Home Before Sundown Page 18

  Chapter 29

  It was easy for Bart to see how overjoyed George was when his pa came home on furlough. It had been years since George had seen him.

  George was quiet for about a week after his pa returned to his regiment, and Bart did his best to cheer his friend.

  Two months later Bart thought George was going to jump into his arms when George announced that his ma was going to have another baby.

  And then came April, 1865, and his brother Nate came to find him at work. Some of the money Bart and Mary Agnes had earned had gone to his schooling, and when he’d learned he’d have to stop going to the academy and get a job, he hadn’t made any effort to conceal his dissatisfaction, especially when that job turned out to be sweeping the floors at Bradway’s Dry Goods.

  “Ma came to get me at Mr. Bradway’s.” Nate thrust a copy of the Times at him. “She wants you to read this.”

  “I don’t have time to read the whole paper.”

  Nate gave a huff of annoyance and turned to the page that…Oh God, the list of casualties. His mouth went dry. “Who?”

  “Captain Pettigrew.”

  “Georgie’s Pa?”

  “Yeah.”

  He glanced down the page and found the name he was searching for. “I’ve got to let him know.” And then they’d have to break the news to Mrs. Pettigrew and the little girls. “Go home and tell Ma she needs to go to Mrs. Pettigrew.”

  “She was already on the way there. She thinks more of that family than she does of us,” he said sullenly.

  “Shut your face, Nate.”

  His brother made a rude sound. “I’ve got to go get Father Thompson. Dunno why he needs to be there. None of the women in our tenement get a priest in when their men die.”

  “Mrs. Pettigrew is a lady. They’re more delicate.”

  “Delicate my ass.” Nate made another rude sound.

  “Just go.” Bart took the newspaper and left his brother standing there with a sulky expression on his face, and went looking for Mr. Wagner.

  Some bosses were horrible to work for, but Alex Wagner was a good man. He didn’t work the men overly hard, and he paid them a fair day’s wage. He was the one who’d encouraged Bart to go to the Cooper Institute to hear Mr. Lincoln’s speech, and if he hadn’t been past the age of recruitment, he would have joined up the first day the president called for volunteers.

  “Sure, Bart,” he said after Bart told him. “And tell your friend and his ma how sorry I am.”

  “Thanks, Boss.” Bart took out his Pa’s pocket watch. It was almost noon. George would be here soon, and that would save Bart from having to scour the city looking for him.

  Sure enough, a few minutes later, George came down the street. From where Bart stood, he could tell his friend was whistling.

  Bart ran a hand over his face, then crossed the road to where George was just hopping down from the box.

  “Hey, Bart. How’s your day been going?”

  “George…C’mere.” He caught his friend’s arm and urged him to the other side of the cab where they could be relatively private.

  “I have to hitch Outlaw.”

  “No.”

  “Bart?” George started to look concerned. “What’s going on?”

  He gripped George’s shoulders. “I…I have some bad news for you.”

  George turned white. “Papa?”

  Bart swallowed and nodded, not surprised his friend’s mind went to the worst thing he could imagine.

  “How bad?”

  “He’s gone, Georgie.”

  George’s knees gave out, but Bart caught him and managed to keep him from falling to the ground. George buried his face in Bart’s shoulder, and his body shook as silent sobs wracked his frame.

  Bart murmured soft words into George’s hair. He knew if he got any closer to George’s face he’d wind up kissing his mouth. And he should be ashamed of himself for letting his mind wander in that direction when George was so upset.

  The tidal wave of grief finally passed, not that it was finished—Bart knew more tears would be shed later.

  George leaned back and met Bart’s gaze. “I’m sorry. I got your shirt all wet.”

  “That isn’t important.”

  “I have to get home.” He dried his cheeks. “I have to—”

  “I know.”

  Tears slid down his cheeks again, and Bart pulled him close once more.

  “The girls had just gotten to know him,” George murmured against his shoulder.

