Love Stays True

by Martha Rogers

  An enjoyable read, where love grows strong while hardships aim to chip away at what Sallie and Manfred hold dear.

  —CINDY WOODSMALL

  NEW YORK TIMES BEST-SELLING AUTHOR

  A beautiful story about the tender tenacity of love and the sweet stubbornness of faith-drenched hope.

  —TAMERA ALEXANDER

  USA TODAY BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF TO WHISPER

  HER NAME AND A LASTING IMPRESSION

  A heart-wrenching story of sacrificial love set in the post–Civil War turmoil that plagued our nation.

  —DIANN MILLS

  CHRISTY AWARD–WINNER AND AUTHOR OF

  THE CHASE AND THE SURVIVOR

  MARTHA ROGERS

  Most CHARISMA HOUSE BOOK GROUP products are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchase for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, and educational needs. For details, write Charisma House Book Group, 600 Rinehart Road, Lake Mary, Florida 32746, or telephone (407) 333-0600.

  LOVE STAYS TRUE by Martha Rogers

  Published by Realms

  Charisma Media/Charisma House Book Group

  600 Rinehart Road

  Lake Mary, Florida 32746

  www.charismahouse.com

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters in this book are fictitious unless they are historical figures explicitly named. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual people, whether living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Martha Rogers

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by Bill Johnson

  Visit the author’s website at www.marthawrogers.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Rogers, Martha, 1936-

  Love stays true / Martha Rogers. -- First edition.

  pages cm. -- (The Homeward Journey ; Book One)

  ISBN 978-1-62136-236-4 (trade paper) -- ISBN 978-1-62136-237-1 (ebook)

  1. Homecoming--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3618.O4655L68 2013

  813’.6--dc23

  2013003596

  First edition

  13 14 15 16 17 — 987654321

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my Whiteman cousins—Milton, Patty,

  Kay, Susan, Julia, Sarah, Jolly, Linda,

  Timmie, Holly, and Tom—and my sister,

  Betty, and my brother, John, who continue

  the legacy begun by Manfred and Sallie

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to:

  • The wonderful people at the courthouse, Grace Church, and the historical society in St. Francisville, Louisiana, who answered my questions and showed me where to find the documents I needed to put together the story of Manfred and Sallie.

  • My writing buddies DiAnn Mills, Janice Thompson, and Kathleen Y’Barbo Turner, who were the first readers of this story and gave me great suggestions.

  • My Serendipity Life Bible Studies Class at First Baptist Church in Houston for their love and continual prayer support when I’m on a deadline. You ladies are the greatest prayer warriors I know.

  • My extended family of cousins and now deceased aunts with whom I had great fun tracking down leads, listening to stories from the past, and putting together the information we found on our excursions.

  • My editors Lori Vanden Bosch and Deborah Moss, who give such wonderful advice and help my stories to be stronger and tighter. You ladies rock.

  • My agent Tamela Hancock Murray and Steve Laube for having faith in me and taking care of me.

  • My husband, Rex, who chauffeurs me all over for speaking engagements and book signings and puts up with my being “holed” up in my office for long periods of time.

  • My Lord and Savior, who gives me the words to write and a long life to fulfill my dreams. To Him be all glory and praise.

  Who went in the way before you, to search you out a place to pitch your tents in, in fire by night, to shew you by what way ye should go, and in a cloud by day.

  —Deuteronomy 1:33

  PROLOGUE

  * * *

  Woodville, Mississippi, Tuesday, April 4, 1865

  THE GLOW FROM the lantern cast an eerie light into the darkness. Huddled in the root cellar with her mother, sister, and two servants, Sallie clutched the cold metal of the pistol in one hand and cradled a musket in the crook of her other arm. Shouts, gunshots, and screams permeated the walls of their sanctuary, sending fear into her heart and onto the faces of the others. Lord, keep us safe! Sallie prayed over and over.

  The Union soldiers had appeared so suddenly from around the curve from town that Sallie’s father only had time to shove the guns into her hands and push them all down under the kitchen into the root cellar. Then he’d left with her brothers Will and Tom to fight.

  Her sister, Hannah, sat wrapped in Mama’s arms as she rocked back and forth with quiet words of assurance. Their servants Lettie and her mother, Flora, sat hunched together with encircling arms, fear etched across their dark faces. All of them looked to Sallie for their safety and survival.

  How could she save them when she’d never shot a gun at anyone? Although Papa had taught her to handle firearms, she’d never shot at much but a jar or two out in the back pasture. Aiming at a man meant something else entirely.

  She prayed for Papa, Will, and Tom to be all right as they defended their home against the invaders. George, Flora’s husband, and Moses, another servant, had also stayed with Papa to do battle. Others from the area would join in with Papa to ward off the enemy, but were they enough to save the homes and people living here?

  The war had raged for four years, and now it had come to their yard. What had only been stories from young men returning from battle now became very real, and it shook Sallie to the very core of her being. Would she have the courage to do what must be done if the enemy found them here in the cellar? That was one question she didn’t care to have answered.

