“Dale, I’m here.”
He swung the lantern to the right and the light danced over her. Her shawl was torn and one of her hands bore some scratches, but she was otherwise all right. He breathed a prayer of thanks. “Charity.” He laid his rifle down and set the lantern beside it. “Thank God you’re safe.” He pulled off his coat and wrapped it around her.
“I’m all right.”
He angled his head to peer at her face and tipped her chin up with his fingers. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I just ran and ran until I couldn’t go any farther, and I lay down in the leaves and cried. I guess I fell asleep.”
Dale took hold of her shoulders and gently pulled her to him. “I’m so sorry for the way I blurted all those things at you today. None of that was your fault. I just couldn’t seem to stop the words from coming out.”
She laid her head on his chest. Having her in his arms sent an ardent shiver through him, and he immediately decided he never wished to let her go.
“I know. While I was up here today, I did a lot of praying.” Her voice caught. “Dale, I’m sorry for the horrible things I said to you. Every aspect of the war was so despicable, and it reached far beyond the battlefield.” She raised her head and tipped it back to look up at him. The lantern light glimmered off the tear in the corner of her eye. “I had no comprehension of the battle you fought alone, inside you.”
He wiped her tear away with his thumb. “We should get back to town.”
She tugged at his sleeve. “Can’t we stay awhile? It’s so peaceful here.”
They sat in the leaves side by side and looked out over the valley below. Tiny pinpoints of light speckled here and there showed where the town settled in for the night. Dale laid the rifle beside his leg and set the lantern at their feet.
“Dale, do you mind telling me about your wife?”
Strange. As much as he’d wanted to avoid the subject in weeks past, in the light of what he’d uttered today, sharing the rest no longer seemed repulsive.
“Her name was Gwendolyn. She was…delicate. Shortly after the wedding, my mother died. Then the war broke out, and I went to serve with the state militia. My father took ill, and Gwendolyn couldn’t deal with the adversity. She went through periods of melancholia, so the servants told me. She wrote letters begging me to come home. At first I thought it was simply because she’d been overly sheltered all her life.
“I was able to get leave a few times when my unit was close to this area. Each time I went home, she became more and more selfish in her demands until she finally told me if I left her again to ‘go back to the war,’ that I’d find her gone the next time I came home.” He shook his head. “I believe she needed medical supervision, but it was beyond my control at the time.”
Charity touched his arm. “Perhaps she was frightened of being alone.”
“No.” Dale sighed. “I don’t think it was that. Many of the house slaves were still here, and she held tea parties and went to Athens regularly. At least that’s what I was told, so she wasn’t alone. The war hadn’t really affected this area too much at that point.”
The sequence of events drifted through his head as it had in a thousand nightmares, but this time the pain was dulled. Was it because he’d finally been able to free it from the shackles that kept it bound to his spirit, or because he felt so comfortable sitting here with Charity watching the stars?
“Then I got the letter telling me she was…in the family way. The letter was dated in late December, but I didn’t get it until February. I tried to get a leave to go see her then, but I couldn’t. Sherman’s forces had launched a campaign trying to take control of the railroad, and General Johnston and his troops were sent to help reinforce the area around Dalton.”
He gave the memory tentative free rein and was surprised that it didn’t hurt as much as it once had.
“In that letter she said she hated the thought of bearing a son. She wanted a daughter, because girls didn’t go off to war.” His voice dropped off, and they sat in silence. Charity slipped her hand under his arm.
He reached into his inside vest pocket and withdrew his wallet. His fingers found the folded paper tucked under a hidden flap. The creases were so worn the paper nearly fell apart in his hands, but he carefully unfolded it and held it close to the lantern. “This letter caught up with me in early June that year.”
Charity leaned forward to examine it. Her voice quavered slightly as she read it. “Dear Dale. You have a son. He was born April eleventh. I have named him Bradley James.”