  Bart didn’t know what to say to that. It was the same with his youngest sisters; the twins had just been born when Pa died, and Mary Margaret was only two. He talked to them about Pa, told them stories about him like when he moved the family to a part of town run by a dangerous gang, but the head of that gang had told Pa he wouldn’t need to worry about his girls, that they’d keep an eye out for them, but that was all he was to them: a figure in a story.

  He rubbed Georgie’s back. “Listen. My Ma’s with them. She’ll probably have told your mama.”

  “Do you think? I didn’t know how I was going to tell her.”

  Bart took a chance and dropped a kiss on George’s hair, softly so George wouldn’t feel it and punch him.

  No, that was a dumb thought. His friend would never raise a hand to him. Bart let him go and stepped back. “Come on. Get in the cab. I’ll drive you home.” Bart wasn’t a bad driver—he’d picked up a few tricks of the trade from George. He helped George into the cab, climbed onto the box, then turned Outlaw around and headed for the cottage in Chelsea.

  Chapter 30

  There should be a law against the weather being so beautiful when you have to deliver news like this, Steve Marriott thought.

  He hated what he was about to do, but Tom Pettigrew had been his friend, and it was only right that he bring the news to Tom’s family.

  Friendships were made fast in these times, because everyone knew they were as likely to end as quickly.

  What God awful luck, to be shot down in the very battle that ended this god-forsaken war. One hundred and eighty Union soldiers killed, and Tom had to be one of them. He had been charging forward when a rifle ball went through his thigh and into his horse, shattering the mare’s shoulder and causing her to somersault and throw Tom, something Steve had never seen happen to the expert horseman. By the time Steve reached his side, it was too late. Tom’s neck had been broken by the fall, but even if that hadn’t killed him, the expanding pool of blood under him was a sure indication the wound in his thigh would have done it. All that was left to do was put the mare out of her misery.

  The angle of the bullet concerned him, though. Tom had been shot from behind—from the Union lines. Friendly fire had killed him. It happened, more than either side liked to admit. Hadn’t the Rebel general, Stonewall Jackson, been shot by one of his own men?

  No one had stepped forward to admit to firing the shot. Tom was a well-liked officer, and the shooter probably realized the men would tear him to pieces.

  But no matter which way you looked at it, Tom was dead, and Steve had to deliver that news—and Tom’s body—to his family.

  * * * *

  Once Steve arrived in Manhattan, he rented a wagon, had the plain wooden coffin loaded onto it, and asked for directions to Chelsea—he’d lived in Brooklyn after he’d graduated from West Point and was more familiar with that city.

  He hadn’t been surprised at how little cash money Tom had in his effects. Steve knew he sent almost every penny home to his family. So Steve had paid for the embalming and the coffin, and obtained leave to bring his friend home.

  He found the little cottage and had to admit Tom had been right—he’d described it as home, and it was. More than that, it was charming, with a fresh coat of whitewash over the clapboard sides and sparkling windowpanes. A lilac bush to the left of the path that led to the front door would be in bloom in a few weeks, and flower beds grew in massive profusion around the cottage itself. A young man dressed in worn canva
s trousers and a cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular arms was crouched before the beds, pruning back the dead heads of a snowball bush.

  “Excuse me,” Steve called from the street.

  The young man swiveled to face him. “Yeah?” He rubbed a forearm over his cheeks. Had he been crying?

  “Are you George Pettigrew?” But then he realized his mistake: this young man was older than Tom’s son would be, and he had brown eyes, unlike the blue Tom had described his son as having.

  “One thing I gave my kids, Steve,” he’d said, the corner of his mouth curled up in a grin. “They all have blue eyes.”

  “No. I’m Bart Hall, a friend of George’s.” He looked Steve over, no doubt taking in his dusty uniform. “You’re here to tell them Captain Pettigrew is gone, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I’ve brought him home” He hopped down from the wagon, removed Tom’s saddlebags, and walked to the horse’s head. Steve rested his forehead for a moment against the horse’s neck. Then he straightened, hitched the horse’s lead to the jockey there for that purpose, and strode purposefully up the path to the cottage.

