The Long Way Home

by Lauraine Snelling

‘‘Is there anything . . . anything I can do?’’ Louisa swallowed the pending tears.

  ‘‘Pray for his soul.’’

  ‘‘His soul is not what is in jeopardy. Is there anything I can do in this life?’’

  The man hesitated, then lowered his voice, so she had to strain to hear him. ‘‘You could appeal to President Lincoln.’’

  ‘‘Could the execution be postponed long enough for me to get an interview with him? If he would see me, that is?’’ Hope glimmered, an infinitesimal flame down a long tunnel.

  ‘‘I’ll see what I can do.’’ He breathed what sounded like a sigh of relief.

  At least she’d be off his hands. Why did that make her feel a pang of regret? If only they had met at another time, another place.

  ‘‘Why, Major? Why do you care?’’

  He studied her, as if unsure he should answer. ‘‘You grew up at Twin Oaks, a Thoroughbred stud farm near Lexington, Kentucky.’’

  She could tell it wasn’t a question. ‘‘Yes. What do you know of Twin Oaks?’’

  ‘‘You have a sister named Miss Jesselynn?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’ Her heart picked up the pace.

  ‘‘I was there the day of your father’s funeral. Someone had told us there were horses hidden there, so I was ordered to verify the rumor.’’

  Louisa closed her eyes. She could see a few men in blue trotting up the long avenue of oak trees that led to the big house, a house that no longer lived but in her heart.

  ‘‘Miss Jesselynn, she is one fine woman. She let me know that we were intruding, and yet she served us lemonade on the front porch. A big black, shoulders this broad’’—the major held out his hands to demonstrate—‘‘he stood by the door, and an older black woman let us know we were in no wise welcome but served us anyway. Your sister made her.’’

  ‘‘Did you find any horses?’’

  He shook his head. ‘‘Nary a one. Only two mules, but Miss Jesselynn made me feel so guilty, I didn’t dare requisition them. We weren’t in the habit of depriving citizens of their livelihood then.’’

  And you are now? No longer is there room for feelings and manners. On either side. Lord, please keep me from losing the heritage my mother taught me, from losing the grace you taught me. ‘‘I’m glad you were treated well at my home.’’ Oh, God, how I wish I were there right now. She looked up. The major had schooled his face back to officer lines. His jaw looked to be chiseled from stone.

  She tried anyway. ‘‘Can you tell me any more about getting an appointment with Mr. Lincoln?’’

  A shake of his head so brief as to be nearly nonexistent.

  ‘‘Can you promise—’’ She cut off the sentence. She knew he couldn’t. Only the general could give stay of execution orders. To stand before that man again . . . Her hands clenched automatically. But for Zachary? She rose, hiding her now shaking hands in her skirt folds.

  ‘‘Could you please take me to see the general?’’

  One raised eyebrow told her he questioned her sanity, but he nodded. ‘‘Follow me.’’

  ‘‘Tole ya so,’’ a prisoner called as she traversed the long walk between cells full of butternut-clad men. The cadence of clapping picked up again, buoying her spirits. ‘‘God bless you all.’’ She nodded at the faces crammed between bars, hands reaching toward her. Their well-wishes followed her past the slamming door.

  If only Zachary had been one of them so she could see his dear face. But he’s better off in a cell like mine, she reminded herself. Thinking of him kept her from dwelling on her own predicament. Where would she stay? How could she force an appointment with the president? How would she get home to Richmond?

  She didn’t have to wait long for the audience.

  ‘‘I take it you are not pleased with my decision.’’ The general sat behind a walnut desk, campaign maps on the walls, brocade curtains at the tall windows. She thought to the tents of the men in the field. Some had it harder in war than others, that was for sure.

  ‘‘Regarding myself, I am most grateful, but I have a favor of mercy to ask for my brother.’’

  ‘‘Don’t even bother asking me to pardon him. Military law states that spies are to be executed.’’

  ‘‘I understand that. I plead for a few days’ grace. That is all.’’

  ‘‘Even heaven cannot save him now.’’ The general narrowed his eyes, eyes that glittered like blue ice.

