Traces of Mercy

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Traces of Mercy Page 21

by Michael Landon, Jr.


  Rand crossed to the window. He leaned toward the glass and saw fingerprints on the lower pane near the sill. But Letty had been wrong about the grime. The fingerprints were made from blood. He turned the crank to open the window and saw it. A piece of ripped white cloth fluttering from the outside of the sill. There were footprints in the soft dirt leading away from the house. Small footprints.

  He raked a hand through his hair and shook his head in amazement. “She went through here,” he said under his breath.

  “I’m sorry, suh,” Ezra said. “You say something?”

  Rand bolted from the room and nearly ran down Kizzy as she crossed the parlor. “Move!” he shouted as he made his way outside.

  Ezra and Isaac followed him to the back of the cottage. Rand trailed the footprints that led to a thatch of cattails as tall as he was. Ezra was right on his heels.

  “Can I help ya somehow, Mr. Rand? What you be looking for?”

  But the blood was pounding in Rand’s head. Rebel soldier … traitor … arsonist and would-be assassin. He insisted he wouldn’t find what he was looking for, even as he dropped to his knees at a freshly dug place in the earth. He didn’t wait for a shovel, just started digging at the ground. Ezra got down and helped him, and before long they unearthed the first bits of the end of his love for Mercy. The sheet was torn and streaked with blood; the men’s trousers were intact, but the wool shirt had a sizable hole ripped across the shoulder and was caked in dried blood. Ezra pulled a large wooden spoon from the hole and held it up.

  “Kizzy been looking for this,” he said.

  Rand slowly got to his feet, leaned down, and brushed the dirt from the knees of his pants. Everything he’d read in the journal was true. Mercy was a Confederate soldier at heart and was still at war—and she had tried to kill John Henderson.

  Rand wondered at the speed at which love could turn to hate and started to gather the evidence to bring Mercy to justice.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  It was shouting that roused Mercy from a sound sleep in the predawn hours, and for a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was.

  The angry voices were incongruous with the soft-spoken sisters. She threw the quilt back on the cot and sat up at the same time Oona and Deirdre were also reacting to the noise.

  “What in the world?” Oona asked, her sleepy eyes widening.

  Deirdre pushed the covers back from her pallet on the floor. “It’s some kind of a fight,” she said. “Sounds like my brothers when they were about to come to blows.”

  Twelve-year-old Frankie and ten-year-old Thomas stood in the middle of the common room, fists clenched and eyes flashing with anger. Nearly all the nuns spilled into the room in their nightclothes—a sight Mercy had never seen and would have laughed at had it been any other circumstance.

  “What is the meaning of this, boys?” Mother Helena stepped between the two boys circling each other.

  “His father was a good-for-nothing Yankee,” Frankie said.

  “And his father was a dirty reb!” Thomas shouted. “Same kind of dirty reb that killed my pa at Antietam!”

  “Maybe it was him!” Frankie yelled. “Stinkin’ Yankees trying to steal away our way of life!”

  “That is enough!” Mother Helena said. “I won’t have that kind of talk in this house, boys. And I certainly won’t allow physical blows on this property!”

  The boys didn’t take their eyes from each other, but they lowered their fists. Frankie’s eyes filled with tears. “It ain’t right I’m sleeping in the same room as someone from the Union side of things.”

  “I don’t like it no better than you,” Thomas said.

  “We are not divided by North or South here,” Mother Helena said. “And there is no place in God’s house for the kind of venom you boys are spewing. The war is over, and it was ugly. What you need to remember is you have something in common now. You both know how it feels to lose a father you loved. If there is to be further discussion about your fathers, let it be about that.”

  The boys remained silent. Mother Helena put a hand on each of their shoulders. “I think we’re done here, are we not?”

  Frankie and Thomas nodded.

  “Good,” Mother Helena said. Then she looked at the audience of sisters standing around her as if seeing them for the first time. “Well, Sisters, dawn is breaking. I suggest we get an early start on prayers once everyone is in proper attire.”

  Mercy followed Deirdre and Oona back to their room, uneasy at what had just transpired. She couldn’t wait for Rand to come and get her and take her far, far away from it all.

  The knock on the door came around midmorning when Mercy was in the middle of a board game with two of the children. She went to the window and looked out to see Rand’s horse, Sherman, tied under a tree. Her heart leapt in excitement when she realized it was time. The day. The day when everything was going to change for her. She heard Deirdre go to the door and had the passing thought that she and Rand would have to make up a story for Deirdre. Maybe Rand would have to leave, and then she and Lucky would follow when no one was looking.

  Deirdre came into the common room. “Mercy … Rand would like to speak to you. I told him you wouldn’t want to see him …”

  Mercy tried to still her nerves and put on a proper face for Deirdre. She sighed. “It’s all right, Deirdre. I’ll see him.”

  Deirdre nodded, then stepped aside as Mercy made her way to the door. Rand stood framed with sunlight behind him, and she thought he looked so handsome. She looked behind her to make sure she was alone, then let herself smile.

  “I didn’t expect you in the daytime,” she said quietly, excitement underlying her words. “What will I tell everyone?”

