Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton
Old times there are not forgotten
Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.
In Dixie Land where I was born in
Early on one frosty mornin’
Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.
Oh, I wish I was in Dixie!
Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand
To live and die in Dixie
Away, away, away down south in Dixie!
Vicksburg, Mississippi—May 22, 1863
The day was several hot, stifling hours old when the young, gray-clad captain of infantry once again peeked carefully over the ramparts of his position into the morning sun, telescope in hand. He saw nothing, but he was not deceived. Since the initial assault upon their location three days ago, the enemy had tirelessly moved men and materiel into position for another attack. The sounds of horses and cannon wheels had been constant since before daybreak. The heavily wooded hilly terrain was not only perfect for defense but also for hiding the maneuvers of their attacker.
“Them Yankee boys are gettin’ ready to come a’visitin’ again, Cap’n?” a voice whispered into his ear.
William Darcy, captain in the Texas Legion, Confederate States Army, turned his bright blue eyes to his sergeant beside him and wiped a dirty hand across his beard-covered chin before answering. “My compliments to the colonel, and report that the enemy is moving forward.”
No sooner had the man offered the barest of salutes and moved away from the front lines than the woods opposite exploded with noise. Darcy’s screams of warning were unnecessary as men ducked from the incoming cannon fire. Darcy lay at the bottom of the trench like the others, keeping his head as low as possible. On an impulse, the twenty-year-old officer pulled out the pocket watch his father had given him for his birthday two years before.
Ten o’clock exactly.
The cannonballs began to fall behind the lines towards Vicksburg itself. Darcy knew what that was about even before the cries of the enemy reached his ears. He pulled out his sword and stood in a low crouch.
“To the line, boys, to the line! The enemy is upon us! Give ’em hell!”
The bedraggled Texans, in various uniforms of Confederate gray, rushed to the ramparts, muskets in hand, screaming the Rebel Yell that had terrified more than one Union solider since Bull Run. Just in time, too, as the first of the men in blue were mere yards away. Darcy’s view of the attackers disappeared behind a cloud of smoke as the muskets fired in a volley. The smoke cleared to show a score of figures in dirty blue scattered on the bare ground before the earthworks, but there were a hundred more advancing. The first line of defenders fell back to reload as the second line took their places.
“Fire at will!” Darcy yelled as he drew his Colt revolver. “Fire at will!”
Time lost all meaning as Darcy fired into the advancing horde again and again. The Texans knew that their position, straddling a rail line, was a key point in the defense of Vicksburg, and they fought desperately against the Union soldiers, who were just as desperate to take it. The din was deafening as gunfire, explosions, and screams blended into an unearthly sound.
Darcy had ducked down to reload his pistol for the third time when he noted that the noise had abated a bit. Creeping up, he saw through the smoke and haze that the Yankees were pulling back in good order. He ordered his men to cease firing and conserve their precious ammunition as he glanced at his watch again.
Ten fifteen.
Darcy and his company had been relieved about midday as fresh troops took up their position in the lunette[1]. They were resting as well as they could, with the occasional cannonball falling throughout the afternoon, when they were approached by a group of officers on horseback. The commander of the legion, Colonel Waul, spoke to them.
“Men, we’ve got some Yankees that have broken through at the redoubt. They’re a stubborn bunch, an’ I need some volunteers to help clear the vermin out. Are you with me?”
Darcy looked at his men. “Sir, how many do you need?”
“A score will do, Captain. We muster down the lane here.” With that, the party rode off. Darcy rose to his feet and looked around. A good two dozen men volunteered, and soon the detail moved off to the rendezvous point. They joined up with others and the plan was formed. By late afternoon, the force moved into position near the railroad redoubt.
Darcy could see men in blue hiding in the trenches or behind shelter. He knew this assault would be costly.
A shout went up, and the Texans charged. Darcy ran before his men, the Colt in his right hand and a sword in his left. The men to either side fired their muskets on the run and continued the charge, bayonets gleaming in the afternoon light. The enemy returned fire from their positions, but even as men fell around him, Darcy knew it was too little, too late. They were almost upon them. The Union soldiers began to fall back in some disorder. Darcy bared his teeth as he smelled the impending victory…
There was a mighty explosion, and Darcy experienced a feeling of flying before the world crashed into his face.
Will Darcy knew nothing, except that he hurt. Hurt all over. Hurt bad.
