Finding Mercy

by Cindy Kelley

  “Excuse me?” Mercy said.

  “It is your first time seein’ so many black folks in one spot,” the woman said. “The look on yo’ face say I’m right.”

  “Oh. No. I … I …”

  “Don’t fret. Ain’t no one here gonna hurt you.”

  Mercy glanced around, then looked back at the woman. “So many people. Why here?”

  The woman offered a smile missing several teeth. “So many a’ my people.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Most all of us was slaves. Union Army tell lots of newly freed Negroes to come to Cairo … mostly ’cause they don’t know what else to do with us. Some left; some stayed. Ain’t ’nuff work to go round. We gots no money and no place to live.”

  “I didn’t think about what would happen when everyone was freed,” Mercy said.

  “It’s a mess. Dat’s a fact. Good Lord knows slavery is wrong, but freedom come with its own set of troubles.”

  Mercy looked at the faces of the men, women, and children—eyes filled with uncertainty and jaws slack with resignation. Their shoulders were slumped in defeat. She knew how they felt.

  “You should sit,” the old woman said. “You ain’t lookin’ so good.”

  “I need food,” Mercy said.

  The old woman looked at Lucky. “Is too bad we cain’t eat grass like da pony.”

  “Yes.”

  “You got money?”

  Mercy shook her head. “No.”

  The old woman frowned. “I think all pretty white woman’s got money.”

  “Not me.”

  The old woman shrugged. “Den you wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  The woman struggled to her feet and pointed toward a barge steaming toward them. “Fish.”

  Mercy watched the barge slow enough near the dock so crewmen could jump out and tie up to the moorings. The old woman was lame in one leg, but she managed to make it to the river at the same time dozens of others streamed into the water. Crew hands dumped baskets of fish off the sides of the barge into the river. The people descended on the bounty. In less than five minutes, the old woman was back by Mercy’s side. She unceremoniously turned the pockets of her apron so that fish fell onto the grass.

  “It’s food,” she said. “And it be free.”

  “Why do they throw it back into the river?”

  Another shrug from the old woman. “Too much. Wrong kind. Not good ’nuff. I dunno and I ain’t carin’. It’s food.” The woman squatted, pulled a knife from her pocket and slit the belly of one of the fish. In another swift movement, she peeled back the skin and then held it out to Mercy.

  “Don’t you cook it?” Mercy asked.

  “I gots no pan. No fire. No place to fix fancy fish,” she said. “My belly used to da raw fish.” She cocked her head to one side. “You ain’t too hungry, den?”

  Mercy looked around at dozens of others who were devouring the fish the same way. She knew she needed something in her stomach to go on. It’s food. She accepted the fish, pushed down the revulsion she felt, and took a tentative bite. After the first bite, it got easier. She gratefully finished off the first fish, and then one more.

  The old woman’s name was Magda, and she told Mercy she’d had a son named Hector who fought at the battle of Fort Henry.

  “The Confederates win da battle, but my Hector lost his war.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mercy said.

  “Me, too, missus. Me, too.”

  “I’m sure you’re very proud of your son,” Mercy said.

  “Proud. Yes. He helped build Fort Henry for da South. And Fort Donelson. He was a good son. A good soldier.”

  Mercy’s search lay heavy on her heart. “I need to go. But thank you …”

  “I wanted to go dere, see his last place on dis earth,” Magda said. “But I hear tell da river took it away”

  “What about the other one, Fort Donelson?”

  “Still there,” Magda said. “Someone say dey gots records there. Pictures and letters and things a mama would wanna have.”

  “Maybe you’ll go someday,” Mercy said. “How far is it?”

  “Gotta be a hundred miles downriver,” Magda said. “Wit dis bad leg a’ mine, might as well be a million.”

  Mercy looked at the faraway look in Magda’s eyes, then gathered Lucky’s reins. “Thank you for the fish.” She led Lucky down to a swiftly moving spot in the river to drink his fill, quenched her own thirst, and finally had a plan. She knew where her next stop would be.

  It started with cramping in her stomach after she’d been in the saddle for about eight hours. Mercy told herself it was just new hunger pains. The fish had satisfied her for a while, but she couldn’t survive on two fish alone. And then she quickly changed her mind when the first wave of nausea hit her. The fish came up violently. She’d been following the river, and now in the full moon, she could see the water shining to her left. Lucky kept walking, and she felt a wave of heat start in her core and radiate out, and wondered if it were possible for a person to burst into flame from a fever. By the time she saw garrisons of artillery on the bank of the river, she was shivering violently. Cannons rose up from the water’s edge like ghostly images in the moonlight. When she saw hundreds of flowers that seemed to be lying across the ground, she was sure she was hallucinating. By the time the outline of the fort came into view, she was lying over Lucky’s neck. Everything in her vision swam, and she held tight to Lucky’s mane. Please, God—help me see this through. Maybe they have answers about me.

