“I remember reading that the battle waged through the town and beyond,” Matt said, “with the Confederates pushing the Union back the first day. And then reinforcements poured in from the south and the east. By day two, the Confederates were struggling. And by day three, Pickett’s Charge proved to be catastrophic for the Rebels. It was the first major battle Lee had to fight without Stonewall Jackson.”
As Matt spoke about the war, Meg wondered if a place actually could speak to someone. She thought she saw shapes, figures in the mist. She hadn’t noticed them before. These days, the field was lovely, green and sweeping; she knew that during the battle, there’d been trees, brush, scraggly rocks. She imagined soldiers, silent and grimed and bloodied, moving through, weary from the fighting.
Then a man stopped and looked right at her. She’d seen him before, years ago.
“Private Murphy,” she whispered.
“You know him?” Matt asked quietly.
“Yes,” she answered. “When we were about sixteen... We haven’t talked about it since. Lara and I were here, and we were discussing the battle and the fact that so many of the men, and especially the generals, had been friends before the war. It was late on a gloomy fall afternoon and we wondered if what we were seeing was real. You hear about ‘residual’ hauntings, people reliving a great trauma over and over again. We were just lying on the grass, and this soldier stopped—and it was him. Private Murphy. He could tell that we’d seen him. And he asked that I bring flowers to his little girl’s grave. She died in Richmond and is buried at Hollywood Cemetery. Of course, the first thing we did back in Richmond was look for her grave. I never knew whether it was really his daughter’s or not, but we found a grave for a Rosy Murphy, who’d died at the age of three in 1862. We didn’t see Private Murphy again—and there are dozens of graves with the name Murphy in Richmond.”
Matt took her arm and they moved a short distance. Private Murphy came to the fence; he hardly seemed aware of Matt. His face was seamed with dirt and sweat, but his smile was as sweet and sad as it had been a decade earlier. She’d thought him old when she’d originally met him. Now she knew he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or twenty-six when he died.
“You’re all grown up, miss,” he said.
“Private Murphy.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
He’d been a handsome young man, strong and fit—and brought down by war.
“We brought the flowers to Rosy,” she told him.
“I knew you would,” he said. “You’ve come to find your friend.”
“She’s...here? You’ve seen her?” Meg asked. Her heart sank. It had to mean Lara was no longer alive.
But Private Murphy shook his head. “I’ve felt her near...but not among the dead. I feel her, as if she is calling for help. And now you’re here. I pray that you find her.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. “My company is moving on.”
He reached out to touch her face. Meg didn’t know quite what she felt, whether it was something cold, or something so warm that it stretched across time and life and death. And then he turned and began to trudge wearily with the others, marching on to fight again—perhaps his last battle.
Matt pulled her back into his arms. “We need to get some rest. Now. Maybe tomorrow, we’ll understand what he was saying.”
“He was real,” she said urgently. “You saw him. You heard him, too.”
“I did. And I think we need to look at this another way now, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we need to consider the possibility that she’s being held somewhere. And because of what happened yesterday, she could be in real danger. We have to find her before Congressman Walker gives his speech—and we’re going to need help.”
“What kind of help?” Meg asked.
“Angela Hawkins help. Krewe help. If she’s being held, it’s someplace where there are no windows, where she has no chance of getting out. Where she has no way of communicating. Except through the power of her mind, which may be how you saw her. But we’ll be no good to anyone if we don’t get some sleep. Time to go back,” he said, leading her to the car.
Meg wondered how she was ever going to sleep with so many thoughts—and fears—rushing through her mind. Matt was quiet, too, as they returned to the bed-and-breakfast. When they entered, they could hear Killer barking excitedly. Charlene met them at the door, smiling, a book in her hand.
“Boy, that dog knew you two were here the minute the car pulled into the drive!” she said. “Did you have a nice dinner?”
“Yes, very. I love the tavern,” Meg said.
“Well, I guess I’ll head off to bed. You locked the main door?” Charlene asked.
“I did,” Matt replied.
They went down the hall toward their bedrooms. Killer trotted beside them, and as Matt started to go in one door and Meg in the other, he stood there, confused.
Matt laughed. “I think he wants us together. Clever little thing. Even if he is ugly.”
“Stop that. He can hear you.”
Matt bent down. “But you’re wonderful,” he told the dog.