“Yes, I see it now,” Sylvester McComb said, sitting down on the boulder nearby. “Since you got your face, I see a semblance.” The Irish boy tilted his head. “Even now, sitting like you is, I see a reflection of those ladies, like you in dark, like them, with blue eyes.”
The men around him turned, each studying his face. Francois tempered his breathing, working hard to manage the flaming anger inside him. One thing, it warmed him despite the chill around them. Even though it was November, the ride here and the days in the field with the army had exposed him to the elements unlike he’d ever been in his life.
“That, my boy, is one roasting by the sun!” Morris chuckled, midway through their ride east. They had stopped to water their horses in northeastern Alabama when Francois took his hat off to splash his hot face in the water.
“Oui,” he replied, trying to move his lips more to one side of his cheek as he dabbed the other with a damp handkerchief. “I do feel the pinch. Don’t believe I’ve ever felt this hot.” His skin prickled to the touch and the water cooled then sizzled, it seemed.
Morris jammed his own hat down. “Just need to get you a better hat. That fancy one you got doesn’t have a brim worth a damn against this sun.”
Francois stared at the hat. It was one of the latest, from England, one he received while New Orleans was still in Confederate hands. “But it makes me look handsome, I believe Miss Rollins declared.” He smiled for a moment. Clara Rollins had made that remark, at a picnic held at Eastertime. Before Emma arrived…his smile vanished. And his exposure to the sun continued, making his pale skin red…
His buddy laughed now, before this quieted group.
“See? I declare you owe me a silver dollar!” Morris chuckled, slapping Francois’s shoulder. “That burnt face is almost as dark as the rest of these heathens. You’ll be fine.”
The others broke their stare and mumbled. One of the first things Francois had noticed was how all the soldiers had bronzed faces, tanned from months in the field. He was definitely an initiate, all pale with a bright red burn but as time passed, and the burn peeled, only to repeat and repeat on their journey, that by now, his complexion was darker with a tan.
McComb still glared at him. “Fontaine, yes, now all coming back. Remember the slave auction, where that name was mentioned. Bell’fontaine, if I recall right. You don’t need to buy any slaves or so I’ve heard.”
Francois remained silent, letting a small smile twitch at his lips. No, they hadn’t purchased any in a long time. Sold, though, was another matter. McComb looked frustrated, as if he wanted to say more but was either lost at the words, or more likely, not as dumb as he appeared, because if he defiled the Fontaine family…
“Attention! Company!” Roared an officer who rode into camp, with his staff behind him.
The soldiers around them rushed to collect themselves and fall into line. It took another minute before Francois or McComb moved. McComb was breathing hard, his face flush, thinking he’d nabbed the rich planter’s son at some sin. Francois didn’t answer. He teetered between wanting to agree some of his slaves were attractive, and wanting to strangle the man, because his innuendo was plain. The desire to tell him the real story tugged at his conscience. But in the end, he stood and shoved his hat on his head, falling into line with the rest of his comrades.
“Shoulder arms!”
The corps, in unison, brought their rifles up, muzzle resting on their right shoulder as their palms scooped it to stay. Francois followed suit and couldn’t help but be amused. The eldest Fontaine, destined to inherit a legacy of the family, stood now with normal people, who had thrown their lot in with their new country, the Confederate States of America. He never would have thought he’d be here, but that charming feminine laughter that plagued him still echoed in his ears. Even now, he could see her and he instantly brought his free hand to rub against the hidden pocket over his heart, where the miniature portrait of her rested. Oh, my Emma… Her name rang in his ears as they started their walk to the battle stations and for once, he hoped those Yankees would end his torment for loving a woman he could never have…
The sound of a trumpet rang through the air, soft through the trees and tents but noticeable. It woke Ada with a start, making her sit up right from the slumped position she’d taken over the top of the table before her. Papers rustled beneath her as her hands steadied herself, then braced her when the soreness of falling asleep while writing a letter hit. In fact, ink from the pen bled on her hand, making her forefingers dark. After all these months, hadn’t she gotten used to the revelry being called every dawn? Staring down at the crumpled paper, she gathered not.
Slowly she rose, feeling the ache from her crouched position. Outside, she heard the men across the compound, scurrying about camp, shoving on hats and coats to run to the call. She inhaled deeply and pulled herself together, adding another petticoat under her skirt and a sontag to wrap over her bodice, as a cloak was too much to wear in the hospital tent. The dark navy wool dress was warm but the chill in the air still made her shiver. She hadn’t thought the South would turn so cold, or she’d have brought more wool dresses and another quilted petticoat or
