Christmas Reclaimed
Part Four

HATTON WILLOWS, DECEMBER 1863

Tucking himself behind the doorjamb, Clay winked and whispered to his wife as they waited. "1st Hatton Willows assembled? Good. Stand ready for orders."

Her smile was interrupted by a loud banging. Reassuringly, he nodded her into action.

Struggling to steady the candle she held for illumination, Mary tipped her chin up imperiously as she opened the door and regarded their enemy. "Yes?"

"Merry Christmas, Ma'am. I am Colonel Caleb Delancey, 7th New York." Before her stood a tall, broad-shouldered man, with thick, unruly black hair that framed a bearded face only made less plain by a pair of startling blue eyes shaded by long black lashes. "If it isn't too much trouble, my men and I are in need of shelter. One of us is badly wounded. I would be eternally grateful for your compassion on this cold night."

Surreptitiously, Mary stole a glance at her husband, who signaled permission. With a sweep of a shaky hand, she invited him in.

Clay quickly placed his gun on Delancey's temple as the Federal soldier entered.

The Yankee sighed heavily and suppressed a smile, belying his fear. "You have me at a disadvantage, sir."

"I hope that's true," the Southerner said, removing the blue coat's pistol. "Tell me, Colonel, how many is your number?

"Myself, my brother, the men who hold his pallet. They await my signal to approach."

"Really." With an insincere smile, Clay posed his next question. "Dangerous territory to be caught in, sir. Are you merely this straggle band of shit, or are you a picket advance for a brigade?"

"We are...a company of raiders."

"Not very good ones."

"No worse than some." Without warning, Colonel Delancey suddenly stepped down on Clay's left foot, who crumpled in agony. Retrieving both pistols, Delancey trained his own on Clay, who was convulsed in pain. "And you are nothing but a company comprised of crippled old men and scared women. I think you are now the one at a disadvantage."

Just as suddenly, Robert Shelby appeared out of hiding and cocked his gun. "Not all of us are crippled, Colonel. Why me, I'm just naturally shy."

Clay took back his Colt and grabbed again for the Yankee's, tossing it down the hallway. He placed his gun on Delancey's cheek. "Why shouldn't I kill you here and now?"

"It's Christmas," the man replied softly. "My brother is wounded, maybe dying. Can we not put aside our burden and act with Christian charity?

Clay could see the melting sympathy in Mary's eyes. He grimaced and looked heavenward.

"Oh, and...there're also several other soldiers with their guns drawn on you as we speak."

With a brisk wave of his hand, Delancey motioned for his men to gather, then grasped Mary by the arm, re-taking Clay's weapon. Decisively, Robert was forced to forfeit his own gun, as two Yankees carried a crude stretcher up the porch steps into the hallway. They were soon joined by Lawrence Mosby and Jasper, similarly disarmed, accompanied by two more blue coats.

"Where can we take my brother?"

Clay gestured behind himself, then slowly turned and opened the front parlor door, unsure what Elisabeth's reaction would be upon their entrance. But when he led them inside, he found his sister sitting quietly in a chair, her mouth in a silent O of surprise.

His eyes sought hers, wide with an unspoken question. As the soldiers filtered into the room alongside their captives, Elisabeth took the moment of distraction to quickly glance towards the lemonwood desk. Imperceptibly she nodded, then returned to her posture of innocence and fear. He nodded back and smiled at her ingenuity. If at some point he, or anyone else who knew the secret, could get to the hidden drawer in the desk, they'd be armed again. Better to find the right opportunity than risk another quick rout.

Delancey surveyed the room and humphed his disagreement. "There must be a better place to attend to Thomas. Where's the rest of your family? Your mother and the other women?"

Clay's face darkened in abhorrence. "You must have been watchin' us for days."

"Surprised?...Because no Yankee could ever be as capable in reconnaissance as you?"

Stunned as his earlier words were turned back on him, the Southern Colonel coldly measured his reply. "Then you also know we have very little for you to steal. Perhaps another plantation down the road would be more to your likin'..."

"I don't have time for games!" Delancey's shout thundered in the small room. "My brother needs to be taken care of. Please!" He stopped and took a deep breath, struggling for civility. "Please help him."

Mary bent over the fevered youth and placed a comforting hand on his cheek. He moaned slightly and turned in towards the touch, shifting his thin blanket askew and revealing a stream of blood pulsing down his left side.

Standing up briskly, she attended to the business at hand.

"Jasper, bring the spare cot in here for him and then set up some hot water." With apologetic sincerity, she turned to the blue-eyed man. "You understand, I would truly regret stainin' my great- grandmother-in-law's damask settee with Yankee blood."

Delancey grimaced at her remark, but only nodded politely.

"Elisabeth, bring sheets and towels, all the towels you can find. Permilla, put together five plates of food. I'm afraid we don't have much to offer, Colonel, just ham and biscuits. Take your men to the dinin' room, Permilla will serve you there. We'll all think better on sated stomachs. Clay, you've had medical experience here and in the field. Bring your mother. They'll attend to his injury." Mary sat back on heels and waited for their captor's approval.

As Elisabeth and Permilla left to their tasks, Delancey motioned for two privates to follow them out the door. He bowed to Mary with a lanky grace, then knelt beside his brother and took his hand. "It's all right, Thomas. You'll be all right here."

"I'm cold, Caleb. I thought the South was supposed to be hot."

"My men will get some logs and build up the fire." Delancey glanced at Mary for agreement, which she gave. "Captain" he said, tilting his head towards Robert, "please show my sergeant the way." A third soldier pushed Shelby out the door in front of him.

Clay's eyes wandered to the desk, gauging the distance and the opportunity to recover the gun.

Delancey looked to the remaining man impatiently, waiting for him to retrieve his mother for medical attention. "Colonel, " he said sharply, then composed himself. "Colonel...?"

"Mosby," Clay answered. "Francis Clay Mosby. 14th Virginia."

"Relation to...?"

"No." Clay cut him off. "No relation." He nodded towards the woman by his side. "This is my wife, Mary."

"Mrs. Mosby, I am humbled." Delancey stood and bowed again. "In spite of your opinion of Yankee culpability, I am truly thankful for your help." He aimed his gun at Clay. "Now, get your mother. Your wife stays here."

Squeezing Mary's hand in reassurance, he walked stiffly out of the parlor, followed by the remaining soldier.

After returning quickly with his mother and what equipment they thought needed for surgery, Clay huddled with Mary in a corner, watching Katherine Mosby assess the youth's injuries.

"We can still try to rush them," Clay murmured.

"Don't be ridiculous, dearest," Mary replied. "'Remember you catch more flies with honey than vinegar."

"Catch more flies with a minie ball these days," her husband mumbled, then shook his head. "Maybe you can be forgivin' but I cannot," he whispered. "I'd just as soon let him bleed to death, damask settee be damned."

Mary tssked at her husband and glanced at him sharply. "I would hope that if you were in the same danger, there would be a wife in New York or Pennsylvania who would do the same as I."

