Field of Redemption

by Lori Bates Wright

  FIELD OF REDEMPTION

  Copyright 2019 © by Lori Bates Wright

  www.loribateswright.com

  ISBN 978-1-7326738-2-3 (print)

  ISBN 978-1-7326738-1-6 (ebook)

  Kindle Edition

  Scripture quotations and references are taken from the King James Version of the Bible (The King James Bible), the rights in which are vested in the Crown, reproduced with permission of the Crown’s Patentee, Cambridge University Press.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, circumstances, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cover design by Roseanna White Designs

  Author is represented by Tamela Hancock Murray, The Steve Laube Agency

  SierraVista Books

  113 Traveller Street

  Waxahachie, TX 75165

  To my son, Jarod.

  Whose heart like HIS,

  and unflinching faith,

  reflect the passion

  and loyalty

  of King David.

  Your life is a gift to me.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  A Note From the Author

  My Heartfelt Appreciation

  Prologue

  Mansfield, Ohio

  3 April,1862

  Agonizing wails of a distraught mother shuddered the walls from somewhere above. Leaden clouds hung low outside the windows where the first rays of dawn fought to shed light on the mournful hills surrounding the sprawling estate.

  An oppressive air of sorrow settled over the dim foyer.

  Though she’d spent the better part of four years caring for the youngest resident of this now bleak mansion, her services were no longer needed. Her presence here, no longer welcome.

  Casting a final glance around the lofty foyer, ensconced in murky shades of first light, she came to the realization that no one was going to come bid her farewell. None would likely be sad to see her go.

  In a simple gray skirt and white ruffled blouse, she grasped the worn handles of her valise and crossed under the imposing transom. With an unsteady hand, she closed the door on all that had been familiar.

  Staring blindly into the fog, she sank down onto a whitewashed step at the top of the wide portico. Grief reminded her she had nowhere to go. No home to return to. Struggling to maintain her composure, she searched for a well-worn piece of paper kept in a pouch hung at her waist. The hurried cursive was committed to memory, searing her conscience with every blot of ink.

  Now that I am fourteen,

  I must take my place as a man

  to fight for my country and

  bring honor to my family.

  I will forever remember all

  that you have taught me.

  Be brave. Be strong. Be true.

  Yours, Malcolm V. Pearce

  Unshed tears stung the back of her eyes, as she tucked the note back into place.

  Strands of sunrise angled through heavy clouds illuminating the eastern horizon. As the fog slowly began to dissipate, the task set before her became ever more clear.

  She must go after her smooth-faced charge and bring him back home to his mother.

  “People destined to meet will do so, apparently by chance,

  at precisely the right time.”

  ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

  One

  Macon, Georgia

  1 August, 1864

  The war had finally come knocking on Georgia’s backdoor.

  Three years had gone by since Colonel Ian Saberton was this close to home. For the most part, it felt much longer. All he’d been through since leaving Georgia, he’d just as soon forget.

  Defending her in this infernal war of the states had taken an exhausting toll. Keeping the Federals at bay was becoming more difficult by the day. The last thing he needed was to sit and think too hard about things. There’d be plenty of time for that after the last soldier went home. Until then, it was his assignment to get them there alive.

  As soon as they turned down Main Street, excited cheers greeted Saberton’s bedraggled cavalrymen. Civilians lined either side of the road clapping and waving Confederate hand flags, reveling like they had something worth celebrating.

  The war hadn’t invaded this far south, but it was coming. These good Maconites were in for a shock, and Ian had been sent to prepare them. Unless Bragg could miraculously take back Atlanta, the Yankees were about to bring devastation worse than this state had ever seen.

  Grant’s forces had broken through the Rebel lines in Tennessee, and Sherman’s men were already surrounding Atlanta to the north.

  Pulling up on the reins, Ian slowed his haggard mount and halted the special unit by lifting a dingy-yellow gloved hand. One hundred and fifty of his best men, sent ahead to help prepare the lower western theater for inevitable invasion of blue coats.

  News of Saberton’s Cavalry had been a celebrated topic in every newspaper south of the Mason Dixon and a reluctant concession in those serving the North. Southerners, starved for a reason to claim victory, had deemed him heroic for having aided General Lee in taking Saunders’s Field at Fredericksburg a month back.

  A generous commendation at best. Nothing was heroic about this wretched war. Thousands of casualties from both sides littered fields from Virginia to Tennessee.

  “The men are hungry and exhausted, Rev.” Lieutenant George Fitzpatrick, Ian’s gray-headed assistant, urged his weary horse forward. He rubbed a dirty hand over the scruff on his jaw. “Maybe you can sweet talk some of them womenfolk into providing a little coffee for the troops. Anything’s better than another night of boilt bark water.”

  Ian wouldn’t pretend the thought hadn’t occurred to him.

