Brides of Georgia

by Connie Stevens

  Charity’s quick intake of breath defined her regret. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was quiet and gentle. “It wasn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable. It’s just that I’ve realized in the time I’ve been here that everyone has their own story—their own individual experience that isn’t the same as anyone else’s. My own experience is much different from yours, I’m sure.”

  He’d not thought of her having an experience from the war. Except for Gettysburg, he assumed Pennsylvania had remained relatively untouched by the war.

  “When my editor gave me this assignment, I hoped to use part of my time here in Georgia to look for information—” Her voice tightened. “About my father.”

  He turned to look at her more fully and saw deep pain in her eyes. “Your father? I thought you were looking for a young slave.”

  “I am.” Her eyes glistened. “But I also want to find out what happened to my father. He was a Union officer. The few letters he sent said he’d been engaged in several battles in Virginia, Tennessee, and Georgia. My mother and I received word that he’d been wounded and taken prisoner, but that was the last we heard.” A single tear slid down her face, and her voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “He never came home.”

  A tiny ache kindled within him as he listened to her bare her heart—the pain of not knowing, or even having a grave to visit. The tremor in her voice gripped him. Her determination to seek out the prisoner of war records and learn, once and for all, what happened to father, gave him a glimpse of the passion with which she persevered. Her candidness pried away his hold from the horror of his memories. Pastor Shuford said it was time he talked about it.

  He took a fortifying breath. “When I came home, the house was nothing but a burned-out shell. Nearly all the slaves were gone, the land in ruins with no way to plant or harvest a crop. Scavengers had looted the place. They took…everything. The graves—” He clamped his jaw so tightly it hurt, and he recognized something for the first time. That sensation of hardness that crawled up his gut and into his throat wasn’t sorrow. It was anger. Bitter, acid rancor. He forced his hands to relax and concentrated on breathing evenly. After a minute, he continued.

  “Both of my parents died during the war. My mother from apoplexy, and my father from consumption. The gravestones had been knocked over and trampled.” But the loss of his home wasn’t what carved the deepest scars into his heart. “My—”

  A vise strangled him. No, he wasn’t ready yet to speak of the vilest atrocity. There were some things a man couldn’t express.

  Besides, why should it matter to him that a Union officer didn’t come home? Between the fighting itself and those who died in the prison camps or from disease, over 680,000 men didn’t come home. He tried to harden his heart, but he couldn’t get around the truth. He did care. He cared about her pain, he cared about her search, and—God help him—he cared about her. How could he do that?

  It wasn’t reasonable to blame Charity. She didn’t burn his home or rip the most precious thing in his life from him. Likewise, he wasn’t responsible for whatever happened to her father.

  Her soft voice broke through his thoughts. “Dale, you don’t have to say any more.”

  He turned to look at her, and unshed tears clung to her lashes. His gaze dropped to the notebook in her lap. She hadn’t written a single word.

  They sat in gentle silence, swaying to and fro on the swing. Shadows lengthened and the air chilled.

  “I wondered if you’d thought of anywhere I might look for Wylie.”

  Reference to the former child-slave didn’t sicken him the way it had with her first inquiry. He released a sigh. “No.” He shifted on the swing to look at her. “I know I’ve mentioned this before, but I want to caution you again. Some people won’t take kindly to you asking around about a slave, especially since you’re—”

  “A Yankee?” Her voice held a hint of animation.

  “Yes.” He stood. “It’s getting late. I should go.”

  She rose, and they walked to the top of the porch steps where he paused before descending. “Charity, may I take you to dinner one night next week?”

  Her smile sent the shadows into hiding. “I’d like that.”

  Chapter 8

  Charity poked her head inside the door of the land office. “Mr. Wheeler?”

  The man rushed around the side of the desk. “Yes, yes, please come in. And call me Arch.” His silly grin stretched across his face. “After all, we sit at the same supper table every night, don’t we?” He pulled a chair out from the corner. “Please have a seat.”

  Arch’s demonstrative manner took her by surprise. At the boardinghouse he spent most of his time sparring with Tate Ridley. The two of them reminded her of a pair of alley cats, hissing and spitting, yowling their opinions.

  He grabbed his desk chair and maneuvered it to face Charity’s. He plunked down in the chair and leaned forward. “It’s nice that we finally have some time alone to get better acquainted.”

  Time alone? Charity wasn’t sure what Arch had in mind, but the purpose for her visit was purely business. She scooted her chair backward a couple of inches and quickly pulled out her notebook.

  “Would you have time to answer a few questions, Mr. Wheeler?”

  A crestfallen expression drooped the man’s mustache. “Arch.”

  She allowed a placating smile. “Arch.” She pointed to several file cabinets lining the wall. “Are all these land records?”

  “Most. Some are financial documents, property taxes, things like that.”

  “I see. I understand a lot of people lost their land after the war.”

  Arch nodded. “Mm-hmm. When the slaves were turned loose, a lot of the big landowners didn’t have anybody to work their land and didn’t have the money to pay for help. No slaves, no crop. No crop, no money. No money, they can’t pay their taxes. People came in droves after the war looking for bargains. They paid the taxes; they bought the land. Simple as that.”