After a while, he was able to discern something besides the ever-present pain: a low murmuring in the background of his darkness. It took a moment before he realized that it was the sound of men groaning and crying. Darcy opened his eyes to behold a dark, uneven ceiling, lit by the light of lanterns.
He suddenly realized that he could only see out of one eye. In a panic, he raised a hand to his face and tried to sit up. A wave of agony crashed into him, and he could not prevent crying out as he fell back.
Darcy heard voices close by. “Doc—Doc—this one’s wakin’ up.” A moment later a face came into his limited field of vision.
“Captain, how are you feeling?”
Like I’m about to die! his mind screamed. He peered closely at the man. About Darcy’s own age, the young man had a broad, flushed face and light-colored hair. It was a face that usually would be happy, he considered. That it wasn’t was a cause for concern.
“H… hurt,” was all Darcy could manage.
“I should think you do,” the unknown man said in a soft Georgia accent with a hint of a smile. The break in the man’s serious mien was comforting.
Darcy waved a hand before his face. “E… eye?”
“Rest easy,” the man said. “Your eyes are undamaged. You have a serious injury to your forehead, and the bandage must cover one eye. You’re in a hospital, Captain, in a cave to protect y’all from the incoming artillery… Don’t sit up!” he cried as Darcy moved. “Do you want to lose that leg?”
His patient lay still in fear.
The man grew grim. “Good thing you were insensible when your men brought you in. I had to do a bit of digging to get all the shrapnel out. You’ve lost quite a bit of blood, Captain. We must keep your leg still and clean, or the gangrene may set in. Do you understand?”
Darcy managed a nod, which only hurt like blazes. He determined he was speaking to a surgeon, as he could now make out the dried blood all over the man’s apron.
“Good,” the doctor grinned in return. “I must see to my other patients, but I shall stop by later. Rest, sir, and you’ll be up and walking again.”
As the doctor began to turn, Darcy fought to speak. “Th… thanks. D… Darcy.”
The doctor turned in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
Darcy gestured again. “D… Darcy.”
“Ah,” the man breathed in realization. “Captain Darcy, is it?”
Darcy nodded.
He smiled. “Charles Bingley, at your service.”
Meryton, Ohio—June 20
“Beth! Beth, come back!”
The thirteen-year-old girl disregarded her mother’s voice as she ran out the back door. Almost blinded by her tears, she managed to reach the large chestnut tree next to the barn without running into anything. The girl threw herself against the trunk, her body shuddering in sobs.
It was there her older sister found her, kneeling by the tree. Wordlessly, the blond girl gathered her sister into her arms, their hair blowing in the breeze.
“Beth—oh, Beth!” she tried to console the child.
“H… he can’t be dead!” Beth Bennet sobbed. “Samuel can’t be dead! He can’t be, Jane!”
“Beth…” Jane began.
“He promised to come back. You… you heard him. He promised!”
Jane bit her lip as she continued to stroke Beth’s curly brown hair, her own tears quietly streaming down her face. She could hear her mother and other sisters wailing in the house, an uproar that began a half-hour before as her father read the words of that hated telegram:
“We regret to inform you that…”
“Beth—oh, Beth!” was all Jane could manage. Her own distress was great. Samuel Bennet, the eldest of the Bennet children and the only son, proud corporal in the Ohio infantry, gone to save the Union as part of the mighty Army of the Potomac, had died of influenza in Maryland. Samuel was beloved by all of his family, but Beth was particularly fond of him. Jane might be Beth’s confidante, but Samuel was her hero and could do no wrong. Jane could only hold her sister, allowing her to cry herself out.
Finally, as Beth’s sobs subsided, Jane said, “Beth, we must return to the house and see to our parents and sisters. We cannot add to their distress. We must be strong, Beth.”
“S… Samuel was always strong, Jane.”
“Yes, he was. Now, it is our turn. Our family needs us.” She took the girl’s face in her hands. “It is what he would want.”
Beth nodded. Their mother loved her only son almost as fiercely as Beth, and their father doted on him. They would be shattered, leaving the three younger sisters little comfort.
Jane got to her feet and helped Beth up. Hand in hand, they turned to return to the house. As they walked, Jane heard Beth mumble something and asked her about it.
“I said it is their fault, Jane,” she spat.
“Whose fault?”
“Those damned Rebels!”
“Beth, please!” Jane cried. “Please don’t talk like that in front of Mother or Mary! You know how they feel about coarse language.”
