The Sapphire Brooch Katherine Logan (best beach reads TXT) 📖

have a pass signed by the secretary of war. Those with passes, come forward.”

A handful of families presented the necessary documents and ran toward the empty trains. The others, without passes, muttered their objections while snorting audibly as they passed around flasks of whisky.

There was nothing left for Charlotte to do. As history had recorded, Davis and the gold had escaped. Jack and Braham must have returned to the Van Lew’s. Walking back up the hill from the depot, Charlotte noticed another blaze. This one was along the water’s edge.

They’ve torched the Richmond-Petersburg Bridge.

The burning bridge reminded her of the story of a trainload of wounded soldiers who had been left at the Richmond-Petersburg Depot. Her memory was fuzzy, but she vaguely recalled the depot catching on fire when the bridge burned, and how a group of doctors organized a rescue party. What had been the outcome? How many were lost? She couldn’t remember.

Trudging on up the hill, she hoped to God she’d find Jack and Braham safe at Elizabeth’s. She turned the corner on Grace Street, anxiously searching for her men.

But how many wives and mothers and sisters and daughters would never see their men again because they’d died in the Richmond-Petersburg Depot fire?

If those in charge knew the building was going to burn, they could move the wounded out of harm’s way.

Charlotte hesitated near the wrought iron fence in front of Elizabeth’s house. Could she go inside and forget about the wounded? A nagging voice in her head said go inside to safety…but if she went to the depot she could do triage in the street if need be. The wounded men probably needed medical attention as well. Jack could take care of Braham for a little while longer.

Gathering her skirts, she dashed toward the crimson glow moving ever closer to the depot.

People weighed down with sacks of loot filled the streets, making it impossible for her to move quickly. The evening had started out chilly but had turned hot, and now sweat streamed down her face. She unbuttoned her collar. When it didn’t bring any relief, she slipped into the shadows, untied her petticoats, and let them drop to the ground. She turned away, leaving them where they lay, but immediately went back. Bandages were always needed. She scooped up the cotton petticoats and walked briskly toward the depot. Without the bulky petticoats, her hem dragged on the ground and swished dangerously close to the many small fires from sparks landing on anything flammable. Fearing her dress would catch fire, she found a ripped seam and tore several inches off the hem.

Navigating her way around the last few blocks of congested streets was slow going. Widespread disorder combined with fear created a dangerous cocktail, and Richmonders were slugging it down by the gallon. Soldiers rumored to belong to Gary’s Cavalry Brigade roamed the streets and smashed store windows with their musket butts. Then those same soldiers climbed through the broken windows and threw the doors open for swarms of looters.

Charlotte stayed in the shadows, away from the chaos and shouts, but she couldn’t escape the pungent odors of smoke and fear and sweat.

A Confederate straggler rushed out of a clothing store carrying large bundles on his back and another on top of his head. One of his bundles swiped Charlotte and sent her free-falling onto the street, where she landed facedown on her armload of petticoats in a resounding thud. After a moment or two she stretched and wiggled her fingers. Nothing broken or bleeding. She was very lucky, since shards of glass lay in a glistening layer covering the streets. If she had nosedived into them, her skin would have been cut to shreds.

Carefully she rolled over and sat up, and was repeatedly jostled by the swarm of looters. She had to get out of the way quickly. A break in the milling crowd gave her time to scramble to her feet. Stumbling over debris, she made her way to an unoccupied bench outside a general store with broken windows, a demolished door, and empty shelves.

The coppery taste of blood coated her tongue. She licked her bottom lip and discovered a cut on the inside corner. More sweat slid down the side of her face. When she wiped it away with the edge of a petticoat, it came away bloody. Not wanting to probe the wound with dirty hands, she ripped off a wide strip of the petticoat and bound it around her head, only to discover raising her arm hurt her shoulder. She must have strained it when she broke her fall. The fall had battered her head, scraped her knees, and twisted her shoulder, but she wasn’t broken.

She flinched when falling timbers crashed nearby and a chimney collapsed, dropping a pile of bricks only a few feet away. Her heart crawled up her throat and hung there. No serious injuries…yet.

Hurried footsteps ground the pebbles and crunched the broken glass as people streamed past her, like mice scurrying away from a clowder of cats, as her granny would have said.

In the distance, a tongue of flames licked over the top of one of the tobacco warehouses. The old South was fading away, and searing regret burned into her heart.

Stiff, blood-matted curls stuck to her forehead, and acrid smoke burned her nostrils. The fires would intensify, and so would the chaos. She had a choice. Turn back or try to save some soldiers.

The decision was made before she even took time to consider it. This was her city, regardless of the century. She wouldn’t shrug off her responsibilities when Richmond needed her most. She hauled herself up, climbed away from the bench and over the rubble of bricks, and trudged on, weaving through the throng, and avoiding men carrying large bundles.

Finding a clean patch on one sleeve, she wiped her face again, leaving behind dark pink splotches. At least they weren’t dark red.

If Jack could see her now, he would not be happy. It was so