The Enemy
When Lt. Winfield Quartermain woke on the blood-drenched battlefield, noticed the bodies of his fallen comrades and heard the lamentable cries of the dying men, his memory slowly returned. There had been a brief skirmish with a band of renegade Confederates who had broken off from the regular Army and were conducting their own unique blend of guerilla warfare and outlawry. The last thing Winfield remembered was the cannon blast that had knocked him off his feet and sent him flying backward through the air.
The lieutenant wondered how badly he was hurt. Slowly, he got to his feet and took several steps without any trouble and only a minimum of discomfort.
Thank God nothing seems to be broken, he thought gratefully as he twisted and turned and flexed his muscles.
It was only when he reached up to see if his cap was in place that Winfield felt the sharp stab of pain. He pulled his hand back and saw blood on his fingertips. He obviously suffered a head wound. That explained why he had been unconscious. It also explained why his regiment had left him for dead and moved on.
I certainly can't stay here all day, he decided, feeling his stomach ache from hunger.
Winfield filled his canteen with the water from the canteens of the dead men around him, feeling no guilt since they no longer had any need to quench their thirst. Then he ripped a piece of fabric from a fallen man's uniform and tied it around his head as a bandage. Finally, he helped himself to some more ammunition and then headed east, hoping to catch up with his regiment.
The wounded soldier walked for hours and found little to eat except some wild berries. There were few houses in that part of Georgia. It was cotton country, an area of large plantations. Normally such huge farms were self-sustaining, but Sherman's Army, on its infamous march to Savannah, was destroying everything in its path. In the wake of the Union Army, there were only bitter, defeated civilians and burned down houses and barns.
Night came and Winfield continued to head east. He had not eaten much all day, and his canteen was almost empty. At least the night would bring a brief respite from the blistering Georgia heat. A New Englander by birth, the young lieutenant found the high temperatures of the South most unpleasant.
The climate of Georgia was the least of his problems, however. Alone, even though he was armed, Winfield was extremely vulnerable. The enemy was all around him—the Confederate Army, the Georgia militia, the lawless renegades, stragglers from both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line who would shoot him dead for the shoes on his feet or the change in his pockets and, last but not least, the irate citizens of Georgia who would view his blue uniform as an anathema.
Winfield slept fitfully on a patch of grass, in a copse of trees, his rifle close by his side. The churning of his empty stomach and the dryness in his mouth woke him several times. The next morning, the sun rose and promised temperatures as hot if not hotter than those of the previous day. By noon, the young lieutenant was exhausted. The heat of the merciless sun was worsened by the fever from the infection that attacked his body.
"Isn't that just my luck," he laughed bitterly as he dragged his feet along the dusty dirt road. "I survived Bull Run, Shiloh and Vicksburg only to die of thirst on some backwoods road in Georgia."
That night Winfield briefly closed his eyes and longingly thought of home—of the fishing boats on the Atlantic in the early morning fog and of the snow that covered the peaceful town of Stonington, Connecticut, in a blanket of white each winter. The weary soldier stumbled, fell to his knees and was about to surrender to hunger and exhaustion, to lie down in the road and wait for death to deliver him from his misery when suddenly he saw a driveway up ahead. His heart leaped with hope.
A plantation! Sherman probably burned the house down to the ground, but there might be something left in the field, even if the livestock and chickens were taken away by the Union Army. If nothing else, there should at least be a well on the property. I can get a good, long drink and then fill my canteen.
With fierce determination, Winfield forced himself to keep going.
* * *
Evangeline DeHavilland, mistress of the grand plantation known as White Oak, stood on her sweeping veranda, breathing in the fresh night air. Around her, the once-magnificent plantation lay in ruins. The fields were overgrown with weeds, the slaves had headed north, the animals were gone and there was little likelihood of a crop being planted that year. Still, Evangeline smiled, for she was one of the lucky ones. She had a roof over her head and enough nourishment to sustain her—for the time being, at least.
The young woman was about to go back inside her home when she spied something lying on the tree-lined drive that led to her house. She walked closer and noticed it was a man's body, and the dusty, torn blue uniform told her the body was that of a Yankee. Evangeline took his hand and felt for a pulse. It was faint, but the heart was still beating. It would not beat much longer, however, she feared. There was a wound on the young man's head, and his body was burning with fever.
"Come on," she urged, trying to rouse him and get him to his feet. "I have to put you into bed before you die out here."
Winfield managed to stand and, with Evangeline's help, walk down the drive, up the stairs and into the house.
"Just a little bit farther. There's a spare bedroom on the first floor."
No sooner did he cross the threshold than the wounded soldier collapsed onto the bed. Evangeline, who had tended both family members and slaves through all sorts of illnesses, immediately began nursing the injured man.
"Here is some water," she said, holding a dipper to his lips. "Just sip it; don't gulp."
After Winfield's thirst was slaked, Evangeline went to the kitchen to get him something to eat.
"I have peaches, a rasher of bacon, some grits and a slice of bread, which, I'm afraid, is a bit hard."