  Fitz waggled his fingers at a white-haired lady as they passed which prompted a playful scoff from the blushing woman. It was evident Fitz had been quite a lady’s man in his day and still used his charm when the situation called for it.

  “First, we set up tents.” Ian gave the signal to move forward, nodding formally at the admiring crowd. “After I meet with Farris, we’ll know better what to expect.”

  A work wagon
in the intersection up ahead swerved precariously, causing the driver to shake his fist at something on the other side.

  Ian’s senses were on instant alert. He’d survived too many predawn ambushes to dismiss the feeling.

  He tilted his head to see what caused the commotion, but saw nothing out of the ordinary other than a brown dog making a racket as he ran beside the wagon.

  “Ain’t nothin’ but a mangy little mutt, Rev. Trying to get hisself run over,” Fitz offered. As usual the Tennessee mountain man was quick to anticipate his commander’s thoughts.

  Then she appeared.

  A young woman in a simple gray dress with starched white collar darted from behind the wagon to take the boardwalk up ahead. With two handfuls of her skirt, she weaved in and out of the throng of spectators who stood along the street to get a better look at the cavalry procession.

  Ian watched her intently as his horse caught up.

  Where was she going in such a hurry?

  His thoughts were suddenly absorbed by the girl with long, golden-red curls. She moved too freely to be encumbered by an enormous hoop skirt or impossibly tight corset. That all but ruled out a proper southern upbringing. Still, he couldn’t help but admire the natural, slender curve of her waist.

  When her gaze lifted, Ian’s mouth became dry and he was suddenly incapable of forming intelligible thought at all. He was openly staring, but heaven help him, he couldn’t look away. Beneath a rim of black lashes, eyes as green as spring clover met his.

  Fitz let out a low whistle. “Now there’s a fine little filly right there.”

  Quickening her pace, she left the boardwalk to cross an alleyway and up again onto the other side.

  “Had me an ol’ foxhound with ears that color once. Sure was a good chaser.”

  Ian shifted in his saddle, looking back to see where she was going. He lost her in the crowd. Scanning the top of each head, he finally spotted her scurrying down a dark alleyway in what Ian knew to be Macon’s infamous red-light district.

  Without hesitation, she pushed open a side door and marched inside like she belonged there.

  Falling back into his saddle, Ian frowned, oddly disappointed. He wouldn’t have taken her for the type of woman to service a brothel.

  “Looks kin be deceiving, Rev.” As usual, Fitz followed Ian’s line of thinking.

  “No matter. She’s the least of our concern.” Ian’s focus returned to his troops. It had been days since the men had eaten anything besides hardtack and stale jerky. More than a few had no soles left on their boots and had taken to wrapping their bare feet in burlap. Every last one of them could use a good bath and shave.

  The winter had been hard. Army rations were scarce. The mountains of Southern Tennessee had been brutally cold with little more than a thin tent to protect from the biting wind.

  Come Spring, Ian got orders take his select unit of Georgia horsemen south to Atlanta. The cold eventually eased, but April brought torrents of rain and with it more Yanks.

  Ian had seen enough to know the Confederate defenses were out-numbered and outflanked. His mission now was to report his findings to General Buford Farris here in Macon. And to prepare the rest of Georgia for a fight.

  Past the curious crowds, Ian nudged his horse into an easy canter, leading his men to the end of town where he was to set up his makeshift Confederate headquarters down by the old Macon railroad sheds.

  “Halt.” The voice of the sergeant bellowed behind him when Ian lifted a hand.

  Swinging from his mount, Ian saluted a soldier standing at attention before handing the man his reins. “General Farris is expecting us.”

  “Yes, Sir,” came the answer. “He’s having lunch in town and sent word for you to wait here until he’s ready to see you.”

  Ian squinted against the midday sun, already hot as blazes. Folks slowed on the platform of the train depot across the road as if it were the first time they’d ever seen soldiers.

  To be fair, most in Macon were not used to seeing active troops. Multitudes of wounded arrived by train daily, but few working troops had set camp this far south. Certainly not as motley a crew as his men presented today.

  This city, along with his hometown of Savannah and every small town in between, had remained fairly untouched by the war. Seeing the proud sons of Georgia riding in with shaggy beards, borrowed britches hanging much too loose, and somber expressions on weary faces was causing quite a stir.

  Hard to believe this mixed bag of men was the best the Confederate Cavalry had to offer.

  General Lee commissioned Ian to take his pick of cavalrymen and ride out ahead of Sherman’s army to secure the state capital at Milledgeville against possible attack.

  “Don’t that beat all? Nary hide nor hair of Farris.” With an agitated tug, Fitz took a kerchief from around his neck and wiped his brow. “Orders said he and the mayor were to meet us here at two-thirty sharp.”