  ‘‘Then what would hurt with putting it off for a week even?’’

  He thumped the desk. ‘‘I don’t know what you hope to gain, but I will give you three days, no more.’’

  ‘‘Thank you.’’

  ‘‘Did Major Dorsey give you the money from your brother yet?’’

  ‘‘No, sir.’’

  He nodded to the major who stood off to the side. ‘‘Do so and show her out.’’ He waved a hand as if shooing a bothersome fly.

  Louisa dipped her head in a semblance of a nod, turned, and followed the straight back of the major from the room.

  Thank you, God warred in her mind with that insufferable pig. She wanted to fall to her knees in gratitude. She wanted to shoot the general between the eyes. Instead, she thanked the major politely when he gave her Zachary’s leather money pouch.

  ‘‘I have something further for you.’’ He stepped behind a shelf and brought out her satchel.

  ‘‘Oh, Major.’’ She looked up at him, at a loss for words in her delight.

  ‘‘We removed the bottom.’’

  ‘‘Oh.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘All that money down the river.’’

  ‘‘Oh, the quinine will be put to a useful purpose, as will the morphine. My men don’t always get enough either.’’

  Louisa refused to let his words bother her. She’d done her best, and God didn’t require more. ‘‘Thank you, Major, both for this and the other.’’

  ‘‘Good luck.’’ He opened the door for her.

  She stepped outside and, when the door closed behind her, stood in the sunshine, letting it soak in and begin to burn out the dregs of prison. Wishing she’d asked him which way to a boardinghouse or hotel or some place where she could scrub herself clean before making her way to the White House, she glanced up the street, then the other way. Which way?

  She looked down at her satchel. While she had to brush and scrub at her skirt, she now had a clean waist and drawers, a gift beyond measure.

  Feeling as though she’d been granted a new life, she set out up the street. Three days, that’s all. What could she say to the president of the United States to make him take pity on her and release her brother?

  At a hotel she located, a maid brushed her skirt while she scrubbed from head to toenails, rinsed, and scrubbed again. Her skin burned when she finished, wondering if she would ever feel really clean again. But dressing in clean clothes helped, and fashioning her still damp hair into a bun, so she looked neat and womanly again, helped even more. After asking directions from the man at the desk in what could almost be called a lobby, she set out for the White House nearby.

  She knew she’d seen it before. Officers in blue and men and women in street clothes flowed in and out the wide double doors guarded by tall white pillars. She took a seat in a room full of chairs, wishing for her knitting. If she had something to do with her hands, the time would pass more swiftly. Studying the gilded wallpaper, the heavy velvet drapes, and the walnut moldings failed to occupy even a fraction of the many hours.

  One after another, the people seated around her rose when their names were called and disappeared through one door or another, and others took their places. By the time she was the only one left, dusk was falling and the man in charge shook his head.

  ‘‘I’m sorry, miss, but the president will not be seeing any others today.’’

  ‘‘So then I can make an appointment for tomorrow?’’

  The man glanced down at a book in front of him. ‘‘You can come again, and I will try to fit you in, but his appointments are all taken.’�
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  ‘‘I see.’’ Louisa sighed. ‘‘And the next day?’’

  ‘‘The same.’’

  ‘‘Sir, I don’t think you understand the urgency of my visit. A man’s life is at stake.’’ My brother’s life. But she had a feeling that telling the entire story to this tight-lipped minion would only earn her a hasty exit. And no return.

  ———— The second day passed as the first. Louisa trudged back to her bare room at the hotel with a heart so heavy as to tip her into the sewer drain running alongside the street. She barely missed being run over by four brawny horses pulling a dray. Ignoring the shouts of the driver, she mounted the hotel steps.

  Lord, what do I do? What am I doing wrong? Please, is it your will that my brother should die? But you say to ask for what we desire, and above all else on this earth, I desire my brother’s freedom. Hoarding her few remaining coins, she spent the evening on her knees pleading before the throne of grace, rather than eating.