She glanced back at Dale, and the lantern light outlined the puzzlement in her brow. “You have a son. Not we have a son.” She leaned to look at it again. “She didn’t even sign it.”
Dale drew in a slow, even breath and blew it out, letting it turn to a frosty cloud and dissipate into the night. “No. It’s her handwriting, but she didn’t sign it.” He folded the scrap of paper and slipped it back into his wallet. “All I could think about was getting home to see my son.”
Charity’s soft voice blended with the murmur of the wind in the pines. “How long—until you…”
Dale stared at one of the pinpoints of light in the distance. “I was wounded at Peachtree Creek. That was in July. You already know that part of the story. It was early September, I think, that an old man with a mule cart took me as far as Mount Yonah. I walked the rest of the way.”
“Oh, Dale. Your leg. Walking so far. How did you ever do it?”
The lights in the distance seemed to waver as moisture burned his eyes. “I had to see my son. He was why I didn’t give up. Just the thought of holding him in my arms kept me going.” He paused and swallowed hard, forcing the tightness in his throat to retreat. “I remember walking down the road that led to Covington Plantation. There was an odor hanging in the air. Stale smoke. The iron gates at the front of the drive were torn from their posts. I went up the drive—you couldn’t see the house from the road because of the magnolia trees. When I rounded the bend—”
Charity’s fingers tightened around his arm. “You don’t have to say any more.”
Dale shook his head and patted her hand. “The house was still smoldering. I walked around the ruins looking for some sign that Gwendolyn had gotten my son out. Two of the slaves, the only two who hadn’t run off, came out of the bushes when they saw me. They told me when the scavengers came and started looting the place, Gwendolyn took the baby and hid in the root cellar under the kitchen.”
Charity released a tiny gasp, and she whispered, “They burned the house.” She covered her mouth, but a muffled sob escaped anyway. She leaned her head against his shoulder, and they sat in silence.
Unmeasured minutes passed before Dale trusted himself to speak again. “Charity, I have something else to tell you.”
She lifted her head. “What is it?”
He shifted his position and turned so he could look straight into her face. “I’m afraid you’re going to be very angry with me, but please know that I didn’t want to see you hurt any more than you already are.”
“What are you talking about?”
Looking away from her when he said what was on his mind would be easier, but he refused to allow himself comfort if his words inflicted more pain. He held her gaze. “As an officer in the Confederate army, I had access to the military records. I know where the prisoner of war records were kept.”
Her expression crumbled, and even in the pale glow of the lantern, he saw her wince. Was she angry or hurt that he’d withheld the information?
“You probably feel that I’ve betrayed you, but please listen. Because I was there and witnessed what usually happened, I feared that finding out the truth about your father would only increase your pain rather than relieve it.”
The lantern light flickered off the tears that clung to her lashes. Her chin quivered. “I still need to know for sure.” One tear left a glimmering trail of moisture down her cheek. “And if at all possible, I want to put flowers on his gra
ve. To say good-bye.”
Dale didn’t bother reminding her most of the flowers had been killed off by the recent frost. Perhaps they could cut some magnolia branches or cedar boughs instead. How he longed to kiss away her tears.
He was about to tell her he knew which office to contact when a tiny movement caught his eye. He jerked his head around to stare hard at the lights from town. But they were no longer down in the valley. These lights—a small cluster of them—moved just below the ridge. Dale grabbed the lantern and extinguished it.
“Dale, what’s wrong?”
He jumped to his feet and helped Charity up. “Shh. We need to go. Now.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue. Just don’t let go of my arm. I know every inch of these hills, even in the dark. We’ll be back at the boardinghouse before you know it.” He bent and groped through the blackness until he found the rifle.
“Come on.” He tugged her close to him and steered her in the opposite direction of the moving lights. If it was what—or who—he suspected, they were in grave danger.
