It was almost like the spring of ‘53. . .

Through the cotton of her bodice, she reached up and clutched the silver locket hanging from a chain around her neck. She shook off the morbid thoughts before they could take hold of her and looked back over her shoulder toward the house. She stood on the riverbank with the private dock several yards to her right and the whitewashed plantation manor, Chene Ruelle, behind her. The house was flanked by two dozen oak trees so old and huge that several of their branches draped in gray Spanish moss dipped down to sweep the ground.

The trees had been planted by an unknown Frenchman sometime in the seventeenth century. Chene Ruelle sprawled over the spot where the Frenchman’s cabin had been. Ground to roof columns and spacious wrought iron galleries surrounded the house on all four sides. It was a massive house with three wings attached to the main structure giving it a total of nineteen rooms.

Brittany lifted her chin at the surge of pride that ran through her. This was her home. No one would ever take it away from her. Not even the Yankees. She had no desire to leave it - and refused to marry any man who would take her away. Even at the age of eighteen when the war began, she had turned the suitors away. All of them. It didn’t matter. She would lay down her life to protect this house and land.

Squinting into the blinding sun, she turned her attention back to the river and searched the horizon. She lowered her straw hat over her forehead and adjusted the white bow tied beneath her chin. If only she could shed some of these layers of clothes, she thought enviously, considering the scantily clad Negroes working in the cotton and sugar cane fields. They didn’t have to wear corsets and petticoats and stockings. And they seemed quite happy, too. About a third had run off, of course, to fight with the Yankees, but for the most part, they had nowhere better to go.

Then she saw it.

It was only a spec against the domed sky, but Brittany had spent enough hours of her childhood along the river to know a steamboat when she saw one. And a steamboat was fast approaching.

She felt the blood rush through her veins. She’d thought it would never happen, but Jeffy was coming home.

She and her twin brother had been inseparable until he’d left for West Point. Then he had been home less than a month when the call for arms had come.

Brittany missed him. She missed their horseback rides through the fields and along the river. She missed their quiet study hours. Besides traditional subjects like French, music, and needlepoint, she had studied history, geography, and arithmetic right alongside her brother.

But most of all, she missed their long talks. After a long day of arduous chores and tedious studies, they would lie out beneath the huge oak trees and share dreams of limitless futures and distant lands. He was a mediaeval knight rescuing damsels in distress and she was a free spirited artist traveling throughout Paris. They were alike, she and Jeffy. Nothing could ever come between them. Nothing.

The rumble of gathering wagons dampened her anticipation at seeing her brother. It reminded her of the real reason Jeffy was coming home. It wasn’t to see his family.

It was to gather supplies for the war. The supplies they had hoarded and hidden were brought out and boldly placed in the wagons. From gunpowder to hand knitted socks, they had scrimped and saved... and hidden.

Her insides twisted as she thought about the war. All Jeffy’s friends had been excited about going off to fight. But Brittany had paid attention to all those history books their old tutor, Nate Basil, had them read and analyze. In fact, Mr. Basil was the only person she knew who had shown any reluctance at going off to fight. Though he had written the family at first and kept them abreast of his location, they hadn’t heard from him in over a year. It was through his teaching and his observations that Brittany knew war was more than glory and adventure.

War was fighting.

And fighting meant death.

They had been wrong to want war. They knew it now. She hadn’t seen many of her or Jeffy’s male friends since they’d ridden off to fight. Most of them wouldn’t be coming back at all.

Even her grandpere, whom she adored with every fiber of her being, was different these days. He shut himself up in his study with men she’d never seen before. Though she didn’t know what, she knew it had something to do with the war.

Her world was breaking apart.

Again.

A rider on horseback broke away from the wagons and cantered toward her. She immediately recognized Grandpere astride his temperamental stallion, Lancelot. Despite his years, Ernest Dumon sat tall in his saddle and easily maintained control of the horse. When he removed his hat and waved to her, she could see the row of gray hair that rimmed his bald head.

Grandpere was too old to be riding, but no one would try to take that away from him. Horses were his life. He had continued to raise fine, prize horses long after he’d grown wealthy beyond imagination off sugar cane and cotton. Even now, with Confederate money practically worthless and most everything lost but the house and land, he had managed to hold onto half a dozen of his best horses.

Climbing the gentle levee, Grandpere reined up beside her and nodded toward the boat. He looked more like his old self today, less distracted, more focused.

"I told you he would be here today," Grandpere said, with a wink.

"I hope he’s on the boat."

"He’s on it. A rider came by this morning with a message."

"A message," she repeated, grabbing his sleeve, "Why didn’t you tell me?"

Grandpere’s gray eyes twinkled. "It seems he spent the night in New Orleans last night. You’ll see your brother soon enough."