"I appreciate anything you can spare, ma'am," the Yankee uttered faintly.
When her patient was done eating, Evangeline brought in a basin of water and a sponge. After wiping the blood and perspiration from his face, she removed his filthy uniform and sponged down his body. She was not embarrassed by the man's nudity. Having grown up on a plantation, she was familiar with male and female anatomy, and since the start of the war, she had often found it necessary to put aside her "ladylike" sensibilities.
Thanks to Evangeline's excellent care, the wounded Yankee slowly recovered. His fever broke, his head wound healed without any further infection and he began to regain his strength.
"I don't know how to thank you," Winfield told his nurse one evening. "You saved my life even though I'm the enemy."
"I've learned to look beyond a man's uniform. I didn't see a Yankee lying on the driveway. I saw a young man whose life was in danger."
"I still wish there was some way I could repay you. Perhaps there's something that might need fixing around here. If so, I could take care of it before I return to the war."
"I might find some way you can be of use," she said with a warm smile. "We'll discuss it after you've fully recovered. Now, drink this," she insisted as she held a glass to his lips.
Shortly after he finished the bitter beverage, Lt. Quartermain's eyelids fluttered, and he fell into a deep sleep.
* * *
The following day when Winfield woke and saw that the sun was about to set, it occurred to him that since he had been recuperating at White Oak, he had yet to see the light of day.
"I can't believe how much I've been sleeping," he exclaimed when Evangeline brought in his evening meal on a tray.
"The medicine I've been giving you makes you sleep," she told him.
"What medicine is that, laudanum?"
"No. It's just a blend of locally grown herbs."
"Well, I'm feeling much better now. I think you can stop giving me the medication."
"If that's what you want. After all, I'm sure you're anxious to return to the Army."
"It's not that I want to go back to my regiment so much as I don't want to be a burden to you any longer."
"You're no bother at all. On the contrary, I enjoy having the company. It's been lonely here with all the slaves gone."
During the following week, Winfield continued sleeping through the daytime hours. He knew the long periods of slumber were not normal and that, for some reason, Evangeline was still giving him her mysterious herbal mixture with his meals. He would make it a point not to finish the drink when she next gave it to him.
* * *
The following evening when Evangeline brought the dinner tray into the sick room, she saw Winfield dressed and standing up beside the window.
"What are you doing out of bed?" she asked sweetly.
"My wound has healed, and the fever is gone. There's no reason for me to stay in bed any longer."
Evangeline put the tray down, not bothering to argue the point.
"Now it's my turn to ask you a question," Winfield said sheepishly. "Why have I been locked in this room?"
"For your own protection. Confederate patrols have been spotted in this area recently. I was afraid they might search the house and find you."
"You could have just told them you're the only one here. Confederate soldiers would have no reason to doubt one of their own."
"I'm not always in the house during the day," she explained. "With the slaves freed, someone has to do their work. I'm all that's left."
"Not anymore. You've got an extra pair of hands now."
"But what about the Army?"
"They won't be looking for me. They left me for dead. Besides, the boys in blue can win this war without me."
Remembering Evangeline was a Southerner, he quickly apologized.
"It's all right," she said. "I once believed in the glorious cause, but that was before Vicksburg."
"Why? Did you lose your husband at Vicksburg? A sweetheart perhaps?"
"No. I had the great misfortune of experiencing Vicksburg firsthand. I was visiting a cousin of mine in Mississippi when the siege began."
"It must have been horrible."
"Horrible isn't the word for it! In those forty-seven days, my life changed completely. I haven't been the same person since."
* * *
When Winfield woke up the next day, the sun had just begun to set.
"Damn it!" he swore. "I wanted to be up at the crack of dawn."
He dressed quickly and walked to the bedroom door. Once again it was locked and so was the window. Despite the gratitude he felt toward Evangeline, anger rose in his heart. He picked up one of the heavy fireplace andirons, walked to the window and smashed the panes and wooden mullions. Then he carefully stepped over the shards of broken glass and out onto the veranda.
Free at last! he thought, deciding his first chore would be to fix the window he had just shattered.
But the window could wait. Before the sunlight completely vanished, he walked the perimeter of the house to get an idea of what condition the plantation was in. Surprisingly, there was no vegetable garden; neither were there any fruit trees. Furthermore, the pigsty and chicken coop were empty.
"This place is in worse shape than I was led to believe. Maybe there are still some cows," he said hopefully as he headed toward the barn.
But the big double doors of the barn were tightly closed, and a large padlock held them firmly fastened. Winfield wanted to walk to the back of the barn and see if there was a window or another door, but the sun had gone down and he was having difficulty seeing in the dark, moonless night.
Suddenly, Evangeline came out of one of the small cabins in back of the house—the former slave quarters, Winfield assumed. She saw her patient standing near the barn and ran toward him.
"What are you doing out here?" she cried.
Then she looked toward the house. The broken window spoke for itself.
"After all I've done for you, this is how you repay me!"
