Child of the River Read online

  A new lumberyard was under construction on the site of Barnes Mercantile Store. He needed to tell the manager, Wiley O’Malley, that his employer and future son-in-law, Lawrence Barnes, was killed in the war. A sudden blast of dynamite down by the river reminded him of the canon fire in the battle on Lookout Mountain. Bertha’s cold taunting words kept echoing in his brain as he stumbled on down the street trying to find somebody to make sense of the nightmare.

  Not having spent much time in the town of Vicksburg per se for several years before the war, there were few people he recognized. The ones he knew just didn’t know about his mother or Molly. He had entered boarding school in Connecticut as a youngster and spent only the summers at Larkspur Plantation. He was a Harvard law student before the Civil War started. He dropped out of college in February 1861 to join the Confederacy only one day after Mississippi seceded from the Union.

  Inside Macy’s Tavern, Benjamin heard piano music for the first time since joining the service. It was around noon and the barroom was already a beehive of activity and laughter. Pretty girls from the upstairs parlor joked and danced with Union soldiers and carpetbaggers. A game of hazard was going on in one corner and a poker game in another. Three former slaves were bellied up to the bar. Benjamin dropped his frazzled knapsack next to the wall and stood at the far end of the bar from the black men. His brooding, deep blue eyes showed disapproval. He scanned the room for a familiar face. He noticed a couple of men in crumpled gray uniforms. Nobody he knew. Then he spotted Tom Macy, the proprietor, chewing on an unlit cigar near the podium where a pretty young girl was singing. A sandy-haired Yankee sergeant with dirty yellow teeth leaned against a post, leering at the girl. For the second time that day, Benjamin felt like striking somebody. The singer appeared vaguely familiar but he couldn’t fit a name to the face.

  The aroma of sweet-smelling perfume that had always reminded him of lilacs in springtime caused Benjamin to turn around. He knew even before he turned that it was Holly. The pretty raven-haired woman, a good five years his senior, hugged him warmly. “Oh, Benjamin!” she exclaimed. “I’m so…so glad to see you made it through the war!”

  “Your pretty face is a welcome sight,” he told her quietly. Glad to at last hear a familiar friendly voice.

  Holly Randolph was a comfortable, caring woman who didn’t expect more from her patrons than the usual fee but was certainly willing to accept tips. Benjamin was special to her. His father brought the lad for her to teach the facts of life when he was seventeen. That was almost ten years ago but she never forgot having to tell him to spit out his chewing gum that first time. The woman enjoyed her chosen profession and had no illusions of ever settling down with one man, any one man. Her career had its rewards. She had beautiful clothes, jewels, furs, and expensive perfume from Paris. She was able to send money home to Alabama. Her name, of course, was a pseudonym to protect her real identity.

  Benjamin gave a sweeping glance at the host of Yankee soldiers in the tavern. “Tom’s not too choosy as to the clientele,” he muttered in a voice tinged with sarcasm.

  Pouring him a shot of whiskey on the house, Holly sipped from a glass of lemonade. “We lost so many, Benjamin. So many people I’m sure you knew. Only a few made it back from the war. There’s not a family in Vicksburg that hasn’t been touched by death.”

  The man gulped the liquor eagerly. The haunting, deep blue eyes she’d come to know so well were suffering, and it melted her soul. “I’m sorry about your mother,” she murmured, pitying him in his silent, wordless grief.

  “When?”

  “Last winter just before Christmas.”

  He spoke in a thick, tortured voice. “Where’s Molly? A new doctor took over Doc’s old office, and their home is burned to the ground.”

  “Sugar, you know the hoity-toity Miss Allison and I don’t run in the same circles.”

  He refused her offer to bring food. “Couldn’t keep it down. My stomach is doing flip-flops.” The woman hugged him around the shoulders as she returned a smile to a bald-headed man in a business suit who beckoned with a fistful of dollar bills.

  “Gotta go to work,” she told him. Her red taffeta skirt swished as she walked to meet the man at the foot of the stairs.

  Benjamin motioned to a tousled-headed fellow wearing a Confederate uniform. “See you made it back in one piece, too.” he said as they shook hands.