Touching her cheek with the lightest caress, Clay smiled. "Nowhere and never is there another wife like you."

"Quiet, please!" Delancey yelled at them. He held a thumb to his lower lip, despairing to maintain courtesy in light of his worry for his brother's state. "Please let your mother concentrate."

Mary's hand clasped her husband's and she turned towards him. Silently, she mouthed 'I love you'. His face flushed and he could only nod in agreement. Whatever happened, he promised himself, he would do all he could to deserve her love.

Denied the ease of sitting, nor even the cane, his left leg throbbed with the prolonged torture of standing without support but he would not complain and so resigned himself to observing the scene. One of Delancey's company stood nearby, hand resting casually but pointedly upon his gun. The other soldiers had gathered the remaining household members together and were keeping watch on them as they ate in the dining room. Regretfully, Clay had to appreciate the strategies Delancey was implementing, admitting to the fact that he might have done everything the Yankee was doing had their roles been reversed.

A moan came up from the young man as Katherine Mosby tenderly pressed around the edges of his wound for the last time. Wearily, she stood up and motioned for the two Colonels to join her outside the room.

In the entrance hall, she cleaned her hands on a towel, reporting evenly on his prognosis. "I'm sorry, but it's not very good, Colonel. He's runnin' a fever, and he struggles to fill his lungs. He's lost a lot of blood and you've kept him outside for two days without adequate shelter or food. I cannot promise recovery, but we'll do what we can."

"I understand. Thank you, Ma'am." Delancey saluted her respectfully out of habit and went back into the parlor.

His mother laid a firm hand on Clay's shoulder. "Francis, do you remember when we removed the arrow John shot into Selkie's shoulder when you were boys?"

Clay shuddered at the memory of his favorite horse, accidentally wounded in a childish game, and the probative, indelicate operation which had barely succeeded in saving her. "Yes."

She smiled conspiratorially. "This will be much worse." Pressing her fingers to her throbbing temples, she mustered her strength and stood up straight. "Roll up your shirt sleeves, son. My hands are shakin' too much to undertake this." She turned him by the shoulders and gave him a gentle shove back inside. "Now let's see if your father and I thought correctly when we considered sendin' you to medical school."

Clay wiped the back of his palm over his forehead and bent down closer to the wound. Scattered fragments of shot riddled the soldier from chest to waist and had cut bone and muscle to ribbons beneath the skin. It was hard to distinguish tendon from tissue and he feared causing more harm than good.

They had saturated Thomas Delancey with their finest brandy, with generous sips going to the two Colonels as well before the surgery was undertaken. Mary had illuminated the scene with oil lamps and candles from every room possible. Now, holding the injured man's shredded coat and shirt, she waited next to her mother-in-law, eyeing the soldier who was positioned to act in defense if anything went wrong. Another soldier held Thomas' arms firmly back as he lay on the makeshift cot, while Caleb Delancey held one of his brother's hand in his own, his other hand holding his gun, trained on Clay.

The surrogate doctor bit his lip and dipped into the gaping opening again with a long thin forceps, desperate to find any metal pieces that might be lodged near the young man's lungs, threatening to tear the delicate membranes that fluttered weakly with every shallow breath. Sweat beaded his brow and his own left side was stinging in pain. "How did this happen, anyway?"

"We were trying to get some food from the farm next to this one." Delancey sighed. "And, no, we were not asking permission."

"Shelby Hills is a fairly good-sized 'farm'," Clay intoned sarcastically.

"My apologies. 'Plantation.'" The Colonel corrected himself, nervously brushing a lock of his brother's hair from his forehead. "We were leaving the chicken house when all of a sudden Thomas was cut down."

As Clay continued to probe, he reflected that the perpetrator must have been Robert's brother Joby, surprised that the man who had dodged defending his own country had found enough backbone to go against chicken thieves. And then it came to him what had been used to scare off the looters. "Bird shot!" he announced.

"What?"

"Bird shot. I thought I recognized it - it's round, not flattened. This didn't look like any shotgun or shrapnel fragment." He held up another rescued pellet and dropped it in a nearby bowl. His brow furled. How many would Joby load in a plug? Twenty-four? Twelve? Hopefully the latter. He counted the number in the bowl. Seven there, so perhaps there were only five more to account for. "Bring the light closer."

Katherine Mosby held up a lamp as Clay searched with renewed vigor. "You waited a long time for help, Colonel. How come?"

"I couldn't trust myself to this task." Delancey shrugged imperceptibly, reluctant to express any doubt. "Nor did I trust any of my men."

The Southerner glanced aside slightly to catch his eye. "But you trust me?"

The Yankee returned his gaze steadily. "I have to now, don't I?"

Wordlessly, Clay turned back and quickly found two more pellets.

"He has to live," Delancey murmured. "What will I tell our mother? No one gets a commendation for chicken theft."

"Not for failin' at it, anyway."

The Yankee snorted in response, grinning at their ineptness. "Broke what eggs we'd found by tripping over ourselves to get out of there." He scratched one hand casually. "Those chickens can peck!"

Dropping two more pieces of bird shot in the bowl, Clay continued to search, but could find no others. He put down the forceps.

"That's all I see."

"That's only eleven. There's at least one more."

"I don't see it."

Delancey cocked his gun. "Well, look again."

Gritting his teeth, Clay picked up the instrument and gently went through the torn tissue again, accidentally enlarging several small rips in his frustration. "I can't find anything. I can hardly see in here..."

"There has to be one more." Delancey turned his pistol slightly, aiming it at Katherine Mosby. "And you've made his bleeding worse."

"What do you want me to do - cut him up like a side of bacon?" His voice cracked with fear. "I swear I can't..."

"Stop! Stop it!" Mary pushed in front of her husband and held out his brother's torn coat toward Delancey. "See?" She pointed at a small round hole on the front of the sleeve. "One missed him."

"No," Delancey scowled.

"Yes. One missed him." She pressed the material against itself, matching the opening with a similar hole on the back of the sleeve. Clearly, the last pellet of bird shot had gone cleanly through the jacket.

Clay released a shaky breath and, with a searing gaze at the Yankee, moved around Mary to put her behind him.

"We must pack that wound immediately, " his mother said gently, relieving the tension in the room. "Perhaps, Mary, you can sew it up, as my son is allowed a moment of rest. He has acquit himself admirably, to the point of exhaustion."

Late in the night, Clay lay his hand on Thomas' forehead and swore softly. He was still burning up and the Southerner was beginning to doubt a positive outcome of the surgery. His patient groaned and coughed a little, then quieted down when an alcohol-soaked towel was blotted on his temples and cheeks. Continuing to wipe the sweat from his neck and chest, he checked the wound's tight stitches, which allowed for little bleeding. He only prayed the young soldier wasn't bleeding inside.

Tossing the towel aside, Clay limped over to the nearest chair and sat down wearily, trying to mask the anxiety in his heart. If Caleb Delancey noticed his concern, he allowed no comment.

"Can I get you a brandy?"