  A flare suddenly appeared and illuminated double doors of a building. Mercy vaguely wondered what people had against death. The way she felt, it seemed like a good option. But she told herself to hang on. Maybe here she would find a sympathetic ear. She’d tell them her history and how she’d fought for the South. Surely they would do what they could to help her find clues to her past. A fellow soldier; a fellow Confederate. She told herself she was among friends. It might be all right. All she wanted was a place to lie down, some hay for Lucky.

  A soldier stepped into view. Mercy frowned. Even with just the moon for light, she could see something wasn’t right. His uniform. His hat. The color. All wrong. The soldier yelled something at her, but it didn’t make sense. He came toward her and she knew she should go—ride away from the stranger who was asking her name. But then he yelled for help. That’s good, get help, she thought. Just let me sleep. Please. Just a little sleep and some food for my horse.

  Strong arms went around her and helped her from the saddle. She frowned at him, wanted to thank him, but the bile rose in her throat again and instead of issuing a thank-you, she vomited all over him. Her knees buckled and she felt herself lifted off her feet. She felt him heft her weight and settle her more securely as another man finally arrived.

  The man carrying her called out to the other. “Get the door!”

  “Ma’am?” he said. “Can you tell me your name?”

  “Is this Fort Donelson?” She wondered why her voice sounded so far away.

  “Yes, ma’am. Home of the bravest soldiers that ever fought for the Union.”

  Chapter Five

  There were five of them. Soldiers still in the army assigned to be glorified caretakers of Fort Donelson. After the horrors of the war—the fighting, killing, disease, and malaise—the duty was easy. They had trickled into what used to be the headquarters of the place, one by one, four privates and a second lieutenant.

  Eventually, the trickling of new personnel stopped and the five men were prepared to call the fort home indefinitely. They lived in the four-thousand-square-foot building constructed of ten-foot walls made of rough-hewn logs caulked with mud. Double doors from outside led into a twenty-by-twenty-foot room they referred to as the “receiving room.” It held a long counter, a few battered desks, and stacks of supplies that had seen bette
r days after years of war. At the far end of the receiving room, another door led into a huge anteroom called the common area, housing a makeshift kitchen, a long wooden table, several chairs, and a wood-burning stove with a stack that shot right through the flat roof. On the north side of the common area was a row of doors that led into former officer quarters that the men now claimed for their own. Their duties were light. They were to keep the place tidy, see after the half dozen horses in the corral, and maintain the cemetery filled with brave Union men who had died there. Once a month, women from the closest town of Dover arrived with flowers to tuck next to the simple grave markers lined up in the cemetery near the river.

  The fort had been built by the Confederates to help them hold the South, but then they’d lost it to the Union—just like the rest of their Southern cause. The soldiers had light duty and wages the first of every month. It was a dream posting for those with no ambition; all five men fit the bill to a T.

  Lieutenant Harry Brewer found the arrival of the mystery woman unsettling. The minute he’d picked her up in his arms and looked into her pale face, he knew she was going to be trouble. Women were always trouble in some form or fashion. She’d been incoherent most of the twenty-four hours she’d been in their care, but cleaned up and in the light of day, she presented a pretty picture. He saw the way the men looked at her. He had looked at her the same way.

  In fact, as he sat next to her cot, he found it impossible not to look at her. Long, wavy hair fanned across her pillow and framed her beautiful face; her slim arms and long legs, and … He tried to stop his runaway thoughts. He’d heard all the crude comments about her, he’d even made a few of his own. There was a reason the men had taken to arguing among themselves over who got “bedside duty.” The appeal of sitting next to the cot to gaze on her without reprimand or reproach was a draw too great to forgo. In fact, he was staring at her so hard, it almost took him by surprise when her eyes fluttered open. He watched her try to focus, then turn her head and look at him—eyes filled with questions. He watched as she took in his face, then his blue uniform. The look in her eyes changed to fear. Without saying anything, she scooted closer to the rough log wall and tried to push herself up.

  “Better take it easy,” Brewer said. He couldn’t help the way his eyes dipped to her bare shoulders. She caught his gaze and looked down to see a coarse blanket had puddled around her waist, leaving her thin cotton chemise exposed. She snatched the blanket back up to her chin, and her cheeks flamed red. It was the first color he’d seen in her face since her arrival.

  “Where’s my dress?” Her voice was hoarse and tentative.

  He nodded at material folded over the back of a chair.

  “It was awfully dirty,” he said. “We washed it as best we could. Took your pistol for safekeeping.”

  She swallowed at that. Then her gaze swept over the room.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Where am I?”

  “Fort Donelson.”

  “My horse. Where …”

  “He’s been fed and watered. Got him in the corral,” Brewer said.

  She looked relieved, and relaxed against the pillow. Her eyes fluttered closed.

  “At least tell me your name? Can we contact someone about you?”

  But she didn’t answer, and he could see she’d slipped back into sleep. He studied her, then reached for the blanket to pull it higher across her shoulders.

  “I like to adjust that blanket too.” The voice startled Brewer, and he turned guiltily toward the man standing in the doorway. It was Dwight Westland—West to his fellow soldiers.

  Brewer got to his feet and tried to ignore the smirk on West’s face.

  “She woke up for a few minutes,” Brewer said.

  “Say anything?”