  “Not exactly,” Nathan Smythe replied, taking a chair. “Caught a bullet in the shoulder on Kennesaw Mountain. That bullet hurt but not as bad as comin’ home to this.”

  Benjamin nodded. “Little white orphans begging in the streets. Impudent freed slaves strutting around like they own the town. My mother died while I was gone, Nathan. Can’t find Molly. The whole world is….”

  “I haven’t seen her. Just got back a couple o’ weeks ago.” Smythe lowered his voice to a whisper. “White men have joined together secretly to fight this thing…the Order of the White Rose. We meet…?”

  “Just tell me where and when.”

  “Those Blue Bellies an’ carpetbaggers are incitin’ the damn niggers. Puttin’ ’em up to all kind o’ meanness. Even got ‘em tryin’ to court our womenfolk.”

  “Bastards!” Benjamin gritted his teeth. “Somebody ought to….”

  “Maybe we do.” Smythe winked knowingly and rose to leave.

  “Wait. Who is that singer? She looks vaguely familiar.”

  “Dayme Jo O’Malley. Her pa used to run Barnes Mercantile Store. It burned down…him with it, I’m told.” The man grinned. “Changed a bit, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What on earth is she doing here? She’s betrothed to Lawrence Barnes…or was. He was killed on Lookout Mountain.”

  “Maybe she got tired o’ waitin’.”

  Benjamin’s eyebrows knitted. “Oh Lord,” he muttered. “Methinks perhaps I arrived too late.”

  Dayme wore a green satin dress that plunged low, revealing soft cleavage of full young breasts. Her long ochre colored hair was piled high on one side with long, shimmering curls draped across a bare shoulder. A fluffy white stole was flung loosely around her neck. After the song, she blew kisses to the men amid a burst of applause and shouts of “more!” A dainty slip of a girl, there was a devilish twinkle in her emerald green eyes as she prissed from the podium, seemingly enjoying the attention and whistles. Benjamin met her at the foot of the stairway with hat in hand. “Miss O’Malley?”

  “Yes?” She stared in bewilderment with a “am I supposed to know you?” expression. Recognition finally flashed across her face. “Benjamin Farrington? I almost didn’t recognize you with that beard.” The girl had been smitten with the handsome young man from Larkspur Plantation since she could remember. “Thank God, you’re alive,” she murmured. Then quickly she added, “My brothers weren’t so lucky. Don’t know about Morgan. He hasn’t come home yet. I pray for him every night.”

  He kissed her slim white hand and gazed down at her, hoping his voice didn’t betray his feelings. “It’s been a long time,” he told her quietly.

  Leading the girl to the table where they could talk with some measure of privacy, he told her about Lawrence Barnes’ death on Lookout Mountain. “He shoved me down and took the bullet meant for me,” he said thickly, looking at his hands as if to see warm blood there. “We lost literally thousands at Chattanooga. Our battalion was on Lookout Mountain. We were in control. Had the Yankee supply line blocked. Thought it was just a matter of time until they surrendered. Then just before daybreak all hell broke loose. Gen. Grant came storming in with fifteen thousand men. Most of our outfit were killed, wounded or captured. “We carried Lawrence into a cave where he died in my arms. Five of us hid in that cave eluding capture for almost a week without food. On the third night it rained, and we managed to catch rainwater in our hats. After we buried Lawrence, we split into pairs and slipped through enemy lines. My aide and I walked about thirty-five miles before we reached Confederate lines. I don’t know if the other two made it or not.” H
e studied the girl’s face and noted there were no tears. “The last word he uttered was your name. I promised to take care of you.”

  Then and there, Dayme vowed never to reveal her true feelings concerning Barnes…how her flesh crawled each time he touched her. She was nearly twelve when her father promised her to Barnes. It certainly wasn’t her idea. She told her father that she couldn’t stand the man, but he insisted it would be best for all concerned. She pleaded, “All our children will look like white rats! Mr. Barnes is so pale…albino looking, thin shouldered and old. Looks like a consumptive praying mantis. He’s more than twice my age.” Mr. O’Malley wouldn’t listen. The deal was made and sealed with a pay raise for her father. The day after her father died she knew she would never marry the man. “It was God’s will,” she finally murmured. “God has his reasons for sparing you and taking him.”

