On This Night: A Civil War Mystery

On This Night

Copyright © 2021 Debra B. Diaz

All rights reserved

First digital edition 2014

First print edition 2019

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Except for historical figures and events, the characters and events in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or any similarity to past or present non-historical events is coincidental.

Book Cover by 100Covers

Interior Design by FormattedBooks.com

Acknowledgments

My deepest thanks to the Interpretation staff at the Natchez Trace Parkway, Tupelo, Mississippi, for use of the park’s library; and to Jeff Mansell, historian at Natchez National Historical Park, for providing valuable information and recommending reference materials.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Notes From Debra

References

Other Books By Debra B. Diaz

Chapter One

Mallory walked swiftly away from the house, her skirts trailing in the dust of the long avenue under the oaks. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get away. Behind her the sprawling mansion seemed to watch like the avid gaze of an old maiden aunt who thrives on criticizing the actions of ot hers.

But she’d done nothing to be ashamed of, not this time. She’d just promised to marry the owner of Wakefield House, the vast plantation that had once been a showplace, a marvel of beauty and industry, worked by more than four hundred slaves and one of the largest suppliers of cotton in the South.

It now bore the appearance of a once fine house neglected for years. Its massive white columns were stained by moss. The green shutters beside the windows needed painting, and one sagged drearily where it had come loose in a storm. The entire red brick facade of the house seemed faded and sad, where once it had gleamed with vitality and charm.

Logan had tried to keep up the grounds since his return, but there was only so much he could do. The hedges needed trimming and the grass grew tall around the sheds and outbuildings and along the pond bank in front of the house. The gardens, famed throughout the state for their beauty, existed no more except as a wild tangle of trampled dead flowers and meandering vines.

Mallory turned onto the narrow road leading to the river. It was several miles to Natchez and the banks of the Mississippi but she wouldn’t go all the way—not when the road would lead her to that lonely place on the bluff where her own house had stood.

There was a spot along the road, a little grove shaded by trees curtained heavily with Spanish moss. She knew it well. She would stop there, sit on a tree stump, and think about what she had done.

Indian summer had lingered late into October, not unusual for southern Mississippi. It was a magical time of year, a time when the oppressive heat of summer began to surrender to a mild warmth and finally to an invigorating chill that seemed to arrive overnight. The azure skies were often filled with billowing white clouds that at dawn and dusk were tinged with lavender and pink and a deep golden orange. Here in the woods, the leaves of the hickory trees and river birches would become yellow and red and rustle pleasantly downward…

At least, Mallory had once thought it magical.

Once, autumn had seemed like a time hanging suspended and breathless, holding within itself a promise even greater than the rebirth that came with spring. That feeling had died with her hopes, her dreams, unless…did she dare let any glimmering of hope creep back into her heart? Did she dare believe that Logan could take away this sense of futility, of having lost something of her soul that could never be replaced?

She approached the grove of trees, knowing she shouldn’t come out this far alone. But she often did—whenever she could escape the eagle eye of Logan’s stepmother. It was warm today. There had been only a few cool days and the leaves were just beginning to change color. A small pile had drifted down to form a crackling carpet beneath her feet and she could hear birds scrabbling busily within it. The fluting call of a wood thrush drifted to her ears, mingling with the shrill voices of crickets and katydids.

A dead tree had fallen and lay in scattered segments, but the stump was smooth and made a perfect place for sitting. Mallory sank gratefully onto it and pulled the handkerchief from the sash at her waist to wipe her perspiring face. Wisps of chestnut-colored hair curled around her temples and some of it had escaped the thick knot pinned at the nape of her neck. Her gray, thickly lashed eyes lifted to the lowering sky.

Twilight was approaching. She couldn’t stay long but she had to be alone. She had to think.

It was a little late for thinking! She’d promised to marry Logan, and although his proposal was not a surprise, she hadn’t spent a lot of time considering what she would say. She really had no choice in the matter. Wakefield House had survived the war—her own plantation had not.

Grace Hall hadn’t been as large as Wakefield House but was beautiful and sturdily built, having survived the winds from the devastating tornado that had ripped through Natchez and along the bluff twenty-five years earlier, killing hundreds of people. The plantation had been called Grace of God, built by her grandparents at the turn of the century by—they said—the grace of God. The name had eventually been shortened to Grace Hall.

Mallory’s mother died of yellow fever when Mallory was a child during the epidemic of 1853. Her father had died two years ago. The doctor’s conclusion was influenza but the Yankees claimed it was yellow fever, even though there was no epidemic that year, and they had promptly burned the house.

They said that was why they burned it. Mallory strongly suspected a different reason.

The Wakefields were her nearest neighbors. Logan had still been away at war but his stepmother was there, and his widowed sister. They had taken her in, although Mallory couldn’t say that it was with any great enthusiasm. She had nowhere else to go and no relatives, other than a widowed aunt who lived in Charleston.

