Finding Mercy

by Cindy Kelley

  Of course, upon entering, none of this mattered much. But when a travel-weary Luther decided to pull his photograph of Mercy from his pocket, things began to matter very much.

  The clerk behind the counter pushed the registration book toward them. “How many rooms, gentlemen?”

  “One,” Newt said.

  “One?” Luther echoed. “I ain’t sleeping in the same room with the two of you, if I don’t have to.”

  “We can split the cost three ways if we share a room,” Harland said. “Makes sense.”

  Luther shook his head. “I want my own room.” He scrawled his name across the register. “You two do what you want.”

  While Newt and Harland made their decision, Luther pulled his photograph from his pocket. He was starting to believe that lightning wouldn’t strike twice. They’d had their lucky break when someone recognized her in Salem. What were the odds of that happening again?

  “Wondering if you’ve ever seen this woman?” Luther asked, pointing to the photo.

  The clerk picked it up and studied it for less than a minute. “Sure have.”

  The words were so unexpected, all three men just stared at him. The clerk smiled and pushed the photograph back to Luther. “So have you two gentlemen decided how—”

  “You’ve seen her?” Luther interrupted.

  The clerk nodded. “Yes. Now—”

  “When?”

  “Two—three days ago, maybe,” the clerk said. He took the registration book back and ran a finger down the list of names. He tapped one. “This is it.”

  All three men leaned in for a closer look. “That ain’t her name,” Newt said.

  “No. The gentleman she was traveling with registered for her,” the clerk told them.

  Harland straightened up. “Then it ain’t her. Our gal travels alone.”

  The clerk looked miffed. “I assure you I don’t forget a face, and I especially wouldn’t forget that woman’s face.”

  “How long did she stay?”

  “Just the one night. She looked a little peaked—but by the next morning I swear she had color back in her cheeks. That’s what a good night’s rest can do, which is why I recommend three rooms …”

  “Where did they go from here?” Luther asked.

  “I have no idea,” he said.

  “Did they say anything, do anything unusual?”

  The clerk thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Nothing.”

  Luther flipped the book back around and looked at it. “So this man, Elijah Hale, just handed you back the key and left without a word?”

  “He asked me where the county courthouse was,” the clerk said. “But that’s hardly a state secret. It’s only half a mile from here.”

  “And the woman? She say anything at all?”

  “No. Wait, yes. She had the audacity to ask me if we rent to Negroes,” the man said. “I assured her we do not.”

  The clerk at the county courthouse had been most helpful. Luther adjusted his legs, moved his right ankle over his left, and tipped his hat farther down on his face to keep the sun from hitting him. The swaying of the southbound train, the monotonous sound of the wheels against the tracks, and the pleasant warmth of the passenger car had finally wrought their magic, and he started to relax. Luther had a name and a place. He wasn’t sure what he’d find when they reached the Chapman Plantation, but he was sure of one thing: he was finally going to come face-to-face with the ever-elusive Mercy.

  Chapter Twenty

  From a distance, the town of Darien seemed to be a patchwork of gray and black surrounded by the glorious green vegetation. Brick chimneys, blackened from fire, dotted the landscape like cornstalks growing toward the sun. Victoria, in the driver’s seat of the four-place buggy, expertly steered the horse past the waterfront, where timber was being unloaded from a float next to the pier.

  “The timber business is starting to come back,” Mother said. She leaned forward, her gloved hand resting on the back of Charlotte’s seat. “It’s been slow like everything else, but Darien depends on the loggers to continue using the harbor.”

  As usual, the scents of the river evoked the sense of something familiar for Charlotte. As if she could read her mind, Victoria looked over at her. “I used to be so envious of you, Char. Father used to participate in the crew racing regattas when we were younger. I was too little, but he used to take you on his practice runs up and down the Altamaha.”

  “All the plantation owners had boats,” Mother said. “Your father named his the SS Chapman.”

  “He didn’t have the best imagination.” Victoria grinned. “But, as I recall, he was very good.”

  “Yes, he was,” her mother said. “He took home the prize for first place more than a few times. Those were good days.” Charlotte could hear the wistfulness in Suzanne’s voice.

  “Do they still have the regattas?” Charlotte asked.

  “No. Not since the war started,” Suzanne said. “And after it ended, the wealth of the county disappeared. I’m almost happy your father didn’t live to see what’s happened to his beloved South.”

  When Victoria brought the buggy up the main street of town, the devastation and ruin was even more apparent up close. Chimneys were all that was left in the remains of burned-out buildings; the red Georgia clay still bore the hallmarks of fire. Charlotte could see where some places were being rebuilt, and farther down the road a row of new businesses had gone up.

  “The entire town burned,” Victoria said.