  “How about the truth?” Rand said. Mercy felt a twinge of unease at his stance, his expression. This wasn’t the face of a man about to elope with his bride.

  “What do you mean? Tell them that we’re going to run away together?”

  “That would be a lie,” he said coldly. “But then, you’re very familiar with the concept of lying to people who matter to you, aren’t you?”

  He stared. A glare so long and chilling that Mercy had trouble swallowing down the lump of fear that had formed in her throat.

  “I don’t know what—”

  Rand reached out and grabbed her arm, and she grimaced.

  “I’m sorry. Does that hurt?” he asked sarcastically. She shook her head, and tears trailed down her cheeks.

  Rand’s jaw trembled with anger. “I was ready to give up everything for you! My home, my family, my job—my birthright to the railroad empire my father has built! Everything for a rebel soldier!”

  “Rand,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

  “I know you were the one who set fire to the Hendersons’ house,” he said.

  She couldn’t even think to deny it. “How?”

  He lifted her journal into the air between them. “You told me.”

  Mercy’s eyes grew huge at the sight of her journal. She hadn’t even looked for it that day. Hadn’t written in it for several days and assumed it was under her mattress.

  “Where did you get that?”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now.”

  “Let me explain, Rand, please!” she pleaded. “Let me tell you my side of things.”

  Again, he lifted the journal. “No need. I’ve read quite enough.”

  Mercy knew by the cold tenor of his voice, by his dark, pitiless eyes, that any feelings he’d had for her were gone. Her fear that the truth would kill his love for her had been realized. She swiped at the tears on her cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  Rand looked grim. He stepped back and waved at someone she couldn’t see. “So am I,” he said.

  Mercy counted five law-enforcement officers coming toward her. Rand
moved completely out of the way as they approached. Her knees did buckle then as they told her the charge against her: conspiracy to commit murder. She would be tried for treason for the attempted assassination of an elected official.

  Mercy was vaguely aware of Mother Helena coming to her side—some of the sisters praying for her—Oona crying—and Deirdre … Deirdre was standing off to the side, not saying a single word. Mother Helena wrapped her arms around Mercy and whispered, “God be with you, child.”

  As the officer in charge led Mercy toward a police wagon, she saw Rand mount Sherman. He glanced her way, then gave the horse a kick. They galloped away, and he never looked back. If Mercy had ever wondered if a heart could break and still beat, she didn’t have to anymore.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Mercy sat in her cell in Gratiot Street Prison, her heart pounding in a fear-induced cadence as her mind raced with what had happened. Rand’s voice filled with hate, the nuns’ faces as she was led away, the thought of spending the rest of her life in a prison cell. She had no one to turn to, no one to talk to—so she tried to pray. But the words she tried to form seemed to be drowned out by the voices of hundreds of men who had died within the prison walls, voices whispering despair in her ear. Did God hear their prayers? Would He even listen to hers when she had proven herself to be a liar and a manipulator?

  Her tightly clenched hands lay in her lap, and she unfolded them against the gray of the prison dress they had given her upon her arrival. The minute it had dropped over her head, she’d thought of something Mother Helena had said right after they met. Clothing is a way to communicate to people who we are and what we value. The gray dress said she was considered a criminal, a blight so great on society that she had to be locked away behind bars.

  It was hours later when a guard opened her cell door to admit a man. He was baby faced, with a leather satchel that looked as young as he did. As soon as the guard walked away, the man moved toward her.

  “My name is Frank Collins, Mercy. I was appointed by the court to defend you, and to be quite honest, it isn’t going to be easy. I’ve reviewed the evidence they have against you, and it’s quite damning.”

  “You mean my journal?” she asked.

  “Among other things.”

  “What else?” she asked, dreading the answer.

  “They found torn and blood-spattered clothing and some blood-stained sheets buried outside of the cottage where you used to reside,” he told her.

  “Who found them?” she asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does to me.”

  “It was Rand Prescott,” he said, consulting his notes.

  Tears slipped down her cheeks. Frank Collins cleared his throat and looked back down at the paper in his hand.

  “Moving on … a Springfield muzzle-loading rifle at the same cottage was found to have been fired recently. There was blood on the stock.”

  “I forgot to clean it,” she muttered. “How could I forget that?”

  Collins looked at her with a trace of disbelief. “Don’t say that in front of the jury,” he said. “In fact, don’t say that in front of anyone ever again.”

  Her chin quivered. “But it’s the truth.”

  “Unless you are asked a direct question about cleaning the gun, that particular truth needs to be left unsaid.”

  Mercy nodded her understanding.

  Collins continued. “There are several other things: missing kerosene, some bits and pieces of newsprint that can be traced to the note that was left outside of John Henderson’s home. The injury on your shoulder, which was documented when you arrived here at Gratiot.” His expression was grim. “The evidentiary case against you is very strong.”

  Again, her lip trembled. “The jury will find me guilty, Mr. Collins,” she said nervously. “What will happen to me then?”

  Collins shifted his eyes from her face and looked down at his notes. “They have charged you with treason.”

  “I know.”

  He looked back up at her. “Treason is a crime punishable by death.”