The slaves had run away, a few at a time at first, and then—after the battle of Vicksburg when thousands of Yankee soldiers had flooded Natchez—most of those remaining had fled. Some had joined the Union army and a few, afraid of the Yankees, joined the Confederate army.

Some had gone north while others stayed in the general vicinity and later came back, asking to work and be paid wages. No one had any money with which to pay them. Many drifted away again.

There were still others who didn’t go away yet refused to work and created fear and confusion in the environs of the city. Of the four hundred slaves that had once kept the grounds of Wakefield House, worked in the house and plowed the fields, only Tipper remained.

Tipper, with whom she shared a terrible secret.

She wouldn’t think of that now. She had to get used to the idea of being Mrs. Logan Wakefield. Logan was part of her childhood, part of a life that no longer existed for either of them. Of course she had to marry him. Who else was there to marry? She had no home, nowhere else to go. And he looked so much like Stuart…

She didn’t want to think of Stuart either. It wasn’t exactly a matter of thinking about him for he was always there, living in her mind in that special place she had created for him. But rarely did she acknowledge his presence.

Just before the war began Mallory had gone with Logan’s sister, Brooke, to visit their Wakefield relatives in Philadelphia. Mallory was seventeen and it was her first journey as a grown-up young woman. She was awed by the great, historic city. They’d stayed in a fine hotel and Brooke’s uncle and aunt had taken them every day to see the sights: Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, the museums.

One night while dining in one of the city’s restaurants they were joined by Brooke and Logan’s cousin, Stuart Wakefield.

He was older than Logan, probably about thirty or so at the time. Mallory could remember every detail of his appearance: dark hair and intent and perceptive eyes, green with warm flecks of brown. She was friendly but not coquettish. She could tell that he liked her.

There was a ball the next night. He asked her to dance—no, he hadn’t asked but suddenly they were dancing. The waltz was slow in tempo and there had been a moment when he had looked at her and something passed between them that made them both stop. While others danced around them he’d led her out onto a terrace and asked if he could visit her in Natchez. She couldn’t remember what she’d said but it seemed to satisfy him, and he had lifted her hand and kissed it.

The next day was the last of their visit. A week later Fort Sumter was fired upon by the Confederates. She’d never seen or heard from Stuart again.

She knew that he had joined the Union army. She did not know if he was alive or dead. She hadn’t expected that he would be able to see her, but she had hoped he would write. Two years passed from the night of the ball and there were no letters.

Then the Yankees came, her father died, and her home was destroyed.

Mallory heard quick footsteps rustling through the dry leaves on the road. She sprang to her feet and stepped behind a tree, peering out warily to catch a glimpse of the passerby. The young black woman stopped and looked around in the deepening gloom.

Miss Mallory?

Mallory stepped out from behind the tree. You found me, she said, laughing. What is it, Tipper?

Her name was actually Tippah but everyone had always called her Tipper. Mallory thought it was an Indian name—she knew that Tipper was half Chickasaw. She had beautiful soft brown skin and large, doe-like eyes. Her black hair was worn in pigtails that fell to her waist.

Mr. Logan sent me for you. She was slightly breathless and her eyes were even larger than usual. Oh, Miss Mallory, there’s men at the house—Yankees. They—

Something about her apprehension was contagious. What do they want, Tipper?

They’re askin’ about that soldier. The one you shot.

The two women began walking toward the house. The lowering sun had cast the tree-shrouded road almost into darkness.

Mallory reached out and touched Tipper’s hand. Don’t be scared. They can’t possibly know anything. They’re just looking for him. I’ve been expecting that they would. She paused for a moment when she realized her voice was shaking. I’m surprised it’s taken so long.

Yes’m. Unless Deke tol’ somebody.

He wouldn’t have. They’d hang him sure as anything since he—well, since Deke helped bury him.

Mallory thought back on that nightmarish day five months ago when a deserter from the Union army had wandered onto Wakefield property. The war was over but he still wore a Yankee uniform, maybe so that he could blend in with all the other Yankees that had descended upon Natchez.

She’d been standing at her bedroom window, not really daydreaming, but gazing wistfully down the long line of oaks that framed the drive as though waiting for someone who would never come.

From that window she could see part of the front lawn, and the knoll that began to dip downward to the neat rows of slave cabins. The first little house, Tipper’s cabin, was barely visible. Mallory saw that Tipper, who had been working in the vegetable garden, was hurrying along to seek refuge there.

The man had slid off his horse and followed her and with no conscious thought except fear for Tipper, Mallory had opened a drawer and pulled out her pistol. Logan had gone into the city that day and there were only women in the house. During the long years of war his stepmother had seen to it that she and Logan’s sister had loaded pistols in their rooms. And Mallory, born and bred in the country, knew how to shoot.

When she arrived at the slave cabin, breathless from running, Tipper’s clothes were half torn off and she had been thrown down onto the bed.

Mallory’s hands were shaking but her voice was steady. Get away from her and get off this land!

Startled, the man turned, quickly adjusted his clothes, and laughed. He was thin and dirty with a long, scraggly beard. He swore at her in a nasal voice, adding, What do you care what I do with her? Get out of here, you meddling hellcat!