"You saved my life, and I'm grateful to you. I'll do anything to repay you—pick cotton, milk cows, you name it—but I won't be kept a prisoner, and I won't allow you to drug me anymore."
Evangeline hung her head.
"I'm sorry," she said with apparent heartfelt regret.
"Never mind. Let's go in and get something to eat."
As the Yankee soldier turned back toward the house, he felt a sudden blow to the back of his head. When he fell to the ground and saw the mistress of White Oak standing above him with a bloodied rock in her hands, he was painfully reminded that he was a lieutenant in the Union Army and that Evangeline was the enemy.
* * *
Once again Lt. Winfield Quartermain woke with his head aching to find himself surrounded by dead and dying soldiers. Only this time, he wasn't on a battlefield. Instead, he was bound and gagged and lying on the ground in White Oak's barn. It was daytime, and in the dim light that filtered through the small, grimy window, Winfield could see other men who, like him, were tied up. Most of them were dressed in uniforms—blue, gray and butternut. There were even a few black slaves of both sexes. Apparently, Evangeline did not discriminate when taking prisoners. Her hostages represented both North and South, black and white, young and old, man and woman.
Why? he wondered. What reason does she have for keeping all these people captive?
Upon closer observation, Winfield noticed that some of the prisoners had lost consciousness. Those who were cognizant were pale and unresponsive, as though they had lost all will to live. A sudden fear came over the Yankee lieutenant. He had heard tales of strange practices in the Deep South, stories of voodoo priestesses, black magic and zombies. Could that be what Evangeline had in mind for her captives? Was she planning on creating her own workforce of zombies? Was that how she hoped to maintain her plantation once the war was over, by having soulless men and women take the place of the emancipated slaves that had once worked White Oak's cotton fields?
Not long after darkness fell, the barn doors opened, and Evangeline stepped inside. She carried a lantern, which she held high and shined in Winfield's face.
"You're awake," she said.
The bound and gagged soldier stared at his captor, his eyes begging her to release him.
The mistress of White Oak did not oblige. Instead, she went to check on her other prisoners. A few were on the verge of death. She gave these unfortunate souls food and water—by force in some cases.
At least she wants to keep us alive, Winfield thought with relief.
In an effort to get Evangeline's attention, he began rocking his body to and fro, but he only succeeded in flipping himself over onto his stomach. From that position, he could view a corner of the barn not visible to him when he was on his back. There, piled high in a mound, were bones, both animal and human, and dead bodies in various stages of decomposition.
A silent scream of terror echoed in the soldier's brain. He realized with a sickening sense of doom that he and the other captives in the barn were not destined to be mindless zombies tilling fields and picking cotton. Rather, they were slated to be the human nourishment that kept White Oak's mistress alive. The former Southern belle had sunk to the level of cannibalism—or so Winfield believed. The truth, however, was even more bizarre.
Evangeline DeHavilland, whose gentle hands once bathed and nursed the wounded Yankee, now roughly pushed him over onto his back. In the process, the gag in his mouth came loose.
"Why are you doing this?" he cried. "Have you no heart?"
Sadness overwhelmed her.
"I can't afford one, not anymore. But I wasn't always like this. If it hadn't been for the damned war, I would probably be married with children by now. I'd have nothing to worry about except my family's health and the price of cotton. Instead, I have become the creature you see before you."
"What do you mean 'creature'?"
A tear came to her eye, and she quickly brushed it away.
"My life changed in Vicksburg. The city was bombarded for forty days. We had to take shelter in caves that we dug into the clay hills on which the city stood. In those caves, children were born and people died. The food grew scarce. Several of us ...."
She could no longer continue. Even in the dim light of the lantern, Winfield could see the pain etched on her deathly pale face. He could almost bring himself to feel sorry for her.
Evangeline reached over and replaced the gag in the Yankee's mouth, and in an unexpected gesture of compassion, she gently touched his cheek.
"If only things had been different, you and I might have ...."
The young woman shook her head, valiantly trying to cast off the weakness of the moment. Then she walked back toward a Confederate captain. She leaned forward and put her arms around his shoulders as though to enclose him in a lover's embrace, but rather than kiss him with her lips, she sunk her teeth into his neck.
Winfield closed his eyes. There was no scream from the dying Rebel, only a low, pitiful moan, followed by the sound of Evangeline drinking his blood. When the Yankee lieutenant at last opened his eyes, Evangeline was done feeding; her complexion was once again a healthy, rosy shade of pink.
His mind numbed with horror, Lt. Winfield Quartermain no longer fought against the ropes that bound him. Evangeline, he realized, was no mortal enemy. The mistress of White Oak was one of the undead, a threat to all who lived in the light of day. Knowing the horror that was in store for him, the young Yankee lieutenant welcomed death. He only wondered how long it would be until the other prisoners died and it would be his turn to satisfy Evangeline's thirst for blood.
The drawing in the upper left corner is from a U.S. postage stamp of Phoebe Pember, a Civil War nurse and hospital administrator.
Don't let the fangs bother you. Salem doesn't sink his incisors into people's veins; he prefers Godiva chocolates.