  Simple maybe, for the buyers. “But what about the people who lost their land, their homes. What did they do? What happened to them?”

  The words no sooner passed her lips than she realized she was talking about Dale. She squirmed with discomfiture, but apparently Arch didn’t notice.

  “A lot of the landowners or their heirs died in the war. Many of the ones who survived were destitute.” He rose and pulled open one of the file drawers, thumbing through some of the folders. “A few went upriver or out west. Some took up with relatives in the city. Some just left and were never heard from again.”

  “But not all. Dale Covington didn’t leave. Why did he stay? Something must have kept him here.”

  “I guess you’d have to ask him about that.”

  “And the land that was sold for taxes, what is it being used for now?”

  Arch pulled out a few files and leafed through the paperwork. He ran his finger down several pages and then stepped over to a large map pinned to the wall. He traced a block of land. “This area right here has been planted in fruit trees and pecan trees.” He slid his hand westward on the map. “Here’s a pretty large tract turned into grazing land for cattle.” He consulted the documents in his hand again and pointed to the corresponding area. “Simon Pembroke bought up several hundred acres of timber that goes from here all the way up to here.” He gave the remaining papers in his hand a cursory glance before gesturing back toward the map. “Some of this land has been parceled out into tenant farms. A brick foundry was built on a stretch of land east of here on the other side of the river.”

  She closed her notebook. “So, Mr. Wheeler—Arch, do you know what happened to the slaves who worked on these plantations?”

  Arch shrugged and closed the file drawer. “Most just run off, I suppose. A few stayed and indentured themselves. You still looking for that friend of yours?”

  “He is my friend’s son. I’ve never met him.”

  A flicker of disdain crossed Arch’s face. “You gonna write about that in you
r high-toned magazine?” His question irritated her, but she had to admit his insinuation was true. Since the majority of Keystone’s readers came from the upper echelon of society, they likely wouldn’t care about one former slave and his mother. Charity chose to ignore Arch’s question.

  She rose and tucked her notebook under her arm. “Thank you for your time, Arch. I appreciate the information.”

  “Come by any time.” He followed her to the door. “It’s easier to talk here where we aren’t disturbed than at the boardinghouse. We can…get to know each other better.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  Charity bit her lip to refrain from telling him she had nothing to discuss with him that required privacy. Instead, she forced a tight smile. “Good day, Arch.”

  She swept out the door with her eyes cast heavenward, hoping she hadn’t encouraged him in any way.

  The courthouse—rather stately for a small town like Juniper Springs—occupied the space between two majestic oak trees next door to the sheriff’s office. Autumn foliage glistened bronze, pumpkin, and scarlet in the sunshine, but a brisk wind pressed Charity to gather her shawl tighter. A gust loosened several dozen leaves and showered them down across the front steps of the courthouse. Charity pulled the heavy door open and slipped inside out of the wind.

  The modest lobby opened to expose four doors and a staircase. Charity glanced around and found the last door on the right boasted the title RECORDS on the glass. She opened the door tentatively and peeked inside. A clerk stood at a counter helping a man and a woman with some documents.

  “I’ll be right with you, miss.”

  Charity smiled and nodded. “No hurry.”

  The woman, who wore a plain bonnet and gray dress with purple trim, turned to stare over her shoulder at Charity. She leaned close to the man and whispered something Charity couldn’t hear.

  Suddenly self-conscious, Charity reached up to make sure the wind hadn’t dislodged her hairpins or deposited a stray leaf in the brim of her bonnet. Finding nothing amiss, she stood to one side until the couple moved to an adjacent table. The clerk turned to her.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Good afternoon. I’m Charity Galbraith, and—”

  “See, George.” The woman at the table nudged her husband. “I told you it was her—that Yankee woman whose been goin’ around town askin’ a lot o’ questions.”

  The man looked up from the papers he was reading and squinted at her. Charity squirmed under their scrutinizing stares but continued on with the clerk.

  “I hope you can help me. I’m conducting a search for a young man, a former slave. His name is Wylie, and he worked at Covington Plantation. I understand the house burned and their records were destroyed. Were there any records kept on file here?”

  The clerk’s eyes darkened with suspicion. “Slave records?”

  “Yes.” Charity lowered her shawl to her elbows and drew her notebook from under her arm. “I’m specifically looking for records of slave auctions or the private buying and selling of slaves. Birth and death records, perhaps?” She slid her gaze sideways and found the couple at the table still staring.

  “The plantation owners usually kept all those records.”

  “Yes, I know.” Impatience nipped at her. “But as I said, the house at Covington Plantation burned. Was the buying and selling of slaves recorded here?”

  “If a colored was sold, the new owner would have a record of it.”

  Charity’s fingers tightened around her notebook in frustration. “But I don’t know if Wylie was sold. That’s why I’m here. Do such records exist?”

  The clerk lifted his shoulders. “What difference does it make? Lincoln freed all the coloreds, so even if this boy was sold, he’s free now.”

  Charity gritted her teeth and mentally counted to ten. “If Wylie was sold, perhaps whoever bought him can tell me where he went after the war.”

