Read To Whisper Her Name Online
Authors: Tamera Alexander
To Whisper Her Name
A Belle Meade plantation Novel
TAMERA
ALEXANDER
To
Whisper
Her Name
For the ladies of Coeur d’Alene …
I hope heaven has Julys
.
There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female.
For you are all one in Christ Jesus.
Galatians 3:28 NLT
M
ost of the novel you’re about to read is purely fictional, though there are threads of actual history and people woven throughout. For instance, there is a Belle Meade Plantation in Nashville that still welcomes visitors today. The Harding family, characters in
To Whisper Her Name
, lived at Belle Meade and many of the events included in this story were drawn from their personal history and were then fleshed out in my imagination.
In addition to the Harding family, many of the former slaves who served at Belle Meade inspired characters in this story. In nearly every instance, I used the real names of the former slaves and the positions they held at Belle Meade. However, the characters’ personalities and actions are of my own creation and should be construed as such.
After two years of research and writing
To Whisper Her Name
, I invite you to join me on yet another journey into the postbellum world of Nashville, Tennessee. Thank you for entrusting your time to me. It’s a weighty investment that I treasure and will never take for granted.
Most warmly,
Tamera
August 17, 1863
In the hills surrounding the Union-occupied city of Nashville …
F
irst Lieutenant Ridley Adam Cooper peered through the stand of bristled pines, his presence cloaked by dusk, his Winchester cocked and ready. Beads of sweat trailed his forehead and the curve of his eye, but he didn’t bother wiping them away. His focus was trained on the Negro hunched over the fire and what he was certain — if his last hour of observation proved true — the slave had hidden just over the ridge.
Best he could tell, the man hadn’t spied him, else he wouldn’t be going about making supper like he was. Beans and pork with biscuits and coffee, if Ridley’s sense of smell proved right.
Real
coffee. Not that foul-tasting brew the Rebs scalded over an open flame until it was sludge, then drank by the gallons.
Rebs
. His brothers, in a way, every last one of them. Two of them the blood kind. And yet, the enemy. He hoped Petey and Alfred were all right, wherever they were.
A northerly breeze marked evening’s descent, but the air’s movement did little to ease the sweltering heat and humidity. Someone raised in the thickness of South Carolina summers should be accustomed to this by now, but the wool of the Federal uniform wore heavy, more so these days than when he’d first enlisted.
Yet he knew he’d done the right thing in choosing the side he had. No matter what others said or did. Or accused him of.
Ridley felt a pang. Not from hunger so much, though he could eat if
food was set before him. This pang went much deeper and hurt worse than anything he could remember.
God, if you’re listening, if you’re still watching us from where you are … I hate this war
. Hated what this “brief conflict” — as President Lincoln had called it at the outset — was doing to him and everyone else over two bloody years later.
And especially what it called for him to do tonight. “At any cost,” his commander had said, his instruction leaving no question.
Jaw rigid, Ridley reached into his pocket and pulled out the seashell, the one he’d picked up on his last walk along the beach near home before he’d left to join the 167
th
Pennsylvania Regiment to fight for the Federal Army. The scallop shell was a tiny thing, hardly bigger than a coin, and the inside fit smoothly against his thumb. With his forefinger, he traced the familiar ridges along the back and glanced skyward where a vast sea of purple slowly ebbed to black.
It was so peaceful, the night canopy, the stars popping out one by one like a million fireflies flitting right in place. Looking up, a man wouldn’t even know a war was being waged.
When his commanding officer had called for a volunteer for the scouting mission, the man hadn’t waited for hands to go up but had looked directly at Ridley, his expression daring argument. Ridley had given none. He’d simply listened to the orders and set out at first light, nearly three days ago now. Ridley knew the commander held nothing personal against him. The man had been supportive in every way.
It was Ridley’s own temper and his “friendly” disagreement with a fellow officer — a loud-mouthed lieutenant from Philadelphia who hated “every one of them good for nothin’, ignorant Southerners” — that had landed him where he was tonight. The fool had all but accused him of spying for the Confederacy. Their commander had quashed the rumor, but the seed of doubt had been sown. And this was the commander’s way of allowing Ridley to earn back his fellow officers’ trust again, which was imperative.
Ridley wiped his brow with the sleeve of his coat, careful not to make a noise. He’d tethered his horse a good ways back and had come in on foot.
He didn’t know the hills surrounding Nashville any better than the rest of his unit, but he did know this kind of terrain, how to hunt and move about in the woods. And how to stay hidden. The woods were so dense in places, the pines grown so thick together, a man could get lost out here if he didn’t know how to tell his way.