Clay turned to his captor, surprised at the offer. "Please."

Delancey walked to the sideboard and generously poured two snifters, motioning for Clay to stay seated as he served him. Mary was curled up in a chair by the fire, her cheek resting on her palm, sleeping restlessly. The others of his family had been ensconced in Miss Mathers' room, watched over in shifts by the soldiers as they all tried to get some sleep. Clay had been allowed to check on them, and though they seemed safe for the moment and comfortably provided for, his chest tightened in helplessness.

Now he waited tensely as the Yankee Colonel paced around the room nervously, watching as he opened cabinet doors and trinket boxes, approaching closer and closer to the lemonwood desk. "There are cigars in that humidor over there," Clay proposed, craning his neck in the direction of a table across the room.

The Northerner perked up at the suggestion. "Mosby tobacco?"

"Of course," he scoffed, then added laconically, "Though we're low on matches."

Delancey eagerly opened the container and took out two cigars, then took out a handful more, placing them inside a coat pocket. Reaching into another pocket, he brought out a box of lucifers and tossed them across the room. "Here. That should pay for the surgery."

Grinning derisively, Clay nodded. "In our economy, there would be interest remainin'." He lit his own cigar, then held the flame aloft for Delancey, who puffed enthusiastically at the smoke, exhaling with contentment.

"We lifted a shipment recently. Nothing but the best for our troops."

A cold smile wound around Clay's lips as he took another sip of brandy. "Glad to be so highly recommended."

Delancey took another drag and blew out a smoke ring, then sat down in the chair next to him. He tilted his head towards Mary. "You have a very beautiful wife."

Regarding him with icy calm, Clay responded carefully, "You overstep yourself, sir."

"My regrets." He flashed a teasing smile. "But I know of where I speak." Reaching into yet another pocket, the Yankee brought forth a carte de visite and handed it over. Smiling back at him was a tawny- haired woman's sweet heart-shaped face. Though it wasn't a flawless match, her resemblance to Mary was indeed apparent as the spark in her eyes shone in the photograph. Seated on a plush and tasseled chair, the beautiful woman struggled to keep a baby on her lap. "When I first saw Mrs. Mosby, I was quite taken aback. Then I realized that God had simply directed me to the right place to help Thomas." He glanced at his brother, who remained still, his breathing shallow but steady.

"She is resplendently attractive," Clay responded politely, returning the picture.

Caleb glanced again at the card, absent-mindedly scratching at his lush beard. "This was only taken three months ago. Her name is Mercy," he murmured, captivated by the photo. "And that is my daughter. Wilhemina, after my father. I'm told she has her mother's nose and chin, but my eyes." He sighed softly. "I've never yet held her."

Clay remained tight-lipped, memories of the loss of his son coursing through him with a dull ache.

Restless, Caleb stood again and strode over to the parlor's pianoforte, lighting brushing the keys with his fingers. "Do you mind?"

"If you don't think it will wake your brother."

Sitting down on the bench with surety, Caleb sounded a soft arpeggio and breathed in deeply. "No, I think this will help him." His fingers formed random chord patterns as they talked. "Your father was wounded in battle?"

"At Sharpsburg." The Southerner paused, then continued. "My brother was killed there."

"Sharpsburg?...Oh," Caleb nodded. "Antietam Creek." Then he said quietly, "So was our father."

Clay lowered his eyes in respect.

"You might have heard of him," Caleb continued. "William Floyd Delancey. He performed throughout the South many years ago. He was a concert pianist."

"No..." Clay began to shake his head, then stopped suddenly. "Yes...Yes, I did see him. At a concert hall in New Orleans when I was visitin' my cousins maybe ten years ago." His eyes crinkled in memory. "Accompanied by a novelty act, if I remember correctly. Two children that were musical prodigies." He smiled lightly. "Brothers in matchin' velveteen ruffles."

"We hated those outfits," Caleb chuckled. "Thomas and I finally found a convenient mud puddle one day and that was the last we saw of them." He glanced over at his brother, then launched into a soothing fantasie, his fingers caressing the keys, evoking images of soft summer rains and bubbling brooks. "If not for this war..." he murmured and preoccupied himself in melody and measure.

The music swirled around him and Clay became lost in his own thoughts, trying to reconcile his hatred of the enemy with his confusing sympathy for the man nearby.

While he still had his father, Delancey had lost his. His brother had died, but Delancey's survived. And while Delancey had been graced with a healthy daughter, Clay had suffered the most heart- breaking transposition of fate. How strange the capriciousness of nature, he thought, which had allowed the parallel lines of these two men's lives to converge in a comfortable parlor room in the middle of a snowy night, adversaries in an untenable war. How much promise was unfulfilled, he reflected, by the perversity of this universe, when so much was modified by the melancholy phrase 'if not for this war'. In another time and circumstance, he knew, they might have been friends.

As if in response, Caleb picked up the conversation. "Do you think it will end soon?"

"I pray so."

"It should have ended at Gettsyburg. Now who knows how long it will go on."

"I don't think the North realized there a war goin' on until Gettysburg."

Caleb grinned. "Did you eat the cherries?"

A smile rose on Clay's lips in sympathy. "Fortunately, Pickett arrived late enough in the battle to avoid bein' felled by that particular weapon," recalling the stories of agonizing cramps and runs on both sides, brought on by the desperate necessity to eat anything available to assuage their hunger. He sighed heavily. "Starvation is whippin' us, not artillery."

His captor nodded. "True. You have better leaders and strategies, but the North has the men and supplies."

Warily, Clay posed a question he'd heard often in the camps and communities. "Do you really think, then, this war is worth all the sacrifices you're makin'? Why not just let things be as they've been?"

"Nothing is 'sacrificed' when you're fighting for a man's freedom."

Pursing his lips in contemplation, Clay stubbed out the last of his cigar. "Seems we spend all our effort gainin' and losin' the same patch of land."

"Does seem that way, doesn't it?"

"Seems you never could play Chopin with any proper phrasing." A feeble voice rose from across the room. Both men looked over in amazement as Thomas pulled himself up slightly, scanning around the room. Clay lurched out of his chair and reached to feel the wounded man's forehead, then grinned at the warm but dry skin that evidenced recovery. Thomas blinked his startling blue eyes in amusement, then settled back on his cot.

Awoken by the clamor in the room, Mary sat up bleary-eyed, regarding the scene before her. Dawn's pink-orange light glowed through the windows and she smiled. "Merry Christmas."

Smirking from ear to ear, Caleb tucked the blankets back around his brother. "Yes, it is."

Exhausted by their long vigil, both Colonels passed out in parlor chairs, sleep coming easily with their relief at Thomas' condition. Clay dreamed of a room filled with swirling ball gowns, bobbing and rotating in a circular dance, their rich and varied colors blending into a soft, dew-glossed landscape of flowery designs. As he walked to the middle of the ballroom, the gowns all suddenly turned white except for one which remained a vibrant scarlet hue, and as the bright garment wove throughout the dance's pattern it stained pink the hem of the gowns it glanced against. He sought desperately to find the elusive owner of the dress but she was always beyond his reach, dipping and disappearing inside the promenade. Finally he found himself at the edge of the room, looking out though glass porch doors to find the red ball gown lying on the ground, covered in mud.

