“Sing that one again,” yelled a disheveled man who sat with his buddies around a table of cards in the smoky tavern.
“Sing Bonnie Blue Flag and we’ll join ya” he called out.
The requester’s voice was barely heard above the crowded audience applauding the revue that closed the place for the night. With the curtain down, people were settling back into their drinks and their discussions. There was always a lot of news to parley now that the war was a year old. In northern Virginia, just hours from Federal territory, there was plenty of fodder for war stories. The Rebels hadn’t been expected to hold their lines because of the strength and numbers of the enemy.
Looking back, Manassas had been an early victory, a surprise really. And, since it was located less than twenty-five miles from Washington, the victory seemed even more remarkable. Volunteers had rushed to depots throughout Virginia to don gray uniforms and support the convictions of states’ rights. While other Rebels had joined up to fight to preserve the region’s fortunes and economy through the preservation of slavery, even though most Confederate soldiers owned no slaves themselves.
Train lines carried soldiers to the west and south over rolling hills and farmlands which, one by one were being ripped open, harshly exposing the bloody fighting fields and burying grounds of that grisly war.
The small, quiet town of Marsh Station where I found myself had come alive with activities supporting the war effort. Boarding houses had been quickly established and military tent communities dotted the riverbanks and fields. In town, the bordello and tavern businesses flourished. Barbers, grocers, liveries and laundries were busy nearly all the time. A military hospital and prison had been built just out of the valley over the rise, to accommodate the spiraling numbers of wounded and captured men.
In the tavern where I sat, intimate conversations transpired between strangers. The ever changing lines of battle provided hours of discussion by the men who gathered around the sticky tables and the long thick wooden bar. Finally, the evening’s formal entertainment had ended along with most of the card games. Newly formed friends were bidding one another “good-night” while others appeared to be finding a young lady with whom to spend it.
We had just finished our final performance together as a theater troupe, and were seated at a table along a wall where the smoke and the arguments weren’t quite so thick. Leaning back against the wooden chair, I breathed in deeply and closed my eyes to the predictable confusion in the dense, smoky hall. Realizing how tired I felt once I allowed myself to relax, I remembered a reason to get home: a visitor would be arriving after midnight. I knew that I couldn’t stay at the bar very long, but I wanted to listen to the political discussions that inevitably ensued around a table of drinks and acquaintances during a war. Besides, I couldn’t appear too eager to leave. It wouldn’t be right.
Jostled out from under my thoughts, I opened my eyes as the barmaid nudged me with a mug of beer.
“Looks like you could use a little refreshment,” she said pausing. “Besides, the drink is on him,” nodding her head towards a man seated across the room. I looked and caught his eye, raising my glass in his direction. Somehow I hadn’t noticed him. And, he was worth noticing.
I sensed that he had been watching me for a while with his brilliant eyes. High cheek bones sculpted his face and his chestnut hair was thinner on top than that of the young boys who got off the train with twisted masses of unkempt hair. He had the smooth, distinguished bearing of an officer, a presence not easily forgotten.
Just by looking at him sitting there, I knew that he was a man who could break my heart between sunset and sunrise, but even so, I boldly returned his gaze for a few impossible seconds. Looking away, I breathed in again, trying to appear relaxed. Then, I sipped my drink and pondered him for a moment. He sat alone with his drink in hand, his long legs crossed at the knee. As I raised my glass to take a sip of beer, he raised his slightly and nodded with a slight smile. A pistol rode his hip and I saw then that he wore the uniform and rank of a Captain of the Confederacy.
‘One of JEB’s boys’, I thought to myself.
I nodded in return and then gave my attention back to the men and women of the troupe who had drawn more chairs to the table than would fit. I listened, half-heartedly to their conversations about the war and the latest land swap between enemies.
“This war can’t last much longer. It’ll kill both sides off, then where’ll we be?” said one man, the lead singer of the troupe.
“Without anyone to make babies, we’ll be a country of old people,” said another.
Sipping my frothy beer, I remembered my friends back home and wondered, like everyone else, how this war would end and what the nation would be like when it did.
Recognizing the late hour, with a lull in the conversation and an urgency to get home, I pushed back my chair to leave.
“Good-night, everyone. Be well.” Then, stopping the waitress as she passed by, I asked her, “Could you thank the Captain for me and let him know, unfortunately, I have to be on my way.”
“This time, I will honey because I know you’re Kate’s friend, but next time I’ll charge you for messenger services.” She gave me a wink and went on to deliver another round of beers balanced on her tray.
With hugs all around I turned to leave, and briefly met the Captain’s eyes one more time as I passed near his table. My skirts rustled entirely too close to him on my way out.
Leaving the tavern, I also passed Katherine at the bar. Katherine, or Kate as many called her, was the proprietress of the establishment, and she’s offered me the company of one of the uniformed men who stood nearby her.
“Annie, one of these gentlemen will be happy to see you to safety,” was the way she put it.
“Thanks Kate, but I’ll be fine,” I assured her, and left without a note of hesitation. The men, first so hopeful, looked disappointed.
Tethered horses stood closely together outside the rail that formed a border between the street and the planked sidewalk. Two drunken soldiers chortled in a heap against one corner of the tavern. One, a reeking private reached out to paw me as I walked passed them with a sure step; I veered far out of his reach and called over my shoulder to him, “You’re not what I had in mind, boy, ” knowing full well that they were too drunk to come after me. Someday, I vowed to surprise them and wear spurs and boots in self-defense.
I lived just a few blocks from the tavern, off the main street where the shops ended and the homes, though small and close together, had yards adjoining one another with wide open work areas and fields behind them.Turning a corner, away from the center of town, my footsteps were silenced as the wooden planks gave way to a dirt path that bordered the street. Only the quiet swish of my dress could be heard, along with an occasional horse’s neigh from a darkened stable nearby.
I was used to walking alone. By then, I’d lived in Marsh Station for just three months; I knew few people there and trusted even fewer. The ones I did know were the only friends I needed. I had traveled with the theater troupe for a month or so as a means of getting settled in a southern town between Washington and Fredericksburg without raising suspicions since I was a single woman, living alone. I settled in that little depot of Marsh Station to perform where the troops were quartered overnight before the next train out. It was essential for me to establish myself and stay in one place for a while. With few rooms available in local boarding houses, I got very lucky meeting Kate and renting one of her properties. Kate made it clear to her neighbors that I was sharing the house with her, but since the war began she had essentially been living above the tavern and only occasionally came to the house for a few belongings or to share a meal with me. Still she had her room there at the house.
The Virginia night was quiet against the darkness. Only a thin crescent hung at the edge of the sky and though it was April, a chill ran through me. I turned another corner and walked passed several quiet, dark homes; the occupants both free and slave. A low gate marked the path leading to t
he side door of the house. From that side, a porch opened onto a large work yard, that separated my property from the next. I approached the steps and reached for my key when suddenly, without warning, a tall, willowy figure stepped out from the shadows right into my path.
CHAPTER THREE