They’d gotten wind of Rebels patrolling the outlying areas — rogue sentries who considered themselves the law of the land — and his bet was they were searching for what he’d just found. So far, he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them. But he could imagine well enough what they’d do to a Union soldier found on his lonesome — especially an officer and “one of their own kind” to boot — so he was eager to get this thing done.
Gripping his Winchester, Ridley stepped from the tree cover, still some thirty feet from the Negro. He closed the distance —
twenty-five feet, twenty
— the cushion of pine needles muffling his approach.
Fifteen, ten
… But the man just kept puttering away, stirring the coffee, then the beans, then —
Ridley paused mid-step. Either the Negro was deaf … or was already wise to his presence. Wagering the latter, Ridley brought his rifle up and scanned his surroundings, looking for anyone hidden in the trees or for a gun barrel conveniently trained at the center of his chest. It was too late to retreat, but withdrawal of any kind had never been in his nature, as that cocksure, pretentious little — he caught himself —
lieutenant
from Philadelphia had found out well enough.
He tried for a casual yet not too pleasant tone. “Evening, friend …”
The man’s head came up. Then, slowly, he straightened to his full height, which was still a good foot shorter than Ridley. He was thicker about the middle, older than Ridley too. In his thirties maybe, or closer to forty, it was hard to tell. The Negro was broad shouldered, and judging by the thickness of his hands and forearms, Ridley guessed that years of hard labor had layered a strap of muscle beneath that slight paunch. He hoped it wouldn’t give the slave a false sense of courage.
“Evenin’,” the man answered, glancing at the stripes on Ridley’s shoulder. “Lieutenant, sir.”
Not a trace of surprise registered in his voice, which went a ways in confirming Ridley’s silent wager. The man’s knowledge of military rank was also telling.
The Negro’s focus shifted decidedly to the Winchester, then back again, and Ridley couldn’t decide if it was resignation he read in the man’s eyes or disappointment. Or maybe both.
Ridley surveyed the camp. Neat, orderly. Everything packed. Everything but the food. Like the man was getting ready to move out. Only — Ridley looked closer — not one cup but two resting on a rock by the fire. He focused on the slave and read awareness in the man’s eyes. “How long have you known I was watching?”
The Negro bit his lower lip, causing the fullness of his graying beard to bunch on his chin. “‘Bout the time the coffee came back to boilin’, sir.”
“You heard me?” Ridley asked, knowing that was impossible. He hadn’t made a sound. He was sure of it.
The man shook his head, looking at him with eyes so deep and dark a brown they appeared almost liquid. “More like … I
felt
you, sir.”
A prickle skittered up Ridley’s spine. Part of him wanted to question the man, see if he had what some called “second sight,” like Ridley’s great-grandmother’d had, but the wiser part of him knew better than to inquire. He had a job to do, one he couldn’t afford to fail at. Not with his loyalty to the Union being called into question by some. “I take it you know what I’m here for.”
There it was again, that look. Definitely one of resignation this time.
“I reckon I do, sir. It’s what all them others been lookin’ for too.” The slave shook his head. “How’d you find me?”
Only then did Ridley allow a hint of a smile. “I don’t know that I can say exactly. We got rumor of horses being hidden in these hills. I
volunteered
, you might say, and then just started out. I followed where my senses told me to go. Where I would’ve gone if I was hiding horses.”
The man’s eyebrows arched, then he nodded, gradually, as if working to figure something out. He motioned to the fire. “Dinner’s all ready, Lieutenant. Think you could see fit to eat a mite?”
Ridley looked at the pot of beans and meat bubbling over the flame, then at the tin of biscuits set off to the side, his stomach already answering. The man was offering to feed him? All whilst knowing what he was here to do? Ridley eyed him again, not trusting him by any stretch. Yet he had a long journey back to camp, and the dried jerky in his rations didn’t begin to compare. “I’d be much obliged. Thank you.”
They ate in silence, the night sounds edging up a notch as the darkness grew more pronounced. The food tasted good and Ridley was hungrier than he’d thought. He’d covered at least seventy-five, maybe a hundred miles since leaving camp in Nashville.
Just four days earlier, Union headquarters had received rumor of a slave out in these hills, reportedly hiding prized blood horses for his owner. Word had it the horses were bred for racing and were worth a fortune. Ridley would’ve sworn they’d confiscated every horse there
was in Nashville when they first took the city. But he’d bet his life that the man across from him right now was the slave they’d heard about.
He lifted his cup. “You make mighty good coffee. Best I’ve had in a while. And this is some fine venison too.”