Clay woke suddenly and yawned, stretching his rested leg comfortably. To his surprise, only he and Thomas occupied the room, Delancey had left them alone. Stealing a glance at his still-sleeping patient, he rose carefully, then crept to the lemonwood desk and removed the hidden gun, tucking it in the waistband at the back of his trousers. Shucking on his discarded coat, Clay left the room slowly and started down the hallway.

He heard voices from the dining room and made his way there, surprised that no one seemed to be guarding the halls. Entering cautiously, he was greeted with the sight of his family being served breakfast by Permilla, watched over by only one of Delancey's men, who heartily clapped him on the shoulder in congratulations on the success of Thomas' surgery. Clay winced as the soldier's hand lowered but it stopped before the gun could be detected. His eyes locked onto Elisabeth's and he smiled. In turn, she squeezed Shelby's hand as he sat beside her. Robert took in a deep breath, then speared another side of ham and dropped it on his plate. The soldier begged Clay to join them at the table but he declined, anxious to see his wife. He was informed that Colonel Delancey and Mrs. Mosby were behind the house in the kitchens and he could get some well-deserved food there.

Clay raised his palm seemingly in a gesture of farewell and waited a moment, as Robert winked back at him. Then he left the room.

He tried to stroll by with an apparent casualness as he encountered another one of the Yankees on the pathway to the kitchens outside and received another congratulatory wave, accepting it as he passed with a humble nod of his head. Reaching behind his back, he was about to spin around and take the soldier when he heard shouting from the kitchens and revised his plan.

Limping quickly to the brick structure, he was alarmed to find Mary and Delancey in a heated argument, as the two remaining soldiers of his company opened cabinets and cupboards, removing the contents into a pile at the center of the room.

"You cannot make biscuits without shortenin'!" she was shrieking, and grabbed a small tub of butter out of a private's hands as he passed between them.

"Ma'am, you do not understand our need," Delancey responded, with a lessening patience.

"It is our need you do not recognize." Mary crossed her arms around her prize and glowered. "How are we to serve vegetables without sauce or meat without gravy? That's my flour!" she yelled, and kicked the shin of its possessor.

"Mary!" Clay's sharp tone momentarily distracted her and she retreated beside a cutting table. He regarded Colonel Delancey disdainfully. "Leavin' so soon?" The words slipped out with all the oiliness of the butter Mary held circled in her arms.

"My brother can travel, I think." Delancey gestured for his men to stop their tasks. "But we'll need adequate supplies to get out of the territory without notice."

"And you didn't think to just ask us?" Clay smiled obsequiously, one hand wrapping slowly behind his back.

The Yankee sneered in response. "No. It didn't occur to me."

Mary stepped between them. "It doesn't matter what we might offer or what you would take, it's still not enough for Christmas dinner. We'll have to find more if we're to feed our increased number."

Both men looked to her in confusion.

Innocently, she placed the drum of butter on the counter, and reached out for the flour sack, which was obligingly placed in her arms. "We're goin' to need at least one or two more birds in addition to the remainder of the ham. And Permilla will have to sacrifice her entire carrot patch, I'm afraid, or the beans will look overwhelmin' on the table by comparison."

"Mary...what are you babblin' about?"

"Christmas dinner, dearest," she responded, as if answering an idiot child. "The Mosbys do have a reputation to maintain."

"I think your wife might need some attending to," Delancey said with caustic politeness.

"I think she should be taken to the monkey house!" Clay retorted back. "Mary, you can't possibly be thinkin' we'd..."

"Sorry to interrupt, Colonel." Robert Shelby appeared at the doorway, holding the gun of the soldier he now pushed before him, and aimed it at Delancey. He was followed closely behind by Elisabeth and their parents. "If you're makin' plans, they might have to change now."

Lawrence Mosby easily disarmed the surprised solider nearest him and passed the gun to Elisabeth, making it two against two.

Yankee and Rebel regarded each other across the room, a growing tension heating their faces. Delancey was assessing the situation as his soldiers looked to him for instruction but his eyes betrayed no decision. Holding his breath, Clay ran his thumb over the smooth bore of the gun he grasped behind his back. He shifted uneasily off his wounded leg but gave no quarter.

Mary's gaze slipped from Colonel to Colonel in wonder, until she could take no more. She tssked her disgust, then laughed. "It's Christmas Day, you idgits! Can't you declare a truce?"

Delancey looked at her sharply, marveling at her calm but determined demeanor. He started to speak, then bit off his own words. What could he possibly say to such a reasonable and impassioned request? His blue eyes blinked in amazement several times and then he found himself unconsciously lowering his gun and placing it on the counter beside him. He turned back to his adversary and shrugged. "I am...at your command."

Lawrence Mosby took his wife's hand in his and squeezed firmly. Elisabeth crowed triumphantly, then covered her mouth in embarrassment.

Aware of the import of the situation, Clay straightened his vest with his free hand and glanced at his wife, who waited impatiently.

A knowing smile curled up the sides of Robert's mouth as they all looked to his best friend for direction. Pursing his lips in resignation, Clay returned the Yankee's shrug. "Not at mine," he replied, tilting his head towards a self-assuredly satisfied Mary. He brought his own gun to the fore and placed it next to Delancey's, whose eyes widened in shock at the weapon. All other guns were lowered as well.

Mary held out her hand to the Northerner, who brushed his lips over her knuckles tenderly as she curtseyed. "Dinner at three o'clock, gentlemen. I think that's enough time for all of you to bathe, is it not?"

One of the Yankees started to whoop in glee, but was quickly shushed by his commander. With twinkling eyes, Delancey smiled at the fierce woman standing before him. "If the charming ladies of the South were fighting this war, Ma'am. With their ammunition of grace and sensibility," he said, bowing deeply, "it would have ended on the second day."

By mid-morning, a small but sturdy pine tree had been felled and placed in the front parlor, its branches adorned with the strings of popcorn, its boughs garnished with ribbons from the women's own plaiting supplies, arranged and re-arranged endlessly under Laurel Russell's direction.

Robert directed two of the better Yankee marksmen to a thicket of woods where wild turkeys were more often spotted and after a cheerful contest of skill, they were amply rewarded with a large succulent bird. Permilla basted and seasoned it throughout the morning, watching over it with more diligence than any stalwart soldier there. Katherine Mosby used the last of their sugar to make caramelized apples, the commodity so dear in expense that she was forced to retrieve a dropped fruit from the floor. Placing it on the tray's edge, she reminded herself to take that one for her own, lest anyone discover its less- than-perfect sphere to her ultimate disgrace.

Lawrence Mosby brought out the last of the Madeira and his favorite whiskeys, tasting them frequently, he offered in defensive, only to make sure their guests were being served the best. Caleb Delancey joined him for a short while before taking his appointed place at the piano, enthusiastically playing hymns and Christmas favorites throughout the day.