  “And ironically, it wasn’t even General Sherman and his ruthless soldiers who did it. In June of ’63, a colored regiment of Federals came through here and set a torch to anything and everything that would burn. Three churches, a courthouse, and a market were lost, along with more homes than anyone took time to count. They were blue devils with black skin whose hate became a physical thing. I’m quite sure the citizens of Darien could say they saw the gates of Hades.”

  “Enough of this dour talk,” Victoria said. “This is supposed to be a fun trip for Charlotte—and for us.” She urged the horse on toward the new buildings. “Besides, look at all the new places,” she said. “Victory from the ashes—see? The town is coming back and will be better than ever. Pretty soon Darien will be as big as Savannah.”

  “Bring the buggy over, dear,” Mother said. “We’ll start at Dooley’s.”

  Victoria pulled the buggy along the side of the road in front of a white clapboard building with the name Dooley’s Merchandise Market painted over the door. After tying the reins around the post out front, Victoria pushed her arm through Charlotte’s and whispered in her ear. “Ready or not, here we go.”

  As soon as they entered the establishment, Charlotte became the focus of everyone’s attention. She heard a few people say her name, and there were a couple gasps of disbelief.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” her mother said.

  Before they could move from the spot in front of the door, a young woman pushed her way to stand in front of Charlotte.

  “Good gracious, it is you! I thought I saw you riding along the outskirts of town the other day and I even said to Betty Lou Hibbitts, I believe that’s Charlotte Chapman, but then we both agreed it couldn’t possibly be you passing through Darien as if you didn’t know a soul. I’m positive you saw me with Betty Lou, yet you didn’t so much as offer me a greeting!”

  Charlotte opened her mouth to reply, but Victoria gave her arm a little squeeze and beat her to it.

  “Since when did she ever greet you, Penelope?”

  Mother issued a quiet warning. “Victoria … don’t …”

  “You and Betty Lou … y’all were the meanest things in the world to her when she wanted to sing in the church choir. We all know you bullied the choir director into leaving her out.”

  Penelope lifted her chin a fraction of an inch, loo
ked past Charlotte, and addressed Victoria. “Well, I’m not sorry. She couldn’t sing. Not a note. It was church, Victoria. God shouldn’t have caterwauling voices lifted to Him in praise.” Penelope turned her attention back to Charlotte. “I don’t know where you’ve been or why you left in the first place, Char, but welcome home.”

  “Thank you.”

  As Penelope walked away, Victoria leaned closer to Charlotte. “She’s a vicious little thing, but she’s right. You can’t sing a note that’s not sour.”

  “That’s good to know,” Charlotte said. “I think.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Victoria. Do try and keep a civil tongue in your head while we’re here,” Mother said. “It’s counterproductive to rile up Penelope Sawyer and anyone else like her. You know her father is considering us for his rice season this year.”

  Charlotte heard the forced contriteness in her sister’s voice. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’ll be good.”

  “See that you are,” Mother said. Then she turned toward a man who stood behind a counter. “Dooley! Look who’s come home to us!”

  Dooley, the proprietor, had a wide smile on his face. “I saw her the second you entered,” he said. “Welcome home, Miss Charlotte!”

  Mother and Victoria ushered her forward, and Dooley held out his hands over the counter. Charlotte smiled and put her hands in his.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you,” he said. Charlotte thought she saw actual tears shining in his eyes.

  “Thank you. It’s good to be home.”

  “There must have been quite a celebration when you walked in the door!” Dooley said.

  “That is precisely the reason we’re here,” her mother said to Dooley and the room at large. “To celebrate Charlotte’s return. We’re having a party at the house at five o’clock on Saturday and y’all are invited. And, please, pass the word for us. We’d love to have everyone who knows Charlotte there.”

  Her mother passed a piece of paper across the counter to Dooley. “I’ve brought a list for you to fill.”

  Dooley perused it while people started to crowd around Charlotte, one by one, welcoming her back. She was grateful to have Victoria behind her whispering names of those who approached in her ear. And then one young man, head and shoulders taller than anyone in the place, pushed through the group.

  “Hello, Charlotte.”

  “Umm, hello.”

  “Hello, Shorty,” Victoria said.

  Shorty nodded at Victoria, then looked at Charlotte. “I’m glad to see you’re back.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I hope you’re not still holding against me that little incident that happened before you left.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Consider it forgotten.”

  She heard Victoria giggle behind her. The young man frowned. “Really? Just like that. Not a word about something I’ve been worrying on for years now.”

  “I’m … sorry. I thought you wanted me to forget it,” Charlotte said.

  “Guess it was a bigger deal to me than you,” Shorty said.

  Victoria stepped around her sister. “Charlotte, this is Shorty Smithson. And, Shorty, when Char says she doesn’t remember … she isn’t joking. Her memory’s scrambled. She’s got something called amnesia.”

