His whistle faded on the breeze as he pulled in front of the Brandywine house. Samson panted and whined unhappily. Rex stared, freezing as a whisper of fear snaked its way down his spine.
The house was in total darkness.
Interlude
July 3, 1863 Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
He wasn't even supposed to be there.
As a lieutenant general in the cavalry, Pierre served under Jeb Stuart. But, returning from his leave of absence, he'd been assigned to Longstreet's division, under Lee. They'd been heading up farther north--toward Harris-burg--but one of the bigwigs had seen in the paper that there were shoes to be had in Gettysburg, and before long the Yanks were coming in from one side and the rebs were pouring in from the other. The first day had gone okay-- if one could consider thousands of bodies okay--as a stalemate. Even the second day. But here it was July 3, and the Old Man--Lee--was saying that they were desperate, and desperate times called for some bold and desperate actions.
Pierre, unmounted, was commanding a small force under a temperamental young general called Picket. A. P. Hill was complaining loudly; Longstreet--with more respect for Lee--was taking the situation quietly.
It was suicide. Pierre knew it before they ever started the charge down into the enemy lines. Pure, raw suicide.
But he was an officer and a Southern gentleman. Hell, Jeb had said time and time again that they were the last of the cavaliers.
And so, when the charge was sounded, Pierre raised his sword high. The powder was already thick and black; enemy cannon fire cut them down where they stood, where they moved, and still they pressed onward. He smelled the smoke. He smelled the charred flesh and heard the screams of his fellows, along with the deadly pulse of the drums and the sweet music of the piper.
He could no longer see where he was going. The air was black around him. It burned when he inhaled.
"Onward, boys! Onward! There's been no retreat called!" he ordered.
He led them--to their deaths. His eyes filled with tears that had nothing to do with the black powder. He knew he was going to die.
Fernandina Beach, Florida
Eugenia screamed.
Mary, startled from her task of stirring the boiling lye for soap, dropped her huge wooden spoon and streaked out to the lawn, where Eugenia had been hanging fresh-washed sheets beneath the summer sun. She was doubled over then, hands clasped to her belly, in some ungodly pain.
"Miz Eugenia!" Mary put her arms around her mistress, desperately anxious. Maybe it was the baby, coming long before its time. And here they were, so far from anywhere, when they would need help.
"Miz Eugenia, let me get you to the porch. Water, I'll fetch some water, ma'am, and be right back--"
Eugenia straightened. She stared out toward the ocean seeing nothing. She shook her head. "I'm all right, Mar
"The baby--"
"The baby is fine."
"Then--"
"He's dead, Mary."
"Miz Eugenia--"
Eugenia shook off Mary's touch. "He's dead, Mary, I tell you."
"Come to the porch, ma'am. That sun's gettin' to you, girl!"
Eugenia shook her head again. "Watch Gene for me, please."
"But where--?"
Eugenia did not look back. She walked to the trail of pines where she had last seen her love when he had come to her. She came to the shore of the beach he had so loved. Where he had first brought her. Where they had first made love upon the sand and he had teased her so fiercely about her Northern inhibitions. She remembered his face when he had laughed, and she remembered the sapphire-blue intensity and beauty of his eyes when he had risen above her in passion.
She sank to the sand and wept.
Grapeshot.
It caught him in the gut, and it was not clean, nor neat, nor merciful.
He opened his eyes, and he could see a Yank surgeon looking down at him, and he knew from the man's eyes and he knew because he'd been living with it night and day for years that death had come for him and there was no denying it.
"Water, General?"
Pierre nodded. It didn't seem necessary to tell the Yank that he was a Lieutenant General. Not much of anything seemed necessary now.
"I'm dying," he said flatly.
The young Yankee surgeon looked at him unhappily. He knew when you could lie to a man and when you couldn't.
"Yes, sir."
Pierre closed his eyes. They must have given him some morphine. The Yanks still had the stuff. He didn't see powder anymore, and he didn't see black. The world was in fog, but it was a beautiful fog. A swirling place of mist and splendor. He could see Eugenia. He could see the long trail that led from the beach along the pines.
She was running to him. He could see the fine and fragile lines of her beautiful face, and he could see her lips, curled in a smile of welcome. He lifted his hand to wave, and he ran....
She was coming closer and closer to him. Soon he would reach out and touch the silk of her skin. He would wrap his arms around her and feel her woman's warmth as she kissed him....
"General."
Eugenia vanished into the mist. Pain slashed through his consciousness.
He opened his eyes. The surgeon was gone. He had moved on to those who had a chance to live, Pierre knew. A young bugler stood before him. "Sir, is there any--?"
Pierre could barely see; blood clouded his vision. He reached out to grab the boy's hand.
"I need paper. Please."
"Sir, I don't know that I can--"
"Please. Please."
The boy brought paper and a stub of lead. Pierre nearly screamed aloud when he tried to sit. Then the pain eased. His life was ebbing away.
Eugenia, my love, my life,
I cannot be with you, but I will always be with you. Love, for the children, do not forget the gold that is buried in the house. Use it to raise them well, love. And teach them that ours was once a glorious cause of dreamers, if an ill-fated and doomed one, too. Ever yours, Eugenia, in life and in death.
Pierre
He fell back. "Take this for me, boy, will you? Please. See that it gets to Eugenia Brandywine, Brandywine House, Fernandina Beach, Florida. Will you do it for me, boy?"
"Yes, sir!" The young boy saluted promptly.
Pierre fell back and closed his eyes. He prayed for the dream to come again. For the mist to come.
And it did. He saw her. He saw her smile. He saw her on the beach, and he saw her running to him. Running, running, running...
Three days later, an officer was sent out from Jacksonville to tell Eugenia Brandywine of her husband's death on the field of valor. The words meant nothing to her. Her expression was blank as she listened; her tears were gone. She had already cried until her heart was dry. She had already buried her love tenderly beneath the sands of time. When his body reached her, weeks later, it was nothing more than a formality to inter him in the cemetery on the mainland.
Pierre's second child, a girl, was born in October. By then the South was already strangling, dying a death as slow and painful and merciless as Pierre's. Eugenia's father sent for her, and with two small mouths to feed and little spirit for life, she decided to return home. Her mother would love her children and care for them when she had so little heart left for life.
One more time she went to the beach. One more time she allowed herself to smile wistfully and lose herself in memory and in dreams. She would always remember him as he had been that day. Her dashing, handsome, beautiful cavalier. Her ever-gallant lover.
She would never come back. She knew it. But she would tell the children about their inheritance. And they would come here. And then their children's children could come. And they could savor the sea breeze and the warmth of the water by night and the crystal beauty of the stars. In a better time, a better world.