Excitement suffused the hallways as Mary assigned one task, then another to the nearest available and eager recruit. Miss Mathers was gently carried from her room and set beside Thomas in the front parlor where the gathering was to be held, cackling with admiration for Yankee integrity and Southern spirit. Only Elisabeth was not to be found, solicitously disappearing to her bedroom in protest.

After a short bath himself, which was allowed only after fulfilling the required task of joining the line to replenish the hot water used by the bath's previous occupant, Clay joined Mary in their bedroom, helping her into the blue moiré dress from two years ago. He could see how it had been sewn and repaired several times but held back comment, trying to allay Mary's own distress at having to wear the previously-seen gown. She clucked her tongue at its worn material and sullenly sat down on the bed, her sadness and frustration evident.

"Dearest, none of the other women are wearing new dresses. And Delancey's men have never seen it before." He sat down beside her as she leaned back and splayed herself over the comforter.

"I know." She tugged at Clay's hands, pulling him onto her and they giggled. "Maybe next year, we'll go to Atlanta and I'll get a whole new wardrobe."

"If I have to tell General Lee hisself that the war must stop for this, it will happen." He brushed his lips over her cheek with the tenderest of caresses. "Or rather, you should attend to this. You can be quite convincin' when the need is there." His mouth opened against hers but she pushed him away gently.

"Was I wrong? I only wished to have a Christmas celebration."

"And you always get your wish."

She stood up rapidly and crossed her arms. "I am not doin' this for selfish reasons."

Clay rose up, unsatisfied, and waited for her to continue.

"I wanted to do this for Colonel Delancey and his men. They deserve it."

"Deserve it!" he sputtered incredulously. "They put guns to our heads and held us prisoner! Mary, they were stealin' our supplies!"

"And they committed an act braver than any I've seen in quite some time." She turned the diamond and garnet ring over and over on her finger as Clay stood up and hobbled over to the armoire to select a vest, his back turned to her in frustration. "Don't you understand? They had to avail themselves upon the mercy of their enemy. They were as scared as you were. Truly, they couldn't be sure they would be able to take the upper hand." Joining him, she wrapped her arms around her husband's waist and rested her cheek on his shoulder.

"They knew."

"No. But they knew it was Christmas and people should be actin' like they want to, not like they think they should."

He turned in her arms and took her chin in one hand, searching her eyes for reason, but was too blind to see any. Shrugging it off lightly, he kissed her on the forehead. "You are a caution."

"Oh, my poor foolish husband, to understand so little." They laughed softly in concert at her endlessly repeated characterization of his sadly lacking comprehension. "You don't fight a country, you fight a man. You can also make peace with that same man." She curled herself into his neck and clung fast to him. "It's not goin' to matter who wins or loses this war; we're still goin' to have to live together when it's over. We'll have to rebuild together." With an impassioned gaze, she looked back up at him. " better place to start than here and better time to start than now."

Wrapping a chestnut-brown tendril of hair around one finger, he shook his head. "The world just isn't makin' sense anymore."

"That's right." Her hands gripped his shoulders, digging in painfully. "So you must make the only sense you can in this senseless time. That's what bein' a leader is about, Clay. You're so respected, your actions are followed without question."

"Your faith in me, Mary, is beyond merit. I've failed this family miserably."

"No!" She turned him around so their images stood side by side in the armoire's full-length mirror. "You have never failed us, dearest. You've always set us the right example."

"Only by followin' yours."

Her breath caught in a sob and he saw her silent tears reflected in the glass. "You flatter me, husband, for I've only tried to act as I've learned from you. From your sense of responsibility, your strength..." Turning again, he took her in his arms and held her gently as she cried, out of fear, out of love.

"Was I wrong, Clay?"

He pressed his lips to hers in a bittersweet kiss. "Followin' your heart is never wrong. That's what you've taught me."

Sniffling, her eyes held his. "And you will never forget that?"

Teasingly, he nodded his head, but replied softly, "No."

By three-thirty, Clay popped the cork on their last bottle of champagne as the women laid the feast out on a long table set in the parlor. By five o'clock, both sides had attacked the meal with such abandon, there wasn't a crumb left for Permilla to sweep up as the men retired to the gaming room for brandy and cigars and the women sat together to praise the holiday's success. Gratefully excluded from their chatter, Thomas lay back on his bed, a smile on his face as he dozed off in contentment.

Elisabeth appeared only once to fix herself a plate of food and returned to her bedroom in martyrdom. Now Mary was distracted in frustration that not all were at ease. Without thinking, she left the parlor and strode into the men's domain, asking that Clay try once again to persuade her to join them.

After a brief time upstairs, he descended cautiously down the grand staircase to the foyer where Mary waited, her arms crossed over her chest in defiance. She already knew the answer by the defeat on his face.

"Elisabeth will not be moved."

Mary flung her hands out furiously. "Is she so high and mighty..."

"Shush, now. Beth is Beth and she has every right to behave the way she wants." He took her hand in his and guided her to join the others in the parlor. "She has not learned at your eminently wise feet, as have I."

She glanced sideways at her husband to determine his seriousness, noting his struggle to keep the corners of his mouth from rising in a smile.

After moving all the furniture to the sides of the room, the motley assembly at the Mosby Christmas Ball of 1863 joined together in dance and song, Caleb Delancey playing the piano with spirit and finesse. Despite his wounded leg, or perhaps in spite of it, Clay refused to sit out any dance and in turn partnered each woman with glee. In between reels, they were entertained by several of the soldiers who could dance the Highland Fling, and one even managed a decent Hornpipe before collapsing on the floor in a tangle of arms and legs.

A challenge was sent up between the two factions in song, each trying to outdo the other, if not in ability of pitch, at least in sweetness of tune. "The Southern Marseillaise" was countered with "Yankee Doodle." "Hail Columbia" came from one end, then "Dixie" from the other, with the Yankees admitting that "Dixie" might be the best song of all. Caleb took it upon himself to even out the field, striking up "Nearer, My God, To Thee" and "Rock of Ages" when the battle become too boisterous. In concert they sang "Home Sweet Home" and "Auld Lang Syne".

Voices hoarse and in need of refreshment, another round of drinks was served and then more dancing began. Caleb was relieved of his musical duty by Katherine Mosby, who played sweet serenades, allowing him to dance first with Laurel Russell, who hooted at the thought of telling her Atlanta cousins about her waltz with a Yankee, and then with Mary, holding her tenderly in his arms. They made an attractive pair and Clay watched with a tempered jealousy, distracted only when Robert took his hand and brought him out on the floor, his "female" role designated by a ribbon around his arm. Clay laughed at his simpering femininity, then scolded him for his boldness in asking a man to dance.

As the candles burned down and stifled yawns began to appear around the room, Caleb returned to the piano. He fingered the keys lightly, improvising and adding an interesting counterpoint to the popular romantic songs of the day, shifting from "Kathleen Malvourn" to "Lorena" to "Amazing Grace". Then, without knowing its import, he selected what he knew to be "Greenselves" as his final song.