  She glanced toward the table where the couple continued to regard her with distrust.

  “I don’t know where records like that might be, ‘cept with the buyers.” Contempt dripped from the clerk’s voice, and his steely eyes didn’t blink.

  Dale’s warning rang in her ears. She pursed her lips and looked down at her unopened notebook. The reception she’d received couldn’t get much colder. She might as well dive all the way in.

  “I wonder if I might ask another question.”

  The man responded with a nearly imperceptible lift to his whiskered chin.

  “I’m also searching for battlefield maps and records of battles fought in Georgia, specifically with regard to casualties and prisoners.”

  The clerk made a rude sound, sucking on his teeth. “Military records are sealed. Someone like you wouldn’t be given access.”

  She clamped the notebook tightly, praying she wouldn’t throw it at the man. “Well, thank you for your time.” She sent a forced smile to the couple at the table. “Have a nice afternoon.”

  She turned and marched to the door. As she turned the brass knob, the woman at the table spoke. “She sure got a lot o’ nerve, don’t she?”

  If only the woman knew how much nerve Charity required at this moment to keep from speaking what was on her mind.

  Dale knocked on the front door of the boardinghouse and brushed imaginary lint from his cuff. Charity opened the door, rendering Dale momentarily speechless. He’d seen her numerous times over the past three weeks, but there was something different about her tonight. Perhaps it was her smile.

  “Good evening, Charity.”

  “Good evening.” She held the door open. “Please come in. I just have to get my wrap.”

  He stepped inside. Would it be too forward to tell her how lovely she looked?

  She returned a moment later carrying an ivory shawl. He took it from her and unfolded it, placing it over her shoulders. A hint of lavender teased his senses.

  Her eyes widened and her lips parted as she looked up at him. A silent reprimand slinked through him. If the gesture surprised her, he’d not been acting enough like a gentleman. Something he intended to change.

  They stepped out onto the porch and Dale offered her his arm. “Shall we go?”

  A tiny smile tipped her mouth, and she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow.

  They crossed the street and started down the boardwalk. The hotel restaurant sat between the general store and the hotel itself. Dale opened the door and ushered Charity inside. They paused for a moment while Dale scanned the room, seeking a table where they could speak with a certain amount of privacy. He noticed George and Henrietta Ludwig sitting at a small table halfway across the room. Both had stopped eating and sat glaring in Dale and Charity’s direction. He felt Charity stiffen.

  When he glanced down, her chin rose slightly and a muscle along her jaw twitched. Tracing her line of vision, it appeared the Ludwigs and Charity had made a less than cordial acquaintance with each other.

  He leaned his head down and spoke close to her ear. “It seems a little crowded in here. Would you rather go to Maybelle’s Café?”

  Relief washed over her expression. “Yes, I’d like that.”

  Back out on the boardwalk, they strolled past several buildings before either of them spoke.

  “Is it safe to assume you’ve met George and Henrietta?”

  Charity shrugged. “We weren’t formally introduced, but I, um…ran into them at the courthouse a couple of days ago.”

  She didn’t need to say any more. The Ludwigs were among those who declared the war would never be over for them, even though they’d lost far less than most. An urge to put the couple in their place needled Dale.

  Lord, please keep reminding me that I’m not responsible for anyone’s opinions or attitudes but my own.

  He placed his hand protectively atop Charity’s as they continued toward Maybelle’s. Enticing aromas greeted them at the door of the café.

  “Smells like the special this evening is chicken.” Dale’s mouth watered as he steered Chari
ty toward a table in the corner. Maybelle brought them coffee and took their order.

  Dale cleared his throat. “Have you been able to find any information about your father?”

  A tiny crease between her brows deepened, lines of sorrow marring her countenance. She shook her head, and Dale instantly regretted asking.

  He changed topics. “I’ve been thinking about this slave you’re searching for.” He took a sip of coffee. “My father and I had more than one argument about the slaves, but as long as he was alive, I had little to say about their treatment.”

  Charity’s warm brown eyes studied him, as if she tried to read his thoughts.

  He intertwined his fingers. “I was of the opinion the slaves would be more productive if they had better food and housing, but Father disagreed. Loudly. He did everything loudly.”

  Charity’s expression softened into an understanding smile. He had to be truthful. “When you showed up here and started asking your questions, I began to realize my position on the slaves was to get more work out of them if we fed them better.” He lowered his eyes and toyed with his fork. “Many of my beliefs and attitudes were based on how I was raised.”

  Maybelle brought plates of baked chicken and golden biscuits, along with a small dish of butter and a crock of honey.

  “Anything else I can get for you folks?” She refilled their coffee cups.

  “I don’t think so.” Dale sniffed. “This smells wonderful.”

  Maybelle nodded with a pleased grin and bustled away. Dale bowed his head and asked God’s blessing on their meal.

  They began to eat, and Charity looked across the table at him with a penetrating gaze of comprehension. “What changed your mind?”

  He stopped chewing for a moment. How could she tell? He swallowed hard and pushed his chicken around on the plate with his fork.