  She felt herself go numb. “But I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “I know. But in the case of treason, it doesn’t matter. If you’re found guilty of plotting acts against the country, the army, or even elected officials such as John Henderson—then the death penalty is on the table. I wish I could tell you that I’m confident I can get an acquittal for you, but I don’t know how to fight the evidence.”

  “What if I told you that it wasn’t Henderson I was trying to kill?”

  She could see the doubt on his face.

  “They have a note that says otherwise.”

  She briefly entertained the idea of telling him about Elijah Hale, but who would believe someone who had proven to be so adept at lying? “I understand,” she said in a monotone voice.

  “I’m told you are suffering from amnesia,” Collins said. “Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So if I ask you about your past—your upbringing—that means nothing to you?”

  “The fact that I can’t answer those questions means a great deal to me,” she said.

  “I’m going to do my best to dispute the treason charge so that the jury can’t recommend death.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t fight it at all,” she said, more to herself than to him. The thought of dying terrified her, but it was a way out of her nightmare. “At least it would bring it all to an end sooner.”

  “I won’t just give it up without a fight, Mercy. My conscience won’t allow it.”

  “Then do your job as best you can for your sake, Mr. Collins. I know what happens when a person doesn’t listen to her conscience.”

  The courtroom was packed with spectators, and Mercy felt their eyes and their judgment with every step she took as Frank Collins led her to the defendant’s table. She glanced over and got her first look at the prosecutor. She estimated Don Shepherd was in his midforties. He looked like a man who didn’t have a tentative bone in his body. He studied her for a moment, then looked back down at the notes on the table in front of him. And just like that she knew he had no doubt he would win—and she would finally get a way out of the wretchedness that had become her life.

  Frank pulled out her chair, but when she tried to lower herself into it, he put a steadying hand on her elbow. “Wait.”

  A bailiff entered the courtroom and crossed to stand in front of the judge’s elevated platform. “All rise for the Honorable William Young.”

  Mercy heard the collective shuffle of feet, bodies rising, throats clearing all around her—and even above her. She glanced up to the side balcony at a sea of black faces peering down at the main floor of the court. Scanning the faces, she saw Ezra, Letty, Kizzy, Isaac—even Marjorie and Ellis from the Prescotts’ estate. While the rest of the Negroes stayed stoic and stone-faced, Isaac forced a smile and wiggled his fingers at her. Ezra grabbed his hand and leaned into his ear with a scowl as he whispered something to him. Chastised, Isaac nodded and sat back.

  Frank touched her elbow, and she realized the bailiff had called for everyone to be seated. As the bailiff read the charges against her, Frank leaned over and whispered into her ear. “Remember what I told you. Try not to react to things in a way the jury can hold against you. They will be watching you.”

  “Mr. Shepherd,” Judge Young said from the bench, “you may begin your opening statement.”

  “Thank you, Judge,” Don Shepherd replied. He slid his chair back and walked toward the jury box. He cast one disdainful look in Mercy’s direction before he began to speak, painting a picture of a duplicitous, conniving woman who was true through and through to the Confederate cause—and, even at the end of the war, couldn’t accept the South’s defeat. He told the jury he believed she’d concocted the story about her memory and was in fact such a good actress that she’d gai
ned the sympathy of a town doctor and a convent full of sisters and, ultimately, the love of a man who belonged to one of the most prominent and powerful families in St. Louis. A man whose family provided an introduction to the congressman she plotted to kill.

  “In conclusion, gentlemen of the jury, I will prove, on behalf of the state and ultimately the federal government, that the woman who calls herself Mercy has not moved on from the war—has not accepted the defeat of the South and wanted to exact her revenge on John Henderson, a man who has given much to support the Union cause. A man who worked tirelessly to see the Southern way of life forever changed. A man who personifies the very words hero and patriot—and could easily represent all the Union men she hates so much.”

  Low rumbling murmurs filled the courtroom as Shepherd took his seat behind the prosecutor’s table.

  “Mr. Collins?” Judge Young said. “Opening statement?”

  Mercy stared straight ahead at nothing and wondered how painful it was to die. Collins got to his feet and walked toward the jury.

  “Gentlemen … this is a case of no ordinary measure and one with a possible outcome that could irrevocably change the course of a young woman’s life. Our Constitution provides specific stipulations in regard to a conviction under law regarding treason.” Collins held up two fingers and waved them in front of the men in the jury box. “There must be two witnesses to the act or an actual verbal confession from the accused.” He took a moment to pause and let that sink in, then continued. “I assure you, gentlemen, today you will be provided with neither of those things.”

  Mercy heard all the witnesses who testified against her. Everything they said was true. She had shown up in St. Louis under mysterious circumstances, dressed as someone trying to pass as a man. She couldn’t remember her own history but managed to remember everyday tasks and even proved herself quite capable at certain things. The issue of her incredible skill with a rifle had been recited by more than one witness who had been at the pheasant hunt. Frank Collins did his best to refute the growing evidence against her, but it was hard to put the truth in a box and hide it away. And then came the moment she’d been dreading the most. Rand walked past her and swore on a Bible that he would tell the truth.

 

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