The notes wrapped around them tightly in a cloak of still and sober peacefulness as Clay took Mary into his arms and they waltzed together, watched by the now-weary revelers. Burying his lips in her sweet-scented hair, he closed his eyes and tried to will the world away, raising a prayer to God that the war would end soon and they would all be safe and together once more. When the music ended, they continued in dance as the rest of the party crept quietly out of the room to their beds, whispering heartfelt Christmas wishes to each other as they exited. Only when Thomas Delancey finally cleared his throat loudly did Clay open his eyes and see the emptied room.

Caleb stood up from the piano and, after tucking the blankets tight around his brother, blew out the remaining candles. The trio remained standing, regarding each other in the warm glow of the flickering firelight, reluctant to return to the insanity of the world beyond this special time.

Then Mary placed a lingering kiss on the Northerner's cheek and whispered, "Merry Christmas, Caleb."

His voice craggy with sentiment, Caleb nodded back. "Merry Christmas, Mary." He shook the other Colonel's hand. "Merry Christmas, Clay."

"Merry Christmas." And with that, the couple left the room.

They made love solemnly, unhurried, with an intensity that sent waves of heat beneath his skin straight into bone. As Clay covered her body with his, he knew it was part of an impulse to shelter her and backed off, but Mary pressed him so deep inside her that their breath came in short rhythmic gasps, their bodies needed to move only slightly to send shivers of delight through their nerves. His blood sang with Mary's song, and she harmonized in turn, their joyous hymn exalting a love and constancy that was rare to find in any age. Each individual heart was strengthened by their connection, each soul completed by the other's.

He prayed that she might conceive another child this night as the best and most important way they could celebrate their undying devotion and love for each other. Surely God would grant one simple wish by a man about to return to battle, insuring that Mary's spirit would live on in her succeeding generations. Fervently he bent to that task to Mary's amusement, who looked up at him in faith and trust and abandon and then arched her back in rapture, shuddering with the force of his passion for her.

In the cool morning light, Clay stood once more at their bedroom window, watching as Delancey led his company of men out of the stables, taking several horses as well as a wagon where Thomas lay and a not- insubstantial amount of the remainder of their provisions.

Mary stole up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. "Let them go. You would have done the same."

"I hope I would have left somethin' more than dust in the larder," he snorted, too scared and happy to worry himself further. Buttoning up his uniform, he turned around and hugged her, kissed her honey-sweet lips and whispered in her ear, "Good-bye". He strode to the door as rapidly as his wounded leg would allow, then turned back, raising a hand in caution for Mary not to follow. Silently, he mouthed "I love you" and she nodded, her cheeks flushed and already shining with tears.

Waiting in the courtyard, Robert Shelby brought his companion's horse next to a sturdy tree and watched as his dearest friend took the reins with one hand, placed his right foot partway up the tree and used it to push himself up, to place his left foot into the stirrup. Grabbing the horn, Clay arranged himself in the saddle and reined the horse around to face the house, finding Mary standing at the window, brushing her long chocolate-brown hair. She blew him a kiss and he saluted.

It was the last time he saw her alive.

CURTIS WELLS, DECEMBER 1880

"Worthey, Edgar, Herrick, Russell, Mosby, Mosby, Mosby, Mosby..."

Raking a quavering hand through his coal-black locks, he took a long pull from the whiskey bottle, loathsome images floating before his eyes as he sat in the quiet saloon.

Only three months after the holiday, Clay's company of raiders was caught in a trap set by a duplicitous contact, and cut down during a rapid but deadly exchange of crossfire. They could only pray that Mary's brother Jamey Russell, made it home after Clay ordered him to take all able-bodied men away before they surrendered, in desperate need of medical help. The three officers besides Clay were separated from the rest of their men, who were promptly shot and buried in a trench the rebels were forced to dig, before being marched to the Lookout Island prison camp off the Maryland mainland where they spent the last year of the war in a pestilent hell of filth and death.

His litany was extended when he returned home in the spring of '65, to find his family dead, butchered and ruthlessly tossed into a common grave. Just Clay and Robert made the long, arduous trek home following release from the prison camp after the Confederacy's surrender at Appomattox. Philip Layton had died in Clay's arms during the diphtheria epidemic. Cory Herrick, Elisabeth's fiancee, had committed suicide in camp, desperately ashamed at dishonoring his friends by breaking during the Yankee's torture. Left without arms or horses, they measured the distance in farmhouse to farmhouse as they begged for food during the grueling walk, until they arrived at the plantation late in June.

A squalid wind blew a stinging powdery ash in their faces as they came upon the black, scorched lawn of Hatton Willows and took in the destruction. To their amazement, they were greeted by a stunned, weeping Jasper, his face lined with grief and wear, and clung to him as he recounted his terrible story. Charred timbers and splintered tree limbs marked all that was left of the stables and garden. The tobacco fields were reduced to dust, eddies of brown and black swirled in small tornadoes despite the clear summer day. Nothing was left of the once great house but a row of blistered and burnt columns that had all crumbled, but for one.

Ruin and rubble crunched under every footstep as Clay walked down what was once the entrance hall, mute in pain at the sight. Jagged edges were all that remained of each room's walls, mottled with grime and moss. As he stepped from chamber to chamber, he would occasionally see the disconcerting sight of a chair only half-burnt, its velvet cushions shimmering in the sun, or a pile of wine glasses, still intact and shining clear and clean.

Sifting through the ashes, he located and opened the safe under what used to be his father's downstairs study. He couldn't imagine what the contents would be. A cloud of soot blew up from burned and tattered papers - land deeds, stocks and bonds, and bundles of Confederate money. Worthless, he laughed. Every one of them. Digging deeper, to his shock, he found the picture of himself at nineteen years old he'd given to Mary the first year of the war. With trembling hands he picked up the surprisingly undamaged cabinet card. Would he have smiled that innocently if he had known what the future held?

Now, at twenty-three, Clay had nothing. His wife was gone, his brother and sister were gone, his parents were gone, all killed while he was away saving acquaintances and strangers. Selfishly he wept that he had no tangible remembrances of any of them, including the cameo portrait of Mary, which had been crushed into the dirt and destroyed when he entered prison camp. The only reminder he had was a feeling of complete failure and the understanding that he deserved the barren, scourged landscape that was his inheritance.

The only usable item he found in the safe was a loaded gun that he picked up and put to his head. If there was a just God, He would allow him to join Mary.

Suddenly Robert was there, kicking the gun away, breaking two of Clay's fingers. They scrambled for it, but Robert won. It took a sucker punch from his best friend to temporarily stop the anger and pain.

He tried again to kill himself later that day after they disinterred the bodies from their makeshift shallow graves and reburied them in the family cemetery. Small sproutlings of spruce and pine rose up through the scorched ground as Jasper and Robert dug deep graves in the searing heat, Clay too paralyzed with grief to help. Jasper quietly recounted the horrors he had witnessed on that terrible day as he hid outside the house, listening in fear as the Yankees raped the women, hearing the screams and gunshots that spelled their murders.