  Ian removed a timepiece from his pocket. “Actually, we’re a good twenty minutes early.”

  “Is that so, now?” With a shake of his grayed head, Fitz gave a stern look at the younger soldier holding the reins of Ian’s horse. “You mean to tell me, we risked life and limb to arrive a full twenty minutes early, and ain’t no one here to say howdy do ’cept you?”

  The young corporal gave Ian an apologetic look and saluted the surly lieutenant for lack of any better response.

  A long wood bench, carved from a single tree trunk, provided a shady place to sit and wait for General Farris. The men needed a break from their saddles, so he gave the order to dismount. A clear water pump over beside the train depot became a popular spot to congregate.

  “Ahh, smells fresh and clean here. All innocent-like. No gunpowder or burnin’ buildings.” Fitz took in another deep breath before searching the clear blue sky. “Even them little Georgia birds are flittin’ around up there, purty as you please.”

  Fitz’s colorful observations were as familiar to Ian as the way he scrunched his nose when he talked. Short and stocky, but tough as a wire brush. Since he’d joined Ian’s regime two years ago, he’d proven his worth time and again. There was no better sharpshooter or friend in all of the Army of Tennessee. His sure aim had saved Ian’s life more than once.

  “Just look at that big ol’ bell up yonder.” With a nod of his grayed head, Fitz pointed out what Ian assumed was the belfry of the Methodist church. “In another month or two, she’ll be gone. One side or the other will take her down and melt her for the metal. War ain’t got no regard for nothin’ holy.”

  Ian had spoken several times at the church before the war. Back when he was a student and scholar from Yale Seminary in Boston.

  A lifetime ago.

  “A sad sight for sure.” Ian worked to keep his impatience in check. Scanning the crowd for any sign of Farris or the mayor, he barely glanced at the view Fitz described.

  “Oh, Colonel Saberton!”

  Ian came to his feet to greet a small woman in a wide bonnet and parasol scurrying up the walkway toward them.

  “Oh, my!” Her eyes grew round as he came to his full height. “We’ve got ourselves a tall one. You are Colonel Saberton, I presume?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And this is Lieutenant Fitzpatrick. Miss ….?” She had him at an obvious disadvantage. He’d never laid eyes on the woman before today.

  “Mrs. Cora Dobbs. Wife to Mayor Walter Dobbs of Macon.” Her smile relayed her satisfaction as recognition of the name caused Ian to tip his head and offer his hand.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Dobbs.”

  “A pleasure to be sure.” Fitz stood as well. “We were just discussing what a right purty town you have here, Mrs. Dobbs.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he puffed out his chest. “Puts me to mind of my beloved Tennessee. Shame to see it—.”

  “Allow me to escort you to better shade, Mrs. Dobbs.” Ian took the lady’s elbow and turned her away before Fitz could scare her with his ominous predictions.

  Turn
ing from his grasp, Mrs. Dobbs called out to a pair of ladies across the road. “Elizabeth! Eliza Jane! Come meet the new Colonel.” The lady looked past them to another set of women exiting the mercantile two buildings down. “Ya’ll come over and meet the Colonel.” Making a complete circle, she waved in every female within shouting distance. “The new Colonel is here. Where’s Abby? Someone see if she’s over at the hospital.”

  Fitz cast a dubious eye at Ian as they were suddenly surrounded by chattering females.

  “He’s a looker,” one said none too quietly behind her lace fan.

  “And unmarried. Let’s not forget that,” said another sending a pointed look at Mrs. Dobbs.

  “Ladies, please.” Fitz stepped forward once again, his hand on the hilt of his scabbard. “You kin all have a good talk with the Colonel after we’ve settled in a bit. Maybe go make some coffee and biscuits whilst you’re waitin’.”

  “Elizabeth, where’s Abby?” another woman interrupted.

  “Yes, Elizabeth. Where’s Abby?” Several others chimed in as they completely ignored Fitz, continuing to push forward toward Ian.

  With baffled expressions, the soldiers formed a half circle around their commander and the town’s ladies.

  “Penny Jo, run fetch her.” A woman standing near the hitching post spoke to a school-age girl in braids.

  “Who?”

  “Abigail!” Cora Dobbs insisted before taking the girl by the arm. “Remember what I told you. Tell her we have a Colonel here, and he’s a Code One!”

  The hitching post woman clapped her hands to hurry the girl along. “Run now! Time’s wasting, child.”

  With that, the girl trotted off across the street. Ian watched her over the heads of clamoring females vying for his attention.

  Fitz stepped to Ian’s right. “Just what are you supposin’ a Code One is? Is that some kind of secret Georgia talk?”

  Ian had no idea what these women were talking about. His brow furrowed as the girl in braids ran to meet the gray-dressed woman he’d seen earlier when she stepped out from the ally.