  Hall rose, a surprisingly graceful move, and nodded toward the door. Steve fell into step beside him.

  “I reckon me showing up in uniform tipped you off.”

  Hall glanced at him but didn’t respond to that. He nodded toward the wagon with its burden. “That Captain Tom?”

  “Yes.”

  For a second, his face screwed up, but then his expression smoothed, and he straightened his shoulders. “This way, please.” He opened the front door rather than going around to the side.

  “Georgie, I got someone here to see you and your ma.”

  “Mama’s lying down with the girls. You know Doc Choate put her on bedrest.” George Pettigrew turned and observed Steve with red-rimmed eyes. And yes, except for ink-black hair, Steve could easily see this young man was Tom’s son.

  “I’m Captain Etienne Marriott,” he introduced himself. He removed his hat and tucked it under his left arm, then approached the kid, his hand extended. “Your father was a close friend of mine.”

  “Captain Marriott.” George accepted his offered hand. “It’s nice to meet you, sir. Was there something I could do for you?”

  “No. I came to inform you of your father’s passing—”

  “We’re aware. We found his name in the casualty list in the Times.”

  “I’m very sorry. He was a good man.”

  “Thank you.” The poor kid seemed distracted. “I don’t know how we’re going to get to Appomattox to find his grave and bring him home. Mama can’t travel, but someone needs to stay home to care for her and my sisters.”

  For a second Steve thought the kid was going to fall apart. His lower lip quivered and his face…oh God, he looked so devastated.

  “Father Ed—he used to be our priest—said he would perform a service for Papa even if his body wasn’t here. A memorial service, he called it.”

  Steve shook his head and was about to touch the kid’s shoulder when Hall put his arms around him.

  “Captain Marriott brought him home, Georgie.”

  “Papa’s home?” There was a quiet sob, and the kid held onto Hall. His fingers turned white from the force of his grip, but Hall didn’t complain.

  Steve cleared his throat, reluctant to interrupt this moment of grief—he’d seen plenty similar during the war—but it would be best if they got the coffin in the house. “Do you have something to set the coffin on?”

  The kid shook his head. “Father Ed most likely will. I’ll…We’ll…” He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what to do. The only funeral I’ve seen was for my first Mama. I was four when she died, and I reckon Papa took care of everything.”

  “Shall I bring the wagon around to the side?” Steve needed a moment to himself. Seeing the kid’s grief made his own return.

  “Yes, please.”

  Steve nodded, turned briskly, and strode out the door. People were already gathering around the wagon, but when the women saw him, they hurried back to their homes. He knew they’d prepare food for the bereaved family and return with it.

  “You, there,” he said to one of the older boys. “Do you know where a priest named Father Ed lives?”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy took in his uniform with huge eyes.

  “Fetch him, please.” He tossed the boy a copper coin, and the boy scurried off.

  Steve untied the lead from the jockey, climbed onto the wagon, and steered the horse into the drive at the side of the house.

  He tied the horse to the paddock fence, walked slowly back to the front of the house, and paused by the front door. Jesus, he hoped Tom’s wife didn’t lose the baby.

  The tableau in the parlor had changed slightly. George Pettigrew sat in one of the horsehair chairs, his head bowed, his elbows resting on his thighs, and his hands dangling between his legs, while Hall knelt before him, one hand on George’s knee, the other around his waist.

  “I sent a boy for the priest.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I brought Tom’s personal effects.” Steve had left Tom’s knife, his Springfield rifle, and the Navy Colt pistol wrapped in his bedroll and tucked away in the wagon’s boot. He took the money belt from a saddlebag and held it out. He knew what was in there: a few bills and coins, a tintype of the little family, and a discolored charm that was shaped like a star.

  Hall rocked back on his feet and rose, and the kid did as well. Tom’s son took the money belt. “Sunrise?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Papa’s horse. Did you bring her home too?”

  “No.” God, he felt so helpless. “She didn’t make it either. She was shot with the same bullet that hit your father. I…I had to put her down.”