Bile soured in Clay's throat as the brutality of his family's mutilation at their killers' whim was revealed as the rotting, corrupted bodies were placed in hastily assembled coffins. All of the women's ring fingers had been cut off for their wedding bands, and Mary's garnet and diamond ring was gone as well. Their throats had been cut and their hair chopped off. His father's right hand and leg had been cut off to match the loss on his left side. Jasper had not been able to recover all the pieces, assuming they had burned in the fire. It was a sight of unwarranted vindictiveness and insanity made all the more vicious in light of the nearing Federal victory, and it made him retch to think of the fear and pain in his family's final hours.

Clay sat in the parish church for three days afterwards, never moving, never speaking. Robert brought him food but it remained untouched. Jasper brought him a coat and blanket, but they remained unworn. When he finally walked out on the third day, he never walked into a church again.

He buried his uniform under the blistered front porch of the house, but kept the beard that had grown lush and full during his time in prison camp, for he was a different person now and the beard would serve as a mask to prevent him from seeing who he once had been. With a final farewell at the gravesides of his family, his wife and his son, he walked away from Hatton Willows, never turning back, never to return.

Accompanied by their devoted servant, Clay and Robert went first to Atlanta, to find Mary's remaining family and tell them of her death. It was there he saw the first glimpse into a new dream, admiring the way the citizens of that sorely besieged city had refused to let the tragedy of ruin defeat them, uniting together in their zeal and stubbornness to rebuild grandeur out of the ashes.

They traveled next to New Orleans to see if any of Katherine Mosby's family were still alive and found Olivia Jessup there, scratching out a meager existence in gambling dens and dance halls. Together they gave solace to each other and through the good auspices of Olivia's connections and rapidly-returning luck, regained some measure of pride and status. But as soon as the first Christmas came around, Clay sunk into a morass of pain and sorrow that lasted nearly five years. In vain, Robert sought information regarding the murderers of Hatton Willows, hoping this would help his friend out of his depression, but in all the time spent there, the only thing they learned was that the men who killed his family were under Sheridan's command. Clay despaired of his family's death being forever unserved by justice.

Finally leaving the complacency of New Orleans, they traveled up the Mississippi from town to town, gambling, grifting, robbing and swindling, doing whatever was necessary to survive. Since the senseless destruction of his home and his country, Clay was inwardly seeking for somewhere to build a life again, that had the love and tenderness he so sorely missed. But no place seemed to fulfill his needs and so they drifted for years around the newly established cities of the West, spending extended time in San Francisco and Denver, but also roughing it with miners and farmers, spending their ill-gotten gain in the whistle-stops and stage-coach transfer towns that dotted the plains.

It wasn't until he reached Curtis Wells that he felt a long- dormant pull at his heart which sabotaged his normally controlled, cool exterior. He felt he belonged there but couldn't fathom why, until he met Hannah Peale. Hannah went beyond a mere physical resemblance to his late wife. She had the same fire, the same ever-gnawing hunger for life. He took it as a sign that if he couldn't be with Mary, the Lord was now bringing her back to him. When he saw Hannah, he thought his patience had paid off.

But the relationship was doomed from the start. To his chagrin, Clay inadvertently brought Hannah and the still wet-behind-the-ears Newt Call together by mistakenly providing an opportunity for Newt to invite her to dinner. She lost her heart to the young man and Clay never had a chance.

In spite of his and Robert's botched robbery attempt there, and disregarding the unflinching commitment of the now-married Calls, Clay returned to the town, unwilling to give up so easily. Inured in a new spirituality learned in New Orleans that valued signs and portents, he saw it as the next step to salvation when he won the Pig's-Eye Saloon on a well-played hand of cards, and relished his new-found role as an increasingly important and seemingly legitimate member of the community.

But only a year later, Hannah was killed as cruelly and mercilessly as Mary and his heart crumbled to dust. He seriously considered selling the re-christened Ambrosia Club and finding Robert to take up their nefarious career when the second tragedy of Sweetwater's fiery destruction occurred and in a time of confusion and lack of authority, his leadership abilities led the distraught citizens out of their despair, folding them into what he now thought of as "his" town, the ever-growing, ever-muddy streets of Curtis Wells. He rescued Hannah's brother Austin from the depths of a drunken misery as well, nurturing him with a chance at power and self-respect, in addition to installing her father as Mayor.

It was then he realized Hannah's resemblance to his greatest love was the sign that it was here he was to build. Here was where his early dreams could be realized in a community pulling together reluctantly towards an unknown future. He was meant to be in Curtis Wells.

Now, on a lonely Christmas Eve, he was questioning why he bothered. Austin was challenging their friendship and his authority, Josiah was still roiling in a haze of insanity and grief. His efforts at increasing the town's collateral strength, by bringing in a railroad or investing in a mine, were being thwarted by chance or circumstance, or more frequently by Newt Call, who seemed to apply his erratic and self-centered energy to needling and opposing him at each turn.

Although achieving the wealth and status due to him from his monied past, Mosby felt the same stark fear that followed him since his last hour in Hatton Willows. Even finding his family's murderer here hadn't abated his emptiness. He would forever be discounted and decried. He would forever be alone.

Laughter echoed from across the street and Mosby cringed, his soul cramping in agony.

He thought he'd gotten the joy of Christmas back that year in Texas, while teaching fencing and other 'gentlemanly' sports at the San Antoine Academy. The boys idolized him and the holiday promised to be what it once was, until a jealous co-worker accused him of sleeping with his wife and the school's director dismissed him in disgrace. He should have returned and set the record straight, for he been sleeping around - with the director's wife.

Or the time in St. Louis with Olivia Jessup and her second? third? husband. There had been a great air of festivity in their hearts and plenty to celebrate. Money had been rolling in and prospects looked good for expanding their 'business'. There'd even been a very sweet banker's daughter he'd been having trouble keeping out of his heart. Then they almost gotten caught running the Delta scam and had to sneak out of town with only the clothes on their backs, and those with several bullet holes in them as well.

Now he was lonely and tired, of the search and of his unfulfilled dreams. Let others handle the responsibility. Let others suffer the sweat and worry. He envied their strength and unstained capacity for happiness. Could he learn to trust and love again? Could he ever hope to get Christmas back? He saw only one reasonable answer to his question.

Cocking the pistol, he placed it on his temple.

The lamps in the room abruptly flared and he blinked several times at the blinding shimmer. He felt light-headed and a bell-like timbre rang in his ears. Suddenly, the saloon was infused with the scent of gardenias. A white mist appeared into the center of the room, gradually taking on solid form.

His heart leapt into his throat as he recognized Mary's sweet, heart-shaped face. She stood before him in her wedding dress, her long hair billowing behind her. Her arms crossed over her chest in defiance as she nodded at the gun in his hand.

"Clay. Dearest. What ever are you doin'?"