“Very well, but I’ll never forgive those evil slave-owning Rebels—never! It’s their fault Samuel went away. Those evil, evil people! I hope God smites them. I hate them! I will hate them for the rest of my life!”
Vicksburg—July 4
Will Darcy sat up in his cot, listening to the cannons going off. He turned to the doctor sitting beside him. “I suppose it’s noon, Charles.”
Dr. Bingley checked his pocket watch. “Yes, it is. Precise, aren’t they, these Yankees?”
Darcy sighed, flexing his body. His recovery from the wounds he suffered in May had been hampered by a persistent fever. He had only grown strong enough in the last week to go to the chamber pot unaided. He desperately wanted to return to his command, but now it was too late. Confederate Lt. General John C. Pemberton had surrendered Vicksburg to Union Major General Ulysses S. Grant after a forty-two-day siege, which brought suffering and starvation to troops and civilians alike inside the ramparts. Pemberton had no choice—he had tons of ammunition, but virtually no food. They could hold out no longer.
“We’ve already furled banners and stacked arms; we were to do that before the Yankees took possession of the city,” Bingley observed. “I’m told we’re to get parole.” He patted the captain on the arm. “We get to go home, Will.”
“Maybe.” In the last month, Bingley spent all of his free time with Darcy, playing cards or telling stories, and they had developed a deep friendship.
Before Bingley could ask his morose companion his meaning, there was a noise at the entrance of the cave. “I’d best see to that,” he excused himself. Darcy watched him walk off to the exit of the ward when the doctor was pushed back by three blue-clad soldiers.
“Here, what’s this?” Bingley cried. “This is a hospital!”
“That’s for us to see, Johnny Reb,” drawled a private.
“We’re to secure this place and take prisoner any stragglers,” said another.
Bingley grew angry. “These are all wounded or ill men. Be quick about your business and leave.”
The third man waved a pistol. “The only one leaving, mister, is you.”
“I’m a doctor and these are my patients. I won’t leave!” The soldiers ignored him and began searching the belongings of the patients. “What are you doing?”
“Searching for contraband,” said what appeared to be the leader of the band as he fingered a pocketknife. He put the object into his pocket and picked up a book.
One of his fellows laughed. “‘Contraband!’ Oh, good one, Pyke!”
“Since when is a man’s Bible contraband?” Bingley cried. He moved to confront the man Pyke. “Put that back!”
Suddenly, Pyke drew a knife. “Resistin’ the surrender, mister?” he growled dangerously. “You don’t want ta be doin’ that—no, sir.”
During the whole time, Darcy had lain quietly, pretending to be asleep, all the while slowly reaching beneath his cot. As Pyke gestured at Bingley with his knife to the enjoyment of his fellows, Darcy whipped out his saber and threw himself at their tormenters. Sweeping backhanded, he struck one on the head with the pommel, stunning the man, before grasping Pyke with his left arm about his throat, threatening him with the sword and using him as a shield against the last soldier.
Darcy stared at the third man with a cold, deadly look. “You will not threaten the doctor while I live.”
“Don’t do anything!” cried Pyke. “He’ll kill me!”
“No, he won’t,” came a voice from the entrance to the ward. “Drop that sword, Johnny Reb.” Darcy turned, forcing Pyke between him and the new threat. He saw a dark-haired man in a blue captain’s uniform holding a pistol on him from his left hand.
“I am Captain Darcy,” Darcy said in his best command voice. “Are you in charge of this rabble?”
“I am, Captain. My name is Whitehead. Release that man, or I shall be forced to shoot you.”
“Your men, Captain, were stealing from sick and wounded men and were about to attack a doctor. This is strictly against the rules of war. Tell them to stand down.”
Captain Whitehead’s mouth twisted into an amused grin under his pencil-thin moustache. “Were they? Very well.” Whitehead barked out an order and the two Yankee soldiers backed away, holstering their pistols. “Good enough, Captain?”
Darcy hesitated a moment, then slowly withdrew his strong left arm from Pyke’s throat. Pushing the frightened corporal away, Darcy reversed his sword and offered the pommel to Whitehead. “My sword, sir. I am yours to command.”
Whitehead holstered his pistol and took the weapon. “A fine saber, Captain. Where on earth did you get it?”
“It’s Spanish, sir—fine Toledo steel. It’s been in my family for four generations.”