  Trusting for everything, including her daily bread, was an unusual predicament. Never in her life had she gone hungry. Never in her life had she pleaded so for another.

  Striding along the streets in the morning, she could think of nothing but that this was Zachary’s last day on earth if something didn’t happen to stay the execution.

  The hours passed like the tolling of the bells for a funeral. People came and went. She only got up to use the necessary.

  ‘‘Have you even told Mr. Lincoln that I have spent three days here waiting?’’ She asked the man for the third time.

  ‘‘He’s busy.’’

  ‘‘I know that, but surely there are two minutes that he could spare.’’

  ‘‘I will do what I can.’’

  That hasn’t been very much. But she returned to her seat, praying all the while.

  Oh, Lord, have you turned your face away from me? Have you closed your ears? I have trusted you all my life, but I am left hanging here. Is there something else I could do? Oh, Lord, hear my prayer.

  As the afternoon waned, her spirits faded with it.

  Three people, including her, remained in the room. One by one the other two were admitted to the place they desired. She sat alone again.

  When the man at the desk left the room on some errand, Louisa sucked in a deep breath, rose, and slipped through the door the others had used. Down the hall, peeking into each room, she prayed no one would see her and bodily throw her out. Just as Louisa was about to give up, she heard two men talking, and one said, ‘‘President Lincoln . . .’’ She heard no more but was certain she knew which room was the president’s office. Hovering around a corner, she waited until the man left, then opened the door and slipped inside.

  The president sat in a swivel chair behind an immense desk covered in papers. He was turned facing the tall narrow window. Brocade drapes were gathered to the sides with gold cord and a heavy tassel. She heard a sigh, but all she could see was a head of dark hair, struck every which way by hands that had plundered it. After a few moments long-fingered hands smoothed the hair down, and the president turned the chair back to face the desk.

  Weariness dragged at the skin of his face, and dark eyes held a sorrow that didn’t lighten when he saw her standing just inside the door.

  ‘‘I thought I was finished for the day.’’

  ‘‘I wish you were, but I need to talk with you, but only for a moment, for you can save a man’s life today.’’

  He beckoned to the chair by his desk. ‘‘And this man is your husband?’’

  ‘‘No, my brother.’’ She sat on the edge of the seat, her shaking hands clenched in her lap.

  Lincoln leaned back in his chair. ‘‘Tell me.’’

  ‘‘My brother is to be shot at dawn as a spy.’’ She swallowed, tried to clear her throat.

  ‘‘And is he a spy?’’

  ‘‘My father did everything he could to keep Kentucky in the Union, but too few would listen. He and my other brother both died in battle. Zachary is my only brother . . .’’ She paused. ‘‘Other than my baby brother who is out west somewhere.’’ Stay with the story, one side of her mind screamed. Get on with it.

  ‘‘I see.’’

  How can you see? ‘‘Zachary was wounded terribly—he’s lost a hand, a foot, and an eye. We thought we would lose him too.’’ Her throat clogged up again.

  Mr. Lincoln poured a glass of water from a carafe on his desk and handed it to her.

  ‘‘Thank you.’’ Her stomach growled so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She blinked back the blackness that lurked at the edges of her mind like vultures waiting for the death rattle.

  ‘‘How long since you’ve eaten?’’

  ‘‘Ahh.’’ She had to think. Was it the day before yesterday? ‘‘Some time ago, I believe, but that is not what is important. Our family has lost everything, and while I know others have given all too, I beg of you, please spare my brother’s life.’’

  ‘‘Was he spying?’’

  She paused. Something in his face told her only the most simple truth would be tolerated.

  ‘‘I . . . we came to Washington for quinine and morphine. Mr. President, sir, I volunteer at the hospital, and we are treating wounded men in our home. I cannot bear to see and hear them suffer—if there is something I can do. So many of them young boys, boys like my brothers. I didn’t know he carried a letter.’’

  ‘‘Did he?’’

  She looked at him, questions in her eyes.

  ‘‘Did he know?’’

  ‘‘I . . . I believe so.’’

  ‘‘Why should I spare him?’’