  After what seemed like an eternity, but had to have been less than an hour, Sallie could stand the suspense no longer. Against her mother’s wild look of warning and shaking of her head, Sallie ascended the stairs with Lettie right behind her. Two young women, one white and one black, ready to face whatever lay upstairs. The cellar opened into the house just beyond the kitchen into a coatroom of sorts, and Sallie pushed up the door just enough to see around the room. All was quiet, so she opened the door fully and climbed out.

  Still clutching guns in both hands, she tiptoed around the corner to the kitchen. A figure loomed before her. Sallie yelped and dropped the shotgun, which clattered onto the wood fl
oor. The figure turned with something in his hand, and Sallie closed her eyes, raised the pistol with two hands, and pulled the trigger. Blam!

  Lettie screamed. Sallie opened her eyes to find a boy clutching his side, his eyes wide open. Blood streamed between his fingers before he fell forward and landed only a few feet from Sallie.

  She raced to his side and turned him over to find eyes empty of life. Frantic, her eyes darted around. Then settled. A loaf of bread, one bite taken out, lay near the body.

  Her throat closed to the scream lodged there. She reached out a shaking hand, and Lettie took it. “Lettie, it was only a loaf of bread. He’s just a boy. What have I done? What have I done?”

  Tears poured from her eyes, but noise from outside sent fear racing through her blood again, and she grabbed up the musket. Papa had loaded it for her, but she prayed she wouldn’t have to use it. Then another soldier burst through the door. This one held a gun and yanked his arm up to aim it, but Sallie fired her gun first. The shot hit the arm that held his weapon.

  The soldier clutched his wound and ran from the building. Sallie sat down hard on the floor, her hands trembling. She thrust the gun away from her and began to sob.

  A gasp from behind her sent Sallie scrambling for the gun, but it was just her mother. Mama surveyed the downed soldier, a hand over her mouth. Flora followed close behind, saw what had happened, and quickly turned to shield Hannah from the sight. For a moment they all stood in stunned silence, unsure what to do next.

  Just then Papa shouted from the yard. “Amanda, Sallie, hurry! I have a carriage for you.”

  As if a spell had been broken, Sallie got up slowly, keeping her eyes resolutely away from the downed soldier. Flora kept Hannah’s head buried in her shoulder, with Mama too shielding her from the sight of the soldier. Without speaking, Sallie followed the others out the door to find Tom in the driver’s seat of the family carriage. The women scrambled up behind him.

  Papa had time only to quickly clasp Mama’s hand. “Tom will take you to Grandma Woodruff’s while Will and I stay to fight. We will join you as soon as we think it’s safe.” He pointed away from the house. “Tom, go that way and then swing back around. Run the horses fast as you can. Sallie, keep an eye out for soldiers.”

  Sallie could only nod as Papa slapped the horses and sent them racing away. But no matter how far they went, the image of the bloody soldier left behind on that kitchen floor would forever haunt her.

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  Point Lookout, Maryland, Monday, April 10, 1865

  COLD AIR CHILLED his arms, and a sharp object poked at his cheek. Manfred Whiteman reached down to pull a ragged blanket up over his arms and brushed away the straw scratching his face. A few moments later a sudden brightness aroused him again. His lids opened to a slit. Slivers of sunlight peeked through the tiny windows and dispersed the shadows of the night.

  He shut his eyes against the sun’s rays, but sleep would not return. He lay still in the quiet of the new morning and sensed a difference in the air that settled over him like a cloak of peace. Raising his head, he glanced around the room. The same familiar stench of wounds, dirty hay, unwashed bodies, and death permeated the air, but in it all the difference vibrated. Something had happened, he could sense it, but nothing unusual appeared in the confines of the prison barracks.

  After being captured in the Battle of Nashville in December, he, his younger brother Edwin, and other prisoners had made the long march from Nashville to Louisville, Kentucky. From there they were transferred to Camp Chase in Ohio. Then, in the first week of February, they had been loaded onto trains like cattle and sent to Point Lookout, Maryland, a prison housing nearly fifty thousand men. Upon their arrival the captured soldiers had been stripped of everything personal, and as the days progressed, hundreds of men died. Manfred mourned the loss of friends but thanked the Lord every day for sparing his life, as well as the life of his brother.

  Edwin lay sleeping on the pallet next to him, curled on his side as usual. Others still slept, their snores filling the air with sound. No use in trying to sleep now. Manfred’s stomach rumbled with hunger, but most likely the only breakfast would be hard tack or biscuit.

  Several weeks ago an officer with the rank of general had visited. For some reason the general had asked Manfred about the one thing he would most like to have. When Manfred answered he wanted his Bible, the man had been somewhat taken aback. Still, he’d managed to find the Bible and Manfred’s journal, which he returned.

  Manfred now pulled that worn journal from beneath his dirty mat. The almost ragged book, his lifeline for the past three years, fell open. Manfred wrote.