“Hmm.” Whitehead inspected the workmanship with ill-disguised envy. “You would hate to lose it, I am sure. Well, have no fears, Captain.” Whitehead glanced at his men standing behind Darcy and nodded. Bingley saw the men move to his friend and cried a warning, but it was too late. A moment later, Darcy lay sprawled insensible on the cave floor. Bingley tried to help, but a soldier seized him, pinning his arms behind his back.
Whitehead walked over to the prone man and laughed. “Yes, Captain, I would not concern yourself over your sword. You’ll have no need for it where you’re going.” He turned to his remaining men. “Take this man prisoner—hold!” As the two lifted Darcy from the ground, Whitehead rifled through the unconscious man’s pockets.
“You bastard!” cried Bingley as he struggled in the soldier’s grip. “You’re no better than a common thief!”
“Now, now, Doctor,” Whitehead remarked as he withdrew Darcy’s pocket watch, “there’s nothing common about me at all. Besides,” he turned to Bingley, “you’re a Rebel and a traitor. You’re fortunate that I don’t shoot you out of hand where you stand.”
“You won’t get away with this,” Bingley vowed.
“Oh, I think I will. You are nothing. I’d keep quiet if you value your parole.”
Bingley threw a rather strong curse at Whitehead, and the officer lost all good humor.
“Very well, Doctor. Take him away, boys.”
July 5
Major General Ulysses S. Grant, commander of the victorious Army of the Tennessee, sighed as he enjoyed an after-supper cigar and whiskey in his tent with his friend and subordinate, William Tecumseh Sherman, Major General of Volunteers and commander of his XV Corps.
Sherman puffed his cigar. “I told you, Grant, that if you stayed in the army, some happy accident might restore you to favor and your true place. Well, when news of this victory reaches Washington, you’ll be the toast of the nation.”
“Perhaps, perhaps. You did give me good counsel, though.”
“Hah!” Sherman gulped down a bit of his drink. “You stood by me when they all thought I was crazy before Shiloh, and I stood by you when they all said you were a drunkard!”
Grant eyed him. “I was not a drunkard.”
Before Sherman could respond to that, an aide came in with a message for Grant. The weary-looking bearded man scanned the two-page dispatch while Sherman refilled his glass. He looked up as a curse escaped Grant’s lips. “Trouble?”
The general tossed the notes upon his field desk. “Yes! Some fool is demanding that a Rebel doctor and one of his patients be arrested for insubordination, assault, and violation of the surrender.”
“So?”
“Well, there is also an affidavit from the doctor stating that Union soldiers were stealing from the patients, and he demands I take action against them!”
Sherman sat back. “It happens, no matter how many orders we issue or men we arrest. If it gets too bad, we put a few in the stockade. Is there something else?”
“The officer involved is a George Whitehead, attached to XIII Corps. Made captain because his father is the postmaster back in Illinois and active in the Republican Party. I’ve had complaints before about this fellow, but McClemand always stood by him.”
“You think Whitehead is guilty?”
“I’ve no reason to trust the man.”
Sherman grunted. Both the Union and Confederate armies were filled with political officers—men who received their rank not because of military training or experience in battle but because of their civilian connections. They were usually incompetent troublemakers for their professional brethren, but they had friends in high places, and it was detrimental to one’s career to oppose these men without being very careful. The former XIII Corps commander, Major General John A. McClemand, had been just such a man, and it had taken Grant months to orchestrate his removal.
Grant pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “I finally got rid of McClemand, and now I must divest myself of another political officer. Damnation! I’ve a war to fight!”
“That was good work, shipping out that vainglorious fool,” Sherman said as he took a sip of his whiskey. “Why not do the same with this bastard? Kill two birds with one stone.”
“Eh? What’s that?”
“Whitehead. Have him escort his precious prisoners to prison camp with a letter requesting transfer. Let him be someone else’s problem. Meanwhile, you don’t have to try both Whitehead and those Rebels.”
Grant sat back. “Sherman, I knew there was a reason I let you drink my whiskey.”
Jackson, Mississippi—1865
It was the end of the line, and Darcy and Bingley climbed off the train in the early evening with scores of other veterans of the late war. All about the Jackson station was damage and disarray, evidence of the five-year cataclysm from which the country was now trying to recover. The two needed a place for the night but were not surprised to learn from the station master that all the available rooms were taken. Once again, they had to face a night on the cold, hard earth, and they began their search for a spot, relatively safe from thieves, when they came upon a campfire.
“Hello!” Bingley cried to the lone figure next to the flame. “May we share your fire for a while?”