"I miss Jeffy so much, Grandpere. Now everything will be the way it was before."

A shadow crossed Grandpere’s features and his tone was distant. "Time stands still for no one, Kitten. Those tranquil days of old are memories now. Fond memories to guard carefully."

"I know, but I miss my brother so much."

Grandpere’s mood seemed to lighten. "Hop on up and we’ll wait for him at the dock," he said.

He reached down, easily swept Brittany up in front of him, and settled her upon the horse. Though she was petite for a twenty year old, she felt him strain with the effort and heard his rapid intake of breath.

As he turned and started toward the dock, she slipped her arms around him and hugged him tightly. For the moment, she was a little girl again, safe and protected. There was no war. No pain.

She knew Grandpere had tried to show equal favoritism between his two grandchildren, but Brittany had no regrets about claiming more than her share of his time and affection. He’d personally taught her to ride and shoot as well as any lad, maybe better.

Suddenly she felt Grandpere stiffen and the steamer’s whistle shattered the silence. Grandpere tugged on the reins and turned Lancelot around in the direction of the boat. The steamer wasn’t alone on the river. Only a few feet behind it was another steamer, hidden from view only minutes earlier. Now, it had pulled forward enough for them to clearly see.

Glancing at Grandpere’s worried expression, she swallowed thickly. Something was wrong. His arms tightened around her. The steamers were going too fast. They had no intention of stopping at this dock or any other for miles.

Brittany saw the flames seconds before she heard the explosion. The first steamer listed and turned sideways. She and Grandpere watched in a helpless trance as the second steamer rammed sideways into the first. The flames fed hungrily on each other, leaping skyward. A dozen or so people managed to leap overboard only to trade a fiery death with that of a cool, wet one. No one could fight the currents to swim that far to either bank.

Distantly, Brittany heard herself cry out and her hands flew to her mouth. Then she was off the horse, running. Running back the way they had come, toward the muted shrieks.

She crashed through the tall grasses sending small animals scurrying, whether gators or snakes, she neither noticed nor cared. Tripping, she ripped her skirt and soiled her white gloves. She reached the site, but the boats were half a mile out on the water. She stood at the edge of the deceptively innocent water and screamed Jeffy’s name.

She was helpless. At that moment, there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop the tragedy unfolding before her. Grandpere was behind her, waving his arms at the slaves, and yelling for help.

She could hear the cries clearly now. The floating palaces were engulfed in flames, their passengers trapped. No one surfaced from the water for long before being sucked along in the current.

Falling to her knees, Brittany broke into sobs wrenched from deep inside her.

"Not Jeffy, too! Please, God, not Jeffy."

Then through the haze of shock, she realized Grandpere was there, bending over her. For an instant, her mind rejected what had happened. Then she smelled the smoke. The smoldering mass had moved downstream, its horror standing out blatantly against the setting sun.

"No," she sobbed, burying her face against Grandpere’s chest. He was silent and unmoving as he held her. There had been some mistake. Jeffy wasn’t out there. He couldn’t be.

Brittany’s mind raced frantically. She’d read about steamboat explosions before. They happened all the time and there were always survivors. Weren’t there?

By now the plantation bell was ringing and at least a dozen slaves descended upon the levee. Brittany wanted to scream at them. To tell them to go away. Her brother was out there somewhere. He could be dead and all they could do was stand there and gawk.

Silently Grandpere moved from her side, his face suddenly hard and unemotional. "Jackson," he commanded, "get your boat. You and two others cross the river and see if you can find anybody who made it ashore."

The sun’s glare was muted now and Brittany stared hard at the wreckage. A movement beyond it caught her attention. It wasn’t clear and she couldn’t be certain that it was human. It could be nothing more than a piece of wood splintered from the ship or someone’s baggage drifting ashore. But whatever it was, it was definitely moving.

"Grandpere," she said, keeping her eyes on the moving object. "There’s something moving out there. I think it’s somebody."

Grandpere was sending people up and down the bank to search. He took a step, closing the distance between them, and gently took her arm. She pulled her attention from the river and met his unreadable gaze.

"I’m sending the Negroes out to search though I doubt anyone could survive that explosion and even if they did, they wouldn’t make it ashore. The river’s too wide here. Some of the bodies will eventually wash ashore somewhere."

"But it could be Jeffy. I know it could." Not bodies. Please don’t say bodies.

"Brittany, go to the house." He turned to a slim black woman standing nearby. "Sadie, take Brittany back to the house."

"No," Brittany cried, pulling away from her grandfather. "I’ve got to see. I have to know."

"Come on, Child. Your grandpere’s right. You got not call to be out here in all this commotion," Sadie said.

Brittany scanned her grandfather’s face and swallowed her protests. His jaw was set. She’d seen him this way only once before. It was during the 1853 wave of yellow fever.