I’ll blow a hole in you the size of Texas if you don’t leave this minute!

The man’s eyes darted toward the gun he had tossed down on a table. Tipper was whimpering, huddled against the wall.

Well now, he said, eyeing her warily, I don’t think you’re gonna shoot me. And I think you and me should get to know each other a little better. He grinned and took a step toward her.

Don’t come any closer!

But he kept coming and she shot him. Tipper screamed as he reeled, cursing, around the tiny room and finally crashed to the floor. One of the foremen who hadn’t yet left the plantation came running into the cabin—old, gray-haired Deke, who knelt beside the soldier.

He’s still alive, Miss Mallory. I’ll tie him up ‘til Mr. Logan gets back.

He—he’s not coming back until tomorrow.

He ain’t gonna die. Bullet went clean through his shoulder and it ain’t bleedin’ much. Nothin’ to do but tie him up. Can’t let the Yankees know. Mr. Logan’ll know what to do.

Yes, Mallory said. Tie him up.

The man was beginning to moan. Deke found some rope, tied the man’s hands together in front of him and lashed him to the bed. When he mumbled in protest, Deke tied an old scarf around his mouth.

Mallory strove to control her shaking. Tipper, you stay in the house with us from now on. Deke, is he going to bleed to death?

No, ma’am. I seen people shot before. I’ll tie a sheet or somethin’ around the bullet hole but he’ll be all right.

What are we going to do with him?

Deke looked at her, his tired, bloodshot eyes wide open with excitement. He said again, Mr. Logan’ll know.

Will you watch him? You’ll stay with him?

Yes, ma’am. You go on up to the house, Miss Mallory, and leave it to me.

Mallory and Tipper had gone to the house. She expected the other women to come flying out wanting to know who had shot off a pistol, for the sound of it seemed to have rocked the whole world. But no one came. Gunshots were often heard in the woods, fired by hunters or pickets.

It seemed as though that day would never end. She had to pretend that nothing was wrong, all the while fighting a sick feeling in her stomach and wondering with horror what the Yankees would do to her if they discovered she’d shot one of their soldiers, even if he was a deserter. And he must be—why else would he be riding around the countryside alone, obviously with thievery and rape on his mind!

She supposed it was possible he was not a deserter. He might still be with the army, one of those reprobate soldiers she had heard about. How could they let the man go when he might run straight to the Yankees and tell them what she had done? He would deny attacking Tipper and it would be their word against his.

By nightfall she was a bundle of raw nerves. Then Deke had come to the house after everyone had gone to bed and sent Tipper to Mallory’s room. Mallory dressed quickly and followed Tipper with her flickering candle down the stairs to the side porch.

Miss Mallory, I just went to my cabin to get a pillow and blanket so I could sleep on the floor. Wasn’t gone two minutes, ma’am, and when I got back I felt like there was somethin’ wrong and I looked at him, and Miss Mallory—he’s dead!

But how…? Did he wake up before you left him?

Yes’m, he was awake. Mad too. He was thrashin’ around and makin’ noise but I picked up his gun and tol’ him to hush, and he got quiet. And then I wasn’t gone no time and he was dead as a doornail!

We got to get rid of him, Tipper said. We can’t let the Yankees know what happened, Miss Mallory.

Mallory began to say, as Deke had said, that they should wait for Logan and let him decide what to do. But that would endanger Logan. It was best if he knew nothing about what had happened. It would be best if they buried the man and never told anyone…

That was what they did. In the little slave cemetery close to the cabins they had dug far into the night, with the light of kerosene lanterns adding a quality of unearthliness to a scene that already defied reality. Then Deke had dragged the man down the wooden steps and the three of them had carried him to the hole and dropped him into it.

Are you sure he’s dead? Mallory had asked with her hand at her throat.

He’s dead all right. Mind you wash up real good. Go on. I’ll fill up the hole. Nobody ever gonna think anything about it, Miss Mallory.

She had been strangely reluctant to leave. Oh, she’d said softly, her face streaked with dirt and tears. May God forgive me!

Deke’s face was suddenly hard. Ain’t nothin’ to forgive, Miss Mallory. You was tryin’ to protect Tipper and he woulda got you too. Might have killed you. Ain’t nothin’ to do with a scoundrel like that but shoot him.

She and Tipper had returned to the house where Tipper prepared a bath for her, and she had soaked in the hot water until it turned cold. Tipper had given her some milk laced with a small amount of whiskey and left her in her room, tucked into bed and staring at the frilly pink canopy over her head.

She could still smell the pungent odor of kerosene. She could still see the light flickering eerily over the dark cemetery and the woods black and forbidding around it. She could still see the man with his scraggly beard lying in the ground and the scared, furtive glances of Tipper and Deke.

The next day Deke was gone. As she looked for him she saw that he had finished the grave, flattening it out so that it looked just like the other graves except that it was bare of grass. The soldier’s horse was gone.