  April 10, 1865

  Three more died the night before last. The nearly full moon shining through the windows gave me light to see. I took one man’s shoes and left him with my holey worn-out ones. He won’t need shoes, but I will. Took his socks and another man’s for me and Edwin. God, I never dreamed I would do such a thing, but we are desperately in need. Please forgive me. Help Edwin and me to get out of here and get home safely. I so desperately need to see Sallie and my family.

  The scrape of wood against wood echoed in the room. Union soldiers, making their usual morning inspection, checked for any who may have died during the night. Manfred shoved the journal under his mat just before the door thudded against the wall and the guards’ shoes clomped on the wooden floors. He turned on his side once again to feign sleep. The blunt toe of the sergeant’s boot kicked Manfred’s hip and sent a sharp pain through his leg. He grunted in response and raised his head to let the sergeant know he was alive. When the man passed, Manfred sat up on his mat and stretched his legs out in front of him to relieve the usual early-morning stiffness.

  Others awakened, and their groans filled the air as they rose to sit on their bedding. Manfred waited for breakfast, not knowing if he would even get rations this morning. The guards exited carrying the bodies of the souls who didn’t make it through the night.

  Manfred voiced a silent prayer for the boys and their families who would receive the news of the death of their loved ones. He bit his lip. He and Edwin had to survive. They had too much life to live, but then so had the ones just taken away. What if God chose not to spare him or Edwin? No, he wouldn’t think of that. Instead he filled his mind with Scripture verses memorized as a child. God’s Word stored in his heart gave him the comfort and hope he needed to survive each day.

  A little later the guards returned and ordered them to the part of the cookhouse where they would eat what the cooks passed off as food. Manfred accepted the cup of what the men called “slop water” coffee and a hard biscuit that would have to suffice until they brought a lunch of greasy water soup. Weeks ago the putrid smells of death, the filth in the camp, and the lousy food sickened him, but now he barely noticed.

  Manfred managed to eat half his biscuit and drink a few sips from his cup then leaned toward the man on his right. “Here, James. You take the rest of mine. You need it more than I do.”

  The man clasped a trembling hand around the cup and reached for the biscuit with his other. A few drops sloshed over the rim. “Thank you, Manfred. You’re a true friend.” He stuffed the biscuit into his mouth and lifted the cup to his lips to gulp down the last dregs of liquid. With a nod to Manfred, the young soldier returned the cup.

  After they were sent back to their quarters, Manfred breathed deeply and almost choked on the rancid air. What he wouldn’t give for a bath, shave, and haircut. A good meal wouldn’t hurt anything either. His nose had mostly numbed itself to his body odor, but dirt and scum became more visible every day. When he had tried to wash his shirt, the brackish water left stains he couldn’t remove.

  When would this nightmare come to an end? A question unanswered for these four long months of marching, fighting, and incarceration. Too many lay ill and dying. The end had to come soon.

  He glanced once again at his brother, who cushioned his head on his crossed palms with his eyes closed
. Manfred reached over to touch the boy’s shoulder. “You all right, little brother?”

  Edwin didn’t open his eyes. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just hungry. I dreamed of home last night and Bessie’s cooking. When I close my eyes, I can see her and Momma in the kitchen, Bessie up to her elbows in flour making biscuits and Momma stirring the fire and making grits.”

  “Shh, brother, you’re making me hungry too.” Manfred pulled what was left of his jacket tighter about his thin body. “We’ve been captive four months, but it seems a lifetime. Home, our parents, and Sallie may as well be a million miles away.”

  Edwin sat up and pounded his fist into the straw. “Yeah, and sometimes I think we’ll never get back there.” He stretched his legs out on his mat, hugging what passed for a pillow. “I sure pray I’ll get to see Peggy again soon.”

  Manfred positioned his body to sit squarely on his mat. “Soon as we’re home, I’m asking Mr. Dyer for Sallie’s hand in marriage, that is, if she still wants me. No telling who she’s met since I’ve been gone.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you, big brother. Sallie loves you.” He smacked his fist into the open palm of his other hand. “I just want to be out of here and out there where the action is, fighting with Lee. They told us the Yanks are fighting Lee in Virginny, and that’s just across the river. Lee has to beat them Yanks. We’ll be hearing about it any day now. I just know it.”

  Manfred simply nodded. He didn’t agree with his brother, but Edwin cared more about the war than Manfred. At this point Manfred had resigned himself to waiting out the war.

  If only he could somehow communicate with Sallie and let her know he was alive. Almost a year had passed since he’d seen her last summer and six months since he’d been able to send a letter to her or received one. From his Bible he removed her last letter and opened it, being careful to handle it as little as possible. Already small holes appeared in the creases from his folding it so often. She had written from her grandfather’s home last fall before he’d gone to Nashville. He prayed her family was safe there in St. Francisville, Louisiana. He’d been at Port Hudson, Louisiana, two years ago and would have been involved in that skirmish in May, but he’d been among the ones in the brigade deployed elsewhere in March. Major General had been sure he had enough soldiers to turn back the siege, but that had not been the case, and Port Hudson fell into Union hands in early July.