  The girl told him about the horrors of the forty-seven days and nights of constant bombardment. About the fires and the horrible chaos that ensued. “People runnin’ and screamin’. Once the Yankees got past the big guns on the bluff….” She shrugged, “It was a hell of an Independence Day. Yankee soldiers swarmed in like bees takin’ everything in sight. They confiscated all the food they could find and left people to starve. The freed slaves went on a rampage. They’re so brazen they come right up to women on the street and ask for it.”

  Benjamin was appalled that Dayme was so frank to a person of another gender, but he said nothing.

  “A former slave is runnin’ for sheriff.”

  Benjamin snorted. “Who’ll vote for him?”

  “Them damn carpetbaggers, that’s who. Rubbin’ our noses in shigger nit.”

  A look of utter disgust at the young lady’s choice of words flashed across Benjamin’s face. His eyebrows furrowed and his probing eyes burned into hers, causing a pink flush to creep over her cheeks. It made her feel cheap. “I…I didn’t mean…It’s not what you…. I’m not one of the regular girls,” she said in almost a whisper.

  “Really?” Benjamin said sarcastically. “Do you live in the brothel?”

  “Uh…well, yes but…but Mr. Macy sort o’ took me under his wing when Papa died. You know, like a daughter. He even hired a tutor to help me with my studies…and…and he made Carl give me piano lessons.”

  Benjamin was not the least impressed with her story. He didn’t for a minute believe her but he didn’t let on. One thing he knew. Lawrence Barnes’ fiancee had no business living in this kind of environment, picking up bad language and ruining her reputation beyond repair.

  Sitting there talking to the man of her dreams, Dayme suddenly felt like the little girl in the mercantile store who climbed into the store window to watch the Farrington’s fancy carriage out of sight every time he and his mother came to shop. She looked at him with a special softness in her eyes. “Did you know that Papa and Mr. Barnes made some kind of deal and arranged our betrothal?” she murmured. “I didn’t have anything to do with it. They….”

  “Of course,” he snapped. “Arranged marriages are frequently the best kind.” The pent-up anger that surged beneath the surface of his soul cried out to be heard. He tried to contain it but cruel words just tumbled out. His voice was crisp and accusing. “It would have broken Lawrence’s heart to find you here in a brothel! No self-respecting woman would set foot in a tavern, let alone one with a brothel! How could….”

  “What right have you to judge me?” the girl retorted angrily as she rose to leave. “Rich people like you don’t know what poverty is! The goose that filled my feather bed was just a plain old goose. Didn’t lay no golden egg!”

  “His sisters,” Benjamin insisted. “Sue Beth and Mary Ellen. Surely, they would have taken you in.”

  “They didn’t offer and I didn’t ask,” she snapped. “They’re snobs! Both of them. They don’t like me because I ain’t upper-crust and I don’t like them that much. For your information, I’m here because I had no place else to go. People gotta eat, you know. These people have hearts. Mr. Macy’s been like a father to me. The girls gave me dresses and shoes. They are my friends, real friends. Ain’t nothin’ they wouldn’t do for me. You may not approve, Mister, but it’s a heap better’n scrubbin’ Yankee floors!” She flipped the curls over her shoulder and lifted her chin defiantly as she turned to leave.

  Benjamin followed her to the foot of the staircase. “Wait,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. May we talk? Outside?” He was frantic to mend fences so he could keep his pledge to Lawrence.

  “Not until I sing again,” she replied icily. “Excuse me. I have to change.”

  It took some convincing to get Dayme to talk again openly without being so cautious and defensive. He asked about Molly, and she told him that Molly and her mother left Vicksburg early in the war, shortly after Doc Allison died in his buggy. She assumed they went up north because Mrs. Allison had roots there. She had no idea where.

  He inquired about her brothers, Cole and Arvel, who died in the war and about their mutual friend, Morgan Edwards.

  “Oh, Lord,” Dayme muttered, shaking her pretty head. “I don’t know about Morgan. I saw his mother the other day and spoke to her, but she walked right past with her nose in the air as though I wasn’t even there. I’m not a bad girl, but she seems to think so. I don’t know why.”