Dismissing her, Ernest sent a rider into New Orleans to report the disaster. Even running the horse nonstop, it would be well after dark before anyone could come to help. If anyone came at all. With the war going on, even the best of neighbors didn’t venture far.

Brittany walked slowly toward the house and Sadie followed. Sadie was a house servant who knew her place, but rarely stayed in it.

"You ain’t got no call to be involved in this, Miss Brittany," she stated again.

"And why not? Those men don’t know how to help anyone. What if they find Jeffy and can’t help him?"

Brittany’s eyes grew misty as she recalled all the time her mother had spent teaching her the basics of healing. Since then, Brittany had used her skills to save half a dozen injured people on the plantation and helped more sick ones than she could remember.

She could have saved her mother, too. But her father hadn’t let her go near the fever. Then when her father had contracted the disease, Grandpere had literally locked her away from the sick room.

She hadn’t been too young and innocent to help then, and she certainly wasn’t now. And no one, not even Grandpere, was going to keep her from trying to help anyone else she loved. And she loved Jeffy. Loved him more than her own life.

Three men appeared with a small fishing boat and Brittany stopped walking. Grandpere had gotten back on his horse and was facing the opposite direction. Sadie was several feet away retying the red checked kerchief wrapped around her head.

Brittany didn’t hesitate a moment longer. Picking up her skirts, she darted toward the water’s edge. Just as the last of the three Negroes stepped into the boat and shoved off from the bank, she leaped into the small craft.

Her skirts flew everywhere and one of the rings in her hoop skirt cracked. Her elbow scraped a rough edge of the boat and stung sharply.

"Miss Brittany, what are you doing here?" Jackson asked, his paddle poised in the murky water.

"Don’t stop," she said quickly. "Grandpere said it was all right. I might be able to help someone who’s injured."

Jackson nodded once and resumed paddling. Brittany had tended a gash across his forehead a couple of summers ago. Although he still had the scar, he had never shown any sign of infection.

By now, Sadie had located her charge and was standing on the levee motioning frantically. Grandpere guided Lancelot to the edge of the water and called after her. For a minute, Brittany thought he was going to lead the horse into the water after them.

Jackson looked over his shoulder at Brittany and frowned.

"Oh dear," Brittany said, "they want me to come back after my bag of bandages and things. But there isn’t time. I’ll have to make do without it."

Jackson shook his head, but didn’t slow down. Unlike Sadie, he stayed out of things.

Brittany exhaled deeply and straightened her skirts. It didn’t matter at the moment that she was sandwiched between two smelly Negroes and her shoes were filled with water.

Brushing the wind blown hair from her face, she turned to look at Grandpere though he was already too far away for her to make out his expression. She was sorry for going against his wishes. But, she’d had no choice. If Jeffy was out here, she had to help him.

She’d never felt more determined in her life.

And she’d never felt more alone.

Finally, the small boat nudged against the east bank and Jackson helped Brittany step ashore. After crossing the river amidst the carnage, she was weak with nausea. Each time they came across a body, she bit her knuckles until she was certain it wasn’t Jeffy.

What was left of the steamers had drifted downriver. The little search party started in that direction.

They hadn’t taken more than half a dozen steps before coming across a young girl lying on her side at the edge of the water. Brittany took a deep breath and approached the unconscious child. She wasn’t more than ten or eleven years old. Her dress was in tatters and she had burns along her arms and on her cheek. With a sigh, Brittany gently smoothed the girl’s blonde hair back from her forehead. Though the child was undeniably pretty, her soft skin would now be forever disfigured.

Grasping the child’s wrist, Brittany felt a clear pulse. The girl was alive, but Brittany couldn’t help her out here. She didn’t even have any ointment for the burns.

"She’s alive. We’ve got to get her to the house."

"You get her across the river and come back for us," Jackson said, gesturing toward Ham and Washington.

After Brittany saw the child safely nestled in the boat, she and Jackson continued along the bank. Brittany allowed Jackson to lead the way and tried not to think about the snakes that could be slithering invisibly out of their path. After finding the child, her hope was surging. Jeffy, too, could be here - alive.

They had gone less than a dozen yards when they heard the shots.

Brittany froze.

Jackson threw her to the ground and fell across her. Who would be shooting at them? They were trying to help.

She heard them first, heedlessly tramping toward them.

Then she saw them.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Yankees.

"Jackson," she called in a hoarse whisper. Perhaps they hadn’t been seen yet.

Frantically, she pushed at his weight. They had to hide. Where were Ham and Washington? They had to have heard the gunfire.

Suddenly she was successful and Jackson slid off her side, face up, his eyes staring, but not seeing.

She was covered in blood.

She screamed.

Before she could struggle to her feet, there were half a dozen bayonets pointed at her.