shrubbery. She felt no fear, only mild curiosity. The opossum issued a high-pitched squeak and then crept off toward home.

  Heat lightning danced and shimmered over dark hills. The faint report of gunfire miles away was soon drowned out by peepers and cicadas. The frog-and-insect summer symphony soothed Madeline’s nerves with its familiarity. The war, although close at hand, was far from her mind that night. Her thoughts drifted to a tall Union officer with silver glints in his hair and sparkling white teeth beneath a black mustache. Strength and power seemed to emanate from him. For the life of her, Madeline couldn’t remember why the situation in the garden had so vexed her. They were silly flowers. She had lost much more just days ago. She’d lost her entire world a mere two years ago. For the first time, Tobias’s face was replaced by that of another man. General Downing was on her mind as she replayed their conversation over and over.

  “Foolish woman,” she muttered. Rising to her feet, she peered up at a sky studded with bright stars. The moon had already finished its nightly path when she climbed the stairs to her room. She undressed without lighting a lamp, donned her long cotton gown, and slipped beneath cool sheets. Forcing away thoughts of the general, she quickly fell asleep and slumbered fitfully… until the scrape of a rusty latch roused her senses.

  With her heart pounding in her chest, Madeline bolted upright. The sound of a whinny lifted the tiny hairs on her neck. Someone was in her horse barn! She ran to the window and drew back gauzy curtains. Peering into the darkness, she could see nothing until the moon broke free from the clouds. Speechless, she watched as her prize-winning mares and new colts were led from the barn by several men.

  What should I do? Grab Tobias’s squirrel rifle from above the fireplace? Race outside and open fire on those who would pillage in the dead of night? Clad in my nightgown?

  Instead, she did nothing. This time the thieves weren’t the same marauding enemy who had stolen her chickens a
nd milk cow. The men riding away with her beloved horse stock tethered to their mounts wore the blue uniforms and gold emblems of the U.S. Cavalry.

  JULY 1

  The next morning dawned hot and hazy, with acrid smoke hanging heavily in the air. Soldiers in every shade of blue, from the recently conscripted recruits to sage veterans, marched in both directions on the road. Horses pulled limbers of artillery and caches of ammunition, while farm wagons hauled food to a hungry army. White Conestoga wagons with red painted crosses carried the wounded from an early skirmish or boxes of medical supplies. Young couriers galloped down Taneytown Road at breakneck speed, perhaps with vital dispatches.

  In the hectic fervor, few soldiers took notice of a woman heading toward town on the side of the road. Walking in ninety-degree heat through clouds of dust didn’t put Madeline in the best of moods. She arrived at the parsonage on Hemlock Street three hours later perspiring and thirsty. No one answered her knock until she finally pounded relentlessly on the door.

  “Mrs. Howard!” said an astonished Reverend Bennett. “What brings you back so soon? I told you to stay indoors today—”

  “May I come in, sir? And perhaps trouble you for a glass of water?” Madeline leaned wearily against the door frame.

  “Forgive me, my dear. Come in. Rest in the parlor while I get you something to drink.”

  Madeline slumped onto a dainty embroidered chair and closed her eyes. The minister returned a few minutes later with a glass, a pitcher of chilled well water, and a plate of gingerbread cookies.

  “Thank you.” She filled the glass, drank it down, and refilled it. “This isn’t a social call. If I may, I would like to borrow one of your horses. I have urgent business in Gettysburg.” She pressed the glass to her forehead.

  “Of course you may. But why not ride one of your fine Morgans?” Reverend Bennett asked, pushing the plate of cookies a bit closer to her.

  “They were stolen. That is my business down the road.”