  ‘‘Because he is my brother.’’ Despair loosened the starch in her neck and spine. Her head fell forward. There was no reason he should spare Zachary. This was all a waste of her time and that of the man with whom she spoke.

  ‘‘Thank you, sir, for the water and for listening to me.’’

  A servant entered with a tray of bread and cheese, cookies, and an apple. He set it on the edge of the desk.

  ‘‘Anything else, sir?’’

  ‘‘No, that is all.’’

  When he left, the president leaned forward, moved the tray to in front of her, and nodded. ‘‘Help yourself.’’

  With hands shaking so badly she could hardly hold the knife, she buttered a piece of bread, laid slices of cheese on it, and took a bite.

  As if no longer aware of her presence, the man before her took a paper and pen and began writing.

  ‘‘What prison is your brother in? And what is his name?’’

  Did she dare hope?

  CHAPTER TWENTY - SIX

  The White House

  ‘‘Do you promise not to spy again?’’

  ‘‘I wasn’t spying, sir, I was . . .’’

  He waved a hand. ‘‘I know, I know. But your brother was. Can you speak for him?’’

  ‘‘An oath by any member of the Highwood family is honored by all.’’ Louisa brushed crumbs from her skirt, her heart leaping with hope.

  President Lincoln signed the paper, dusted it with sand, and leaned forward. ‘‘Miss Highwood, this letter will release your brother into your keeping. I abhor this war more than you can know, and this is perhaps not the wisest thing I can do, but . . .’’ He paused. ‘‘Would that we all had women like you to plead our cause.’’ He nodded to the remaining food on the tray. ‘‘Wrap that up in a napkin and take it with you. It wouldn’t help if you were to faint on the way to set him free.’’

  ‘‘Y-yes, sir. Th-thank you.’’ She looked into the president’s sad, dark eyes and couldn’t help reaching a hand to touch him. ‘‘I will pray for you, sir, and flood the floors of our Lord’s throne room with my gratitude. I think I could not have gone on any longer had you not had the grace to save my brother.’’

  ‘‘You are welcome.’’ A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and lightened his eyes. ‘‘Just keep that brother of yours out of Washington and be strong to rebuild our land when this heinous war is over.
’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir.’’ Louisa settled the remainder of the food in her bag and rose, extending her hand. ‘‘Thank you again.’’

  Her hand disappeared in his, and he tucked it in his arm as he walked her to the door. ‘‘Go this way and no one will bother you.’’ He indicated a door in the opposite direction of the way she had come.

  Louisa squeezed his hand again. ‘‘God bless you, Mr. President.’’

  Her feet never touched the cobblestones as Louisa hurried along the now gaslit streets. She looked to neither side, her mind focused on another meeting with the general. Any thoughts of ‘‘what if ’’ she banished with a snort. ‘‘Deceiver, you have no hold over me. God himself has set my brother free.’’ When she finally arrived at the prison, a light rain had begun to fall. But she ignored the chill and pounded on the heavy wooden gate.

  A sentry opened a square port and peered out. ‘‘Who do you wish to see?’’

  ‘‘The general.’’

  ‘‘He is not here.’’

  ‘‘Then I will wait in his office.’’ She paused. ‘‘Where is he?’’

  ‘‘That is none of your business, ma’am. Come back in the morning.’’ He shut the portal.

  Louisa staggered, leaning against the wet wall for support. Now what? Lord, where are you? Surely you wouldn’t let all this happen and not free Zachary?

  She pounded on the door again.

  The portal opened.

  ‘‘I have an order from President Lincoln to give to the general.’’

  A hand came out. ‘‘Let me see it.’’

  Did she dare let go of the lifesaving piece of paper?

  ‘‘It is only for the general.’’ Please, God, please.

  The portal slammed shut, and the door swung open.

  Fear gripped her by the throat and made her gag. What if she never came out again? What if they took the paper and threw it away? What if, what if?

  Lightning couldn’t strike faster and more severe than fear.

  God, help! The door began to close.

  She stepped through the portal, clutching her bag, and her faith, like a shield.