  “Not really. Wanted to know about her dress and her horse.”

  “Didn’t get a name, huh?”

  Brewer shook his head. “No. She was back to sleep too fast.”

  West walked over to the cot and looked down at her. Brewer could practically read his mind. It had been a long time since any of them had been with a woman.

  “I just can’t figure it,” West said. “You gotta wonder where she was going. And why? You don’t see ladies like this traveling alone.”

  “Ladies like what? She wasn’t exactly dressed to the nines when she arrived.”

  “Doesn’t matter what she had on. She’s a beauty. Even a flour sack would look good on her.” As if he couldn’t help himself, West reached out and touched her hair. “I’m telling you, a woman that looks like this belongs to someone.”

  Brewer agreed, but he didn’t say anything. West plunked himself down in the chair next to the bed and looked up at Brewer with a grin. “If you need me, Lieutenant, you know where to find me.”

  Four of the five men posted at the fort gathered around the makeshift poker table in the common room, their card game all but forgotten as they discussed the guest sleeping in a room just fifteen feet away.

  “I say she’s like our own personal Briar Rose.” A hand-rolled cigarette rode up and down on Jake Stern’s bottom lip when he spoke. He grinned at his own notion.

  “Who?” West asked.

  “You know—Briar Rose. Didn’t your moms ever read you fairy tales? She’s the beautiful girl the evil fairy cursed to sleep for a hundred years.”

  Ed Marvin, short, stocky and homely as the day was long, spoke up. “Hey—I remember that one. Some prince has to kiss her to wake her up.”

  “I volunteer,” West said.

  “You ain’t no prince,” Stern said.

  “That’s all right, ’cause she’s not a princess.” They turned toward the door, where Lieutenant Brewer stood with Mercy’s journal in his hand. “She’s a rebel—and one on the run at that.”

  Brewer walked into the room and held up the journal. “I found this in her saddlebags about an hour ago. It’s some kind of diary. Says her name is Mercy. I wasn’t going to read it. Had sisters who wrote in books like this. You know, private kind a’ stuff. But then I thought it might give us a clue to who she is.”

  “You said she’s a rebel—meaning she’s from the South?”

  “No—she fought in the war. She was an actual Confederate sharpshooter.”

  Brewer opened the leather cover and flipped to the back page. “Listen to this. It’s dated three weeks ago.” He cleared his throat, then began to read aloud. “I’ve left them behind. I can’t risk their safety in exchange of my own. I’m alone now. Alone again with no idea of where to go—or who I’m looking for. The only thing I do know is to head south. Back to the place I suppose it all started—where I took up arms in defense of things I can’t remember. It’s best this way—unless the men find me. Then … I don’t even think God can help me.’

  Brewer looked up from the page. “There’s more. She’s got something called amnesia.”

  “What does that mean?” West asked.

  “She’s got no memories. Doesn’t know who she is or where she’s from—but somehow she knows she fought for the South.”

  The men traded looks. It was Stern who said what was probably on everyone else’s mind. “So if she’s got no memory—no family … no plan of where she’s going …”

  “No one knows she’s here,” West said. They let that sink in.

  “She said men were looking for her,” Stern said. “Why?”

  “You only run if you’re guilty,” Marvin said.

  “We’re basically our own government here. They don’t care what we do as long as the proper requisitions orders are filed and the place remains standing. We can offer our own brand of justice for beautiful lady soldiers. Shouldn’t be fighting anyway.”

  “What kind of justice?” Stern asked.

  A slow smile spread across West’s face. The others stared at him, shocked, but also int
rigued.

  “Cripes’ sake, West,” Stern said quietly.

  “What? You guys saying I’m the only one who’s thought about having a rebel woman?”

  No one contradicted him. Another knowing smile from West. “You know we’re all thinkin’ it.”

  Chapter Six

  The bright May day had gone from pleasantly warm to unusually hot by the time Elijah and Isaac made their way onto the post. There they planned to pick up more supplies and wire Elijah’s superior officer at Fort Wallace.

  Elijah had heard about the battle of Fort Donelson. Hundreds of lives had been given to secure it to ensure that the Union could use the Cumberland River to move supplies farther into the South. Garrisoned artillery still stood pointing at the river, the cannons a testament to military plans that went awry. More than once he’d heard when the Confederacy lost the river, they lost the war. The infamous fort seemed almost deserted as they rode toward the front of the building. They dismounted, and Isaac took Elijah’s reins.

  “What you wantin’ me to do, Cap’n?”

  Elijah pointed at the corral some fifty yards away. “See what you can find in the way of food for the horses. If anyone asks, give them my name and tell them they can check with me if there’s a problem.”

  Isaac led both horses toward the corral while Elijah pulled open the double doors and entered the building.

  A soldier behind a long counter frowned at him. “This is a military post, mister. No civilians. You’ll have to move along.”

  Elijah pulled some papers from his pocket and put them on the counter. He unfolded the top paper, then spun it around for the soldier to see.

  “I’m Captain Hale from Fort Wallace, Kansas.” He pointed to something scrawled across the paper. “My leave papers from Company M, Second Cavalry.”