The man looked up from under the broad brim of his hat, which sported a silver hat band. He wore the uniform of a major of Rebel cavalry, a Sharpe carbine rifle close to his hand. The light from the fire was reflected in his dark eyes. “Come on in, Georgia, you and your companion, an’ set a spell.”
Bingley and Darcy sat on the opposite side of the fire, and the doctor continued to speak. “Thank you kindly, sir. But how did you know I’m from Georgia?”
The stranger chuckled. “I’ve an ear for accents. Am I right?”
Bingley confirmed he was, introduced himself and Darcy, and named a small town in Georgia as his hometown.
“My name’s Fitzwilliam,” said the major. “What brings you this far west, Dr. Bingley?”
Bingley stared at the flames. “There wasn’t much left for me back at my family’s plantation, Netherfield.”
“I take it your place was visited by Sherman and his horde?” Bingley confirmed that his family home had fallen victim to Sherman’s March to the Sea. “And you, Mr. Darcy, where do you hail from?”
“Rosings—a little town west of Fort Worth.”
Fitzwilliam grinned. “Always a pleasure to meet a fellow Texican. I’m from Nacogdoches, myself.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes. “Nacogdoches? You’re wearing the uniform of the Virginia Cavalry, sir.”
“You’ve a sharp eye, Mr. Darcy. No, I didn’t steal these clothes, though I did help myself to this here carbine from a Yankee trooper who had no further use for it. Help yourself to some coffee, an’ I’ll tell you my tale.”
The two helped themselves to the pot. The steaming black concoction had more acorns and leaves in it than coffee, but at least it was hot.
“I was orphaned at a young age an’ was raised by relations on a cotton farm near Nacogdoches. My uncle had some connections in the army from the Mexican War, so I got a commission to attend the Virginia Military Institute. I was there when the war broke out an’ followed Stonewall Jackson to take on the foe. Ridin’ suited me better than walkin’, so I hooked up with Jeb Stuart. Rode with him from Manassas to Gettysburg to Yellow Tavern.” He lifted his mug. “Here’s to you, ole Jeb, may you rest in peace.”
Darcy and Bingley had a bit of food and offered to share it with Fitzwilliam. As they ate, they told stories of their war experiences. Fitzwilliam did most of the talking, as Darcy and Bingley were particularly quiet about their time as prisoners of war.
Finally, Fitzwilliam asked, “So, what are your plans, Dr. Bingley?”
Bingley swallowed a spoonful of beans. “Call me Charles, Fitz. Goin’ west with Will, here. He tells me there’s need for a doctor in Rosings, so I’m goin’ to give it a try. What about you? Headin’ back to Nacogdoches?”
“Nah. Never did take to farming, to the grief of my uncle. I got an itch to ride the range, punchin’ cattle an’ such. I’m headin’ west—goin’ to sign on with a cattle ranch.”
Darcy eyed him. “Ever rode cattle, Fitz?”
“Not yet,” he grinned. “You offering me a job, Darcy?”
“That’s up to my daddy, but you can come along.”
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy grinned for the first time. “Good that you know your place, Fitz. Pour me some more of that black stuff you’re passing off as coffee.”
“Hell with that,” Fitz returned as he pulled a small bottle from a saddlebag and tossed it to Darcy. “Take a snort o’ this.”
“Holding out on us, Fitz?” asked Darcy as he took a swig. A moment later he coughed down the rotgut whiskey, to Fitz’s and Bingley’s laughter.
“Had to have a reason to celebrate. I’ve a feeling we’re goin’ to have interestin’ times, Darcy.”
Meryton—1868
After church on Sunday, Thomas Bennet looked on his family as they ate the midday dinner: Jane, at twenty, his surviving eldest and in the full bloom of her beauty; Elizabeth, his darling Beth, eighteen and as free-spirited as ever; Mary, almost seventeen and as serious as Beth was playful; Kathy, thirteen and on the cusp of womanhood; and Lily, the baby, a very pretty and precocious twelve and her mother’s delight. For a moment the memory of his only son, Samuel—five years in a grave in Maryland—flashed before his mind. Samuel was a hole in his soul that would never heal.
His eyes fell upon his cohort for the past quarter-century, his wife, Fanny. He loved her dearly, but he was not blind to her shortcomings. Never an intelligent or introspective person, she had been a gay and kind companion during the majority of their life together, but Fanny had changed since the loss of Samuel. She was now prone to fits of anxiety and, therefore, less of a guiding light to the three youngest than she had been to Samuel, Jane, and Beth in their youth. The children had been given free rein to indulge in their more unfortunate tendencies: Mary was unsociable, Kathy was as emotional as her mother, and Lily was terribly spoiled. Bennet was loath to admit that he bore some responsibility for this sad state of affairs; he had found young children uninteresting and had given his attention only to his eldest.