Chapter 18
Dale hefted the third crate of grocery items on the Juniper Springs Hotel’s order and carried it through the side door to the hotel kitchen. The cook signed the slip, and Dale tipped his hat, eager to head to his last delivery of the day. He saved Miss Hannah’s place for last, hoping to take a few extra minutes to speak to Charity.
The entire time he’d led her down the mountain in the dark last night, he relished holding her hand—just so she wouldn’t stumble, of course. He’d prayed with each step that the cluster of torches he’d seen moving toward them was only a figment of his imagination. But when they’d arrived at the boardinghouse and Hannah met them at the door with the news that some of the Klan members had burned three houses out in Crow Town, he sent a prayer of gratitude to heaven’s throne for their safe descent through the inky blackness.
He climbed aboard the seat of Clyde’s buckboard and released the brake. The team moved forward with little urging. Steering the horses in the direction of the boardinghouse, he rehearsed his planned speech one more time. The memory of Charity’s wounded expression when he’d told her he had knowledge of military records still hovered in his mind. He’d wrestled all night with a possible way to make it up to her. If only he could be sure….
He pulled the buckboard around to the side of the boardinghouse and hoisted the loaded crate in his arms. A tantalizing aroma of something sweet met his nostrils even before he knocked on the back door.
Miss Hannah peeked out the door. “Oh, Dale, come in. Set that inside the pantry. Charity and I were just having coffee. Won’t you join us?”
Dale set down the crate and straightened. Charity stood by the stove with the coffeepot in her hand. Was that a blush on her cheeks, or was it a reflection of the heat from the stove?
He pulled off his hat. “Charity.” A smile stretched across his face. “I’d love some coffee.”
She retrieved another cup from the shelf and poured the steaming brew. When she handed it to him, his fingers overlapped hers for an extra moment, causing a burst of hope to invade his heart. Oh, how he prayed he was doing the right thing.
Hannah cleared her throat, reminding Dale she was in the room. “We heard that Miles arrested Tate last night. Is that true?”
He released Charity’s fingers and tore his gaze away from hers. “Yes. Didn’t Miles tell you this morning?”
Hannah nudged a plate of fragrant molasses cookies toward him. “He wasn’t here this morning. Sometimes he has to stay at the jail all night.”
Dale took a warm cookie and bit into its spicy goodness. “Mmm.” He nodded. “I saw Miles this morning. He said he caught Tate and another man last night as they were setting fire to some of the houses over in Crow Town. A few others got away.” He turned toward Charity again. “I suspect the torches we saw last night belonged to those reprobates.”
A tiny smile graced her lips. “I’m just glad you came up the mountain and found me when you did.” She dipped her chin and lifted one shoulder. “I’m also glad we had the chance to talk last night.”
Dale shot a quick glance at Miss Hannah, who took the hint.
“I have a few things to do upstairs.” She bustled out of the kitchen, leaving Dale standing there begging God to smooth the way for what he wanted to ask Charity. They sat together at Hannah’s worktable with their coffee. He slid his chair close enough to reach out and touch her hand.
He drew in a fortifying breath. “Charity, I want to apologize again for not telling you sooner that I had knowledge of military records. Every time you spoke of your father, I could see the pain in your eyes and hear it in your voice.” He dropped his gaze, knowing he might hurt her with his words and hating himself for doing so. “At first, before I got to really know you, I tried to justify withholding the information because you’re a Yankee. I still harbored such ill will toward anyone from the North, I couldn’t bring myself to help you in any way.” He forced himself to glance up at her.
Charity quirked an eyebrow at him. “And now?”
Dale ran his finger around the rim of his cup. “My concern isn’t for myself any longer. I don’t want you to be hurt any more than you already have been.”
Her gaze grew intense and determined. “Dale, I have to know.” The plea in her voice nearly unraveled him. How could he have thought she wasn’t strong enough to handle any possible result from what he was about to suggest?
“I know. That’s why I’m asking your permission to wire a man I know in Atlanta. He works in the federal courthouse in the office of records. He may be able to find the information you seek.”