“Thank you, sir. My master, he got the finest deer park in all o’ Dixie. Least he did ‘fore them no-good, thievin’ —” The Negro paused, frowning, then seemed to put some effort into smoothing his brow, though with little success. “I’s sorry, sir. I ‘preciate all your side’s tryin’ to do in this war, but there just ain’t no cause for what was done at Belle Meade last year. ‘Specially with Missus Harding bein’ delicate o’ health, and Master Harding packed off to prison like he was. Them Union troops —” He gripped his upper thigh, his eyes going hot. “They shot me! Right in the leg. I’s just tryin’ to do what I’s been told, and they shot me straight on. Laughed about it too. And here we’s thinkin’ they come to help.”
Reminded again of another reason he hated this war and why the South no longer felt like home and never would again, Ridley held the man’s gaze, trying to think of something to say. Something that would make up for what had been done to him. But he couldn’t.
Ridley laid aside his tin and, on impulse, reached out a hand. “First Lieutenant Ridley Adam Cooper … sir.”
He knew a little about the slave’s owner — General William Giles Harding — from what his commanding officer had told him. To date, General Harding still hadn’t signed the Oath of Allegiance to the Union, despite the general’s incarceration up north last year at Fort Mackinac — a place reportedly more like a resort than a prison — and the lack of compliance wasn’t sitting well with those in authority. Not with Harding being so wealthy a man and holding such influence among his peers. It set the wrong precedent. Union superiors hoped the outcome of this scouting mission would provide General Harding with the proper motivation he needed to comply with the Union — or suffer further consequences.
The Negro regarded Ridley — the crackle of the fire eating up the silence — then finally accepted, his own grip iron-firm. “Robert Green, sir. Head hostler, Belle Meade Plantation.”
“You been at Belle Meade long, Mr. Green?”
“Since I’s about two years old, sir. My folks and me, we was a present to the first Missus Harding on her and my master’s weddin’ day. Been at Belle Meade ever since.”
Ridley nodded, then stared into the fire as the man’s comment settled within him.
We was a present …
It didn’t settle well. According to a proclamation from the president eight months earlier, most of the slaves had been freed. But words on paper didn’t always match the reality of a situation. Especially when newly freed slaves attempting to exercise their freedom ended up shot in the back or hanging by a rope.
“You must’a met with some of them Rebs, Lieutenant.”
Ridley looked up to see Robert Green gesturing toward him.
“Seein’ them bruises, sir, looks like somebody got a piece of you ‘fore you took ‘em down.”
Ridley fingered his cheek and chin, his jaw still tender and now roughly bearded with several days’ growth. “Actually this was from a fellow officer. He and I had a … difference of opinion, you might say.”
Green chuckled. His laughter had a comforting sound about it. “From the size of you, Lieutenant, I be guessin’ that man looks way worse off than you do.”
Ridley shook his head. “He got a few good punches in before he went down.”
“That may be, sir. But with one good lick from you, I’m bettin’ he done stayed down. For a week!”
Ridley allowed the trace of a grin, then felt the need for sleep creeping up on him and sat straighter to keep his wits about him.
“Lawd …” Robert Green sighed and stretched. “I used to love me a good fight. I used to could hold my own too. Don’t you think I couldn’t just ‘cause I’s built low to the ground.”
“No, sir …” Ridley shook his head, humored at the way Green described himself. “I wouldn’t begin to think that.”
Robert Green locked eyes with him then, and the man’s smile faded. Green blinked, as if just now seeing Ridley in his uniform again and remembering why he was here.
The brief ease of conversation between them left as quickly as it had come.
Feeling precious time slip past, Ridley rose, bringing his Winchester with him. “I thank you for dinner, Mr. Green. And now … I need to ask you to show me the horses.”
Robert Green rose as well, reaching for a knobby cane to steady himself. He grabbed a nearby lantern and lit it, then picked a path through the darkness. Ridley followed, still wary and more than a little watchful.
Slivers of moonlight fingered their way through the trees, lending the night a silvery glow. When they reached the top of the ridge, Ridley peered over and counted three — no, four — horses. His gaze narrowed in the pale moonlight. Their size and stature. Their build … Though he wasn’t an expert on horse flesh, he knew enough to realize everything his commander had said was true.
Magnificent
was the foremost word that came to mind.
If these horses were worth a dollar, they were worth a thousand. Each. Easy. And they flocked to Robert Green like newborn pups to their mama. All of them. The man whispered low and stroked their necks, scratched them behind their ears. The gentleness of the animals in contrast to their brute strength was something to behold.