Samuel, oh Samuel! he thought again. The loss of his heir would cost his family more than they knew.
Bennet cleared his throat. “My dears, I have an announcement to make.” The Bennet women turned their attention to him. Bennet inwardly grimaced in anticipation of the uproar to come. “For quite a while we’ve lived in comfort. Working the land with my brothers has adequately provided for us for these many years.”
“Adequately provided?” cried his wife. “It’s all right for you to say so, Thomas, if you believe having five unmarried daughters with no dowry to speak of ‘adequate,’ or even enough money to have but one store-bought dress each, but I don’t believe it is so!”
“Indeed, my dear. And now with the return of my nephews from the war and their growing families… Forgive me, Fanny.”
Mrs. Bennet wiped the tear from her eye. “Please, Thomas, say no more about that, or I will think of our poor, lost Samuel again.” She could say no more as she wept, and Kathy joined in. Jane and Beth consoled the others, Mary sighed in disapproval, and Lily looked bored.
Bennet held his tongue until his wife was tolerably composed. “My dear, now that our nephews are having families of their own, the Bennet Farm will not produce enough for all of us. Therefore, I have spoken to my brothers, and they have agreed to buy me out.”
“Buy us out! But, Thomas, what shall we do?”
Jane spoke up. “Are you buying another farm, Father?”
“Yes, I am—a place of our very own.”
“Will we have to leave home?” Kathy gasped.
“Yes, we will—”
Fanny cut him off. “Oh, who cares about this old house; we inherited it from Grandmother Bennet! A house of our own! How delightful! Is it near the river, dear? I hope it is near the river.”
Bennet glanced down at his plate. “It is near a river, Fanny.”
Beth frowned. “But, Father, how much did our uncles pay? Land near the river is so very dear. They surely couldn’t pay that much.”
“They paid enough, Beth. We will have a new farm near a river, but it will not be here.”
“Not here!” Mrs. Bennet looked at her daughters. “But where? Is it nearby?”
“No, dear.”
That got Mary’s attention. “We will have to change churches?”
“I am afraid so, child.”
“I know!” Mrs. Bennet claimed. “You always knew I favored the next county. So lovely, and I have family there…”
“Pooh! I don’t care for them!” cried Lily. “Last time we visited, the boys pulled my hair!”
“That was three years ago,” said Jane gently. “Surely they will be kinder now.”
Bennet raised his voice. “Please, enough of this! We are not moving to the next county.” The women all stared at him. “I have found a wonderful place where we can grow vegetables and corn almost year-round and still have room for cattle.”
“Year-round! Thomas, you tease me. One cannot grow vegetables in Ohio in winter!”
“One can in Rosings.”
“Rosings! I never heard of such a place. Where in Ohio is this paradise?”
Bennet took a breath. “It is not in Ohio; it is in Texas.”
Bennet was surprised. The room was quiet much longer than he anticipated. But the explosion that followed was all he expected.
“Texas!” Beth cried again for the countless time. “How can Father make us all go to Texas?”
Jane sighed as she brushed Beth’s hair, their nightly routine before bed. “He’s doing the best he can. The farm he described is large enough to take care of all our needs. We’ll have farmhands to help. It sounds delightful.”
Beth was not appeased. “If Samuel were here, he would talk Father out of this!”
“Beth, if Samuel were here, we might be buying out our uncles. But he is not. We must try to persevere. Father needs our support, not our censure.”
Beth bit her lip as she recalled her mother’s unkind exclamations at table. “You’re right. Father is trying to care for us. But… oh, Jane! Texas! I can’t believe it. I hate it!”
“It is very far away from here—that’s true.”
“It’s not Texas that I’m talking about, but the Texans! I haven’t forgotten that they turned their backs on the Union and most disgracefully took up arms against us, all to preserve their vile practice of slavery!”
“Beth, we are taught to forgive. Perhaps they have seen the wickedness of their ways and have repented.”
“Perhaps,” Beth said, but to herself, she thought, You may forgive them, Jane, for you are good. But I will never forget that if not for them, Samuel would still be alive. I will never forgive them. Never.
A fortification that has two projecting faces and two parallel flanks.