  Benjamin ignored her last remark. In his opinion, living in a brothel for more than two years tends to soil one’s reputation. He let it pass, not wanting to anger her further. “Morgan was always smitten with you, Dayme Jo. He worships the ground you walk on. Did you know that? He was devastated when your engagement to Lawrence was announced. He….”

  He wasn’t the only one. I was, too, she thought. “Everybody loves Morgan,” she murmured. “No. You’re wrong. We’re just friends. He’s my fishin’ partner and my pal. Morgan is the best friend I ever had. I love him dearly.” A flush crept across her cheeks. “But not…not like that. He’s my buddy. I don’t know where he was fightin’. His name ain’t on no casualty list. It’s the only hope I have.”

  Her tutor has done little to improve her communication skills, Benjamin mused. She uses so many double negatives. He chuckled, recalling an incident in childhood. “That rascal would challenge the devil himself to a duel. Wherever he is, my bet in on Morgan. I’d hate to be the Yankee in his sights. I remember one time his father put Morgan on a two-year old steer when we were lads. It had a rope saddle. I guess he was about seven at the time, and I was nine. That steer kept throwing him to the ground, but Morgan just gritted his teeth and climbed back up. Mrs. Edwards screamed to old Corey that the boy would be hurt, but Corey said it would make a man out of him. The fifth time that steer threw Morgan, a green hoof print appeared on his shirttail, and Corey called a halt to it. Morgan cried like a baby …embarrassed he couldn’t ride that steer like a horse.”

  Dayme wasn’t nearly so defensive now. She laughed. It felt good reminiscing about Morgan. “Don’t give up easy,” she agreed. “Not my Morgan. He’s a fighter, that’s for sure.”

  She hesitated when Benjamin asked her to go to Larkspur Plantation with him. In her dreams, he was supposed to sweep her off her feet, not take care of her as an obligation to a departed friend. She shook her pretty head. “No. I don’t want to burden you. You have enough problems, losing your mama and all. I’ll be fine here at Macy’s.”

  “There were mitigating circumstances during the war. It’s over now. You don’t belong in a saloon,” he told her.

  “Then you don’t either,” she retorted, her eyes blazing. “I’ve as much right in there as you.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he replied. “I’m a man, and you are supposed to be a lady’.”

  “What’s that got to do with it? Oh, yeah, I know, the same old double-standard. Men are better than women, right?”

  Benjamin didn’t want to argue the point. “You must come with me,” he insisted. “I know your father wanted you to be a fine lady. So did Lawrence. A fine lady you shall be
if you go with me to Larkspur.”

  Dayme giggled. “Fine and idle ladies don’t exist in Vicksburg anymore. They plow, they scrub….”

  Benjamin shook his head firmly. “Not at Larkspur they don’t, not at Larkspur.”

  The couple crossed the railroad track, walking northeast through Walnut Hills. The rutted terrain was steep and hilly, naturally terraced with loess bluffs. The verdant forest was lush with wild grape and honeysuckle vines. Thorny briars interwove the trees making the trail difficult for walking. There were tall towering magnolia trees, sycamores, cottonwoods, honey locusts, pines, hickories and oaks. A few cedars were sprinkled here and there and, of course, numerous walnut trees. Near the streams pecan, hazelnut and weeping willow trees were also plentiful.

  Dayme pointed out the dugout caves in the bluffs, explaining the plight of the people there. The trek through the countryside was especially difficult for the girl. Her shoes were not made for hiking. She didn’t complain as they trudged through the well-worn but overgrown trail. Her dress was torn and snagged by brush and briars. The mosquitoes were just awful and blood oozed from scratches on her delicate white arms.

  “Don’t move, honey,” Benjamin told her gently when she became hopelessly entangled in the briars. Gingerly, he pulled away the thorny plant embedded in her long satin dress. He led her to higher ground to bypass some of the briars.

  “Those awful graves we passed. All covered with briars. As if Mother Nature was trying to hide the shame of it. Did you ever see so many graves?”

  “All over the South,” Benjamin replied wearily.

  Chapter 2

  Battle scars were evident all along the journey to Larkspur Plantation—broken, abandoned army wagons, cannons, canteens, other army gear, guns, bayonets, broken tree limbs. All told the mute story of General Grant’s march from Jackson.