Trail Angel by Derek Catron Page B

man.
    William Tecumseh Sherman.
    The news staggered Annabelle. In the last months of the war, Sherman’s approach terrified all of Charleston. It was a relief when he marched instead on Columbia. On hearing how Sherman’s troops razed that city, Annabelle’s guilt at drawing comfort at others’ suffering transformed her fear into hatred for the man leading the marauding bluebellies. She wished then that Sherman had come to her city. She would have faced him herself.
    Now she had her chance.
    Her mother helped tie her hair for the occasion, and Annabelle was pleased enough with the results, which would have qualified as fashionable even in Charleston. As for the rest . . . She forced herself to look away from the mirror. Loss of weight when food was scarce made her cheekbones too prominent, like one of the stern-faced Indian women she saw in pictures. Annabelle had altered her dresses for travel and nearly discarded this one, for the décolletage made it impractical for what she imagined life to be on the frontier. It seemed fitting for this night, even though without crinoline the dress clung to her frame in an unseemly fashion.
    Entering the Herndon’s grand dining room, she knew better than to be flattered by the attention. Her attire probably scandalized the women, and the reaction of the men felt no different than the attention paid by dogs at the dinner table.
    As the room quieted, Annabelle realized the foolishness of her venture. What do I have to prove? It won’t matter to Sherman that I am unafraid. Eager for a friendly face, Annabelle gladdened when a voice called her name.
    As she crossed the room to greet the Colonel, Josey Angel at his side, she failed to suppress a smile. The old man possessed a charm that made it easy to forget he had worn Union blue. His eyes were kind, and he was quick to smile beneath his mustache. He reminded Annabelle of her late grandfather, who had a spritely way even in his dotage. After her grandmother died, there were jokes that the widower might court one of Annabelle’s friends, a notion no one could quite deny.
    The Colonel greeted her with a deep bow and gallant sweep of his arm. He had left his hat in camp and his balding head freckled with age spots left him looking older and frailer than when he sat in a saddle. “I was just telling Josey how even in mourning wear you outshine every lady here.”
    From Josey Angel, she received a curt nod and a soft, “Ma’am,” though his dark eyes never left her. He looked uncomfortable in a dark, loose-fitting frock coat that seemed at least a size too big for him. I wonder who loaned him that. Without his guns and in his borrowed suit, he could have passed for a young tutor come to teach in the town’s schoolroom.
    â€œGentlemen,” she said. “Dinner clothes suit you in a fashion I would not have anticipated.”
    â€œShe means we clean up good,” the Colonel said to Josey with a gruff laugh. “Tell her how pretty she looks, Josey.”
    Whatever Josey Angel might have said was lost in another man’s booming greeting.
    â€œMarlowe.”
    Marlowe?
    â€œYou old warhorse. When I said I expected to see you in a rocking chair telling war stories to girls too young and too pretty for your likes, I didn’t think you would start tonight.”
    The words came in a torrent, and before Annabelle even registered his presence, General Sherman towered over her. He looked down and laughed, slapping a hand on the Colonel’s back, with a knowing wink. “Where’s your rocking chair?”
    The remark drew good-natured laughter from the circle of junior officers who trailed after the general, hyenas to his red-maned lion. Annabelle blushed at the implied compliment, then grew angry, whether at the man’s presumptuousness or her own reaction, she wasn’t sure.
    Sherman was a large-framed man, bigger than Annabelle expected, and filled with an energy