  “Thank you for not letting her suffer.” He fingered the bills and shook his head.

  “George?” Hall hovered close to him.

  “I’ll have to sell the horses.” He had lowered his voice, but Steve had no trouble hearing him.

  “Bella and…” What was the other horse’s name? Tom had talked about them almost as much as his wife and children. Steve snapped his fingers as he remembered. “Salida?”

  “Yes. How did you…Oh, of course. Papa must have told you.”

  “He did.” He was about to ask George why he had to sell the horses he obviously loved, since he also knew George had a job, but before he could, the kid spoke.

  “Forgive my manners. Would you care for some refreshments?”

  “I could do with a cup of coffee, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

  “No trouble at all. It’ll just take me a couple of minutes. Excuse me, please. Bart, would you mind helping me?”

  “Sure, Georgie.” Hall slung an arm around George’s shoulders, and the two young men headed toward what Steve assumed was the kitchen.

  Steve hung his hat from a hook by the door and studied the room. There was a simple fireplace against the far wall, flanked by a couple of chairs, a settee, and a small table. The door Tom’s son had exited through must lead to the kitchen, while another door probably led to the bedroom. As for the ladder in the far corner, it had to give access to the loft.

  Steve set the saddlebags on the table beside a vase of spring flowers and walked around the room, smiling at the drawings of horses that had been done by a childish hand.

  “Charlie drew them,” a soft voice told him, and he turned to see a beautiful little girl of about six. “I’m Noelle Pettigrew. Who are you, and what are you doing in our home?”

  “I’m Captain Marriott, Miss Pettigrew. I was a friend of your father’s.” He was surprised when she continued to observe him dry-eyed, but then he realized Tom had been away from his family for almost the entire war. His younger children wouldn’t know him at all. “Is Charlie your brother?” Odd, Tom never mentioned a second son.

  “No, my sister. Her name is Charlotte.”

  “I see. Your papa always called her Charlot
te.”

  She shrugged.

  George came in, carrying a tray. Bart Hall trailed after him, looking determined.

  “Here you go, Captain. If you’ll have a seat?” He offered Steve the tray holding a cup of coffee, then set it on another table and turned to his sister. “Are Mama and Charlie still asleep?”

  “Yes.”

  The kid picked up his sister, held her tight, and rested his cheek against hers. “It’ll be okay,” he murmured. His shoulders shook.

  “I know.” She petted his hair in an obvious attempt to comfort him.

  Bart Hall slid his long arms around them both and murmured something, ending with what sounded like, “I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

  Steve felt like a fifth wheel. He’d leave, but more was going on here than a family mourning the loss of their patriarch.

  He put down the cup. “I’d like a word with you, George.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “In private?” Steve suggested.

  George seemed too exhausted to even give him a puzzled glance. “We can go outside if you like. Bart, will you take our Christmas angel?”

  “Sure.”

  Noelle turned in his embrace and leaned against him.

  George met Steve’s gaze and gestured toward the front door. They went out, crossed to the drive, and walked to where the wagon waited by the paddock. George studied the horse tied to the fence.

  “He’s not in very good shape. I hope he doesn’t belong to you.”

  “No. He was all the livery stable had available.” He studied the boy. “You know horses.”

  “Papa taught me.”

  “He taught you well.”

  George covered his eyes with a hand. “I’m such a sissy—weeping like a little girl.”

  “You’re not.” He squeezed George’s shoulder. “Tom spoke of you often, and I could tell there was a strong bond between you. It only makes sense you’d grieve his loss.”

  “You don’t think I’m…I’m less of a man for weeping?”

  “Hardly. I’ve seen grown men fall apart as their friends died in their arms…” He thought of his regiment’s drummer boy who gradually seemed to lose the ability to cry. Sharps had mustered out the previous year, and since he was also a Brooklynite, Steve thought he might pay him a visit after Tom was buried. He missed him…more than was probably wise, but as long as he kept his prick tucked in his trousers, there shouldn’t be a problem. “I heard you tell your friend you’d have to sell your horses. Would you tell me why?”