She gasped. “Oh, Dale.” Her breathy response told him everything he needed to know. “Yes, of course you have my permission.”
He reached past their coffee cups and took both her hands. A slight tremble danced through her fingers all the way to his heart.
Charity leaned back away from the small desk and stretched her arms over her head, turning her neck this way and that trying to relieve the kinks. Mr. Peabody expected these articles on his desk in a week. As much as she’d struggled and fought for the words and wasted paper trying to find the right angle for each of the four articles, now she had a grasp of that elusive element, the unique twist she sought.
After two days of barely leaving her room, three articles lay at the corner of the desk, completed. Dear Hannah had slipped in and out bringing coffee or a sandwich, offering encouragement and admonishing her to rest.
Charity stood and walked the four steps to the window and looked out across the peaceful town. Everything looked so normal. People came and went, doing their jobs, running errands, greeting friends and neighbors. On the surface, nothing seemed amiss. But Charity knew better.
Tate Ridley sat in jail, charged with the burning of three houses and the lynching of Henry Jarrell. What kind of hate drove a man to commit such heinous acts? Hannah, whom Charity could hear singing off-key downstairs, had lost both her sons in the awful war that nearly destroyed the country. Dale had once been a wealthy landowner, and the war stripped him of his family, his home, and every material thing. There were still those people who cast distrustful glances Charity’s way, simply because she was from the North. One couldn’t detect by simply looking at another person, what motivated or strengthened them, nor what fueled their passion, be it love or hate.
She looked at the paper lying on the desk and the muddled fog she’d battled for weeks lifted. A clear picture painted itself in her mind. Why hadn’t she caught it before? Pastor Shuford had preached it. God had certainly whispered it to her soul. North or South, Yankee or Rebel, it made no difference. True Reconstruction didn’t end at readmitting states to the Union, nor was it limited to the election of a state assembly, ratifying constitutional amendments, or adherence to federal requirements. It was as if God lit the wick of understanding and held up the lamp to shed light into all those dark and wounded places of her spirit. She sat an
d picked up her pen. She knew.
The missing piece of the puzzle had been right there all along.
Her exposé on the Reconstruction could not, must not, exclude the emotional and spiritual reconstruction that had to take place if the political Reconstruction was to have any true purpose. Her own battle with resentment and bitterness defined what needed to happen within the heart of every person in the country. She dipped the nib of her pen into the pot of ink and, bent over her desk, began writing as fast as God gave her the words.
Harbored bitterness was as destructive as artillery. Hatred inflicted wounds as grievous as a bullet. Rancor provided a place for those wounds to fester. Animosity took captives and malice spread poison. How could true Reconstruction take place without restoration? Restoration couldn’t happen without forgiveness. The only way people could forgive each other was to know God’s mercy and forgiveness for themselves.
Charity wrote feverishly, barely taking a few seconds to replenish her pen. The words poured from her soul. Her editor may very well reject her point of view, but it was what God gave her. Finally, she set her pen aside and held up the page. It was done. “Thank You, Lord. Breathe on these words, heavenly Father. Use them to change hearts.”
A soft tap on her door drew her attention. Hannah poked her head in. “I’m sorry to disturb you, dear, but Dale is downstairs in the parlor.”
Charity rose from her desk and smoothed her skirt. “Tell him I’ll be right down.” She took a quick peek at her reflection in the small mirror over the washstand and pushed a wayward curl into place. Exiting her room, she forced her feet to maintain a sedate pace down the stairs.
Dale stood when she entered the parlor, and Charity’s pulse tapped out an accelerated rhythm. Could he hear it? He tossed his hat on a chair and moved to the settee. “Can we sit down for a few minutes? I hope I’m not disturbing your writing time.”
She beamed and sat beside him. “Not at all. I just finished the last article.”
“I knew you could do it.” His smile warmed her all the way to her toes.
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