"I want to be with you, Mary. We should never have been torn apart."

"Oh, no, Clay. You can't do this. here in this filthy bar and not while your friends are waitin' for you." He felt a soft hand pull the gun away and place it on the table. "It's Christmas."

Clay's eyes narrowed. "I don't celebrate Christmas anymore."

"No?"

He stood and walked towards the vision, but she remained just out of reach. "I can't..."

"My poor foolish husband." He thought he saw her eyes take in the room around her, though they burned with a blazing sightlessness. Then she looked back at him and opened her arms in an embrace of compassion that he felt down to his soul despite the elusive distance between them.

"You wanted to build somethin'. You were right to build it here. This town needs you - and you need this town. But do you want to build a future without Christmas? I wouldn't want to live there!" She laughed a silvery laugh and Clay felt glittering chills run down his spine.

"But the pain is always there." He pleaded with her, the vision blurred by stinging tears. "I can't make it go away."

"That gun won't do it, Clay. You have to find peace. You have to find a way to heal. This constant immersion in your dark thoughts keeps you under the waterline. Come up for air, dearest. Breathe the sweet love around you. Begin again with joy and hope of this time of year."

Clay shook his head, defeated. "I don't know how..."

"Francis Clay Mosby. You've forgotten everythin' I said!" She crossed her arms again and tssked indulgently. "No one is goin' to =give= you Christmas. You have to take it back yourself. If you want it bad enough..."

The vision began to fade from view and he rushed towards her.

"Mary," he cried. "Don't leave me."

"We'll be together again, dearest. But not yet. You still have so much to do."

"Wait!"

"I love you." was all he heard as she vanished. The fragrant sweetness of gardenia washed over him again and he sank to the floor, weeping.

Only moments later, Mosby raised himself shakily on one knee and wiped his tears away with his shirtcuff. The gilt-papered walls of the saloon were dull and cold to him as he stood in the thundering quiet. He thought his emptiness couldn't be more complete.

Then he heard the song again...his and Mary's song...and the night shattered.

Slowly, he gathered the scattered account ledgers from the floor and set them on a nearby table. He corked the whiskey bottle and set it on the bar. Drawing in a shuddery breath, he holstered his gun and started across the room.

Then he smiled.

He raced up the stairs, the song following him persistently, and he started to sing along.

"...So bring Him incense, gold, and myrrh, come peasant king to own Him..."

Careening around the corner to his bedroom, he ripped off his soiled vest and shirt, and splashed his face with freezing water from the wash basin. He toweled off quickly, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, golden skin glowing with the flush of alcohol, his long hair encircling his collar with bouncing ringlets the envy of any 12-year old city girl. His beard needed a trim and he commended himself to stop by the tonsorial parlor as soon as it opened.

"...The King of kings, salvation brings. Let lovin' hearts enthrone him."

Grabbing the topmost starched shirt in the bureau he put it on, nearly tearing one shoulder in his zeal, then reached for his red and gold vest and his best black coat. Ramming his arms into the sleeves, he hurriedly tied a ruffled stock as he walked briskly into his office.

"...Raise, raise the song on high, the Virgin sings her lullaby! Joy, joy, for Christ is born, the Babe, the Son of Mary!"

Mosby picked up the 20-year old bottle of Scotch from his desk and pivoted briskly, then remembered a package Luther had delivered to him from the previous day's stage. He had promised himself not to open it until the 25th, but all bets were off now, he laughed.

Cradling the bottle under his arm, he ripped off the brown wrapping paper with childish abandon and beheld a thin, leather-bound book. Turning its spine to read the title, he laughed again and checked inside for an inscription.

"To my brother," it read. "If you will not listen to me, perhaps you will listen to Charles Dickens before it is too late. Be happy. Love, Robert Shelby"

Mosby cackled and put the volume down on his desk for later reading. "Merry Christmas, Robert!" he shouted. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Dickens!"

Perhaps God had allowed him to cheat death for so long, he realized, because He knew that Clay might eventually be saved. And wouldn't that be somethin' to be celebrated.

Smoothing down his vest, Clay bounded out of the room.

A fresh layer of snow blanketed Main Street and blew into his face as Francis Clay Mosby tightened his coat around him in the chill and walked up the steps to the Lonesome Dove hotel.

His hand paused on the doorknob and he turned around, looking up at night's glittering sky and the softly falling flakes. Inhaling deeply, he thought he smelled the fragrance of Hatton Willows once more, with bayberry and lemonwood, syllabubs and oysters, combined with the spruce and pine of Montana. He smiled again.

"Merry Christmas, Mary."

He turned the knob and opened the door.

 

Author's Note: With all due jealousy and respect, I take no credit for the way the injured Clay gets onto his horse at the end of the Hatton Willows section. That was purely Roberta Stuemke's device and I shamelessly stole it, because of its inventiveness and originality. Would that this five foot tall scribe had known her when I was taking horse-back riding lessons, it would have saved me the humiliation of constantly having to find a cupped hand to spring from.

Historical Notes: Since this was written from a Rebel's point-of-view, all battles have been given their Confederate names. Some might recognize First Manassas better as the Battle of Bull Run, and Sharpsburg is more popularly called Antietam, the "bloodiest day" of the war. Generally, the North named the battles after a nearby body of water if possible; the South named them for the nearest town. "Rebel" is also a controversial term to some Southerners, as Jefferson Davis referred to it as a "revolution", but I side with the Richmond Daily Dispatch who put it in print in 1862. The appellation "Yankee" goes back as early as 1633.

The 14th Virginia Regiment (composed of roughly 1,000 men) was one of several in a Brigade, or "wing" (@ 5,000 men), which in turn, was one of three in a Division (@ 10-12,000 men), which was one of three in a Corps (@ 33,000 men), which was assigned to an Army, of which there were 23 in the Confederate States of America. The 14th was part of Corps I in the Army of Northern Virginia; this was General Robert E. Lee's army. (Corps II was commanded by "Stonewall" Jackson until his death by an accident on his own men's part.) Regiments, led by a Colonel, were usually made up of men from the same general area. They were divided into Battalions of 2 to 10 companies, a Company being made up of 50 to 100 men, and commanded by a Captain. In addition, Colonels also led small or special brigades of men, sometimes referred to as "partisan brigades". These "raiders" or "rangers" were guerrilla outfits that were officially sanctioned by the Confederacy.

Slave vs. Servant: Some might object to the apparent political incorrectness of using "servant" when a slave is being referenced. Sorry. 1862 wasn't a decidedly correct time and it was common practice in the South to refer to owned Africans as servants.

Writer's Note: Those of you who toil in the trenches of paragraph and chapter will understand when I say that many times the characters told their own story and I was simply the transcriber of their tale. Mary Mosby, God love her, kept asserting herself, interrupting me constantly and surprising me with her passionate and stubborn nature. Little wonder Clay loved her so much. I hope I have depicted her as fair and strong and someone whose fierce love could never be replaced so easily.

07/31/00
 

 
 

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