  Mother turned from the counter. “Victoria, maybe Charlotte didn’t want to say anything just yet …”

  “Well, that’s just ridiculous,” Victoria said. “Everyone is going to find out sooner or later. Tell them, Char.”

  Charlotte looked at the strangers surrounding her—including Shorty. “It’s true. I have a condition known as amnesia. It means my memory is impaired and I don’t remember anything about my earlier life. So please, I’ll ask your forgiveness in advance if you know me but I don’t remember you.”

  A ripple of conversation ran through the place. Shorty leaned down toward Charlotte. “So you really don’t remember when I tried to steal that kiss from you?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “No, I don’t.”

  Shorty’s face flushed with color. “Then could you forget I just said that?”

  Charlotte tried to cover her smile. “I’ll try.”

  “That’s a cryin’ shame about your memory,” Dooley said. “I hate to think you can’t remember your daddy. We were all so proud of John. The air just went out of the town the day he died.”

  Mother’s eyes grew misty, and she dabbed at the corner of her eye with the fingertip of her white glove. “He’s right, Charlotte. Everyone loved your father.”

  “He was a true war hero,” Dooley said.

  “Well, y’all, we have another war hero right here,” Victoria said loudly enough for everyone in the place to hear. She put her arm around Charlotte’s waist. “My sister didn’t run away from home three years ago. She ran straight to the Confederate army and took up arms to fight for the South! That’s right. Charlotte was a sharpshooter who probably killed dozens and dozens of Yankee scoundrels. And anyone who knows her well, knows she could do it.”

  At first, the people in the store were too stunned to say a word. They looked to her mother, who nodded. “She’s telling the truth. We were just as surprised as y’all seem to be.”

  Dooley was the first to break the silence. “I just know your daddy is so proud of you, Miss Charlotte. Must be beaming his smile down from the heavens.”

  Charlotte, even more uncomfortable than she was before, smiled at Dooley. “Thank you. That is very nice to hear.”

  People congratulated her, reached to shake her hand, and patted her on the back. Victoria, who seemed to be enjoying the attention much more than her sister, looked at Shorty and grinned.

  “You’d best not be trying to steal any more kisses from Charlotte, Shorty. She might just shoot you where you stand.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “It was my grandfather’s vision,” Beau told Elijah as they rode on horseback along the banks of the Altamaha, the river that bordered the plantation. “He knew this was the perfect climate and location to grow rice.”

  A flock of ospreys flew overhead. The huge birds had a wingspan of over five feet and made moving shadows across the rice fields.

  “But before he came here and started the plantation, he was a Revolutionary War hero,” Beau said. “Father was very proud of him.”

  “And apparently followed in his footsteps,” Elijah said.

  Beau nodded. “Yes. Makes the fact I didn’t fight all the more painful.”

  “You can hardly be blamed for being the wrong age when war broke out,” Elijah said.

  “I know of boys who lied and joined at fifteen. I wish I’d had the foresight to do just that. I could have made a good soldier.”

  “Seems to me you’ve been invaluable here. Look at this place.” Elijah twisted in the saddle and let his gaze roam over hundreds of acres of rice crops. “It’s really something.”

  “It’s kind of you to say,” Beau said. “It’s not an easy job. This place is really like a small village. Our goal is to be self-sustaining, just as we were before the war—and we’re nearly there.”

  They started past a vegetable garden that spanned an acre of land. There were Negroes kneeling in the dirt, weeding. “That’s the house garden,” Beau said. “We’ve hired several darkies to work it. Some are former slaves of ours, some are former slaves from plantations or farms that folded during the war.”

  “Being employed must give them a sense of pride,” Elijah said. But Beau shook his head. “You would think so, but that’s not the case. We’ve appealed to them to be productive, even promised them some of the food for their own families if they produce more. But quite honestly, they don’t like to work. And they especially don’t like to work on Saturdays—even though they agreed to it in their contracts.”

  “You do that through the Freedmen’s Bureau?”

&
nbsp; Beau nodded. “They require it. Want to make sure each darky has a contract and makes his mark on it. Seems kind of crazy to me since they can’t even read what they’re signing, but we do it. Then the contracts get sent to the bureau to keep on file. Part of the government’s grand plan for reconstruction.”

  “I suppose they think that’s fair to everyone involved,” Elijah said.

  Beau issued a curt laugh. “There is nothing fair about any of this, Elijah. They say the contract is as much for us as it is for them, but the agents at the bureau will believe the wildest complaints of the Negroes and call the whites to account for some imagined offense.

  “Mother was out here last Saturday, checking on the workers, making sure they were putting in a full day as we require. She ran across Cato—one of our old slaves who decided to stay on for hire after he was freed. Cato used to be a good worker in the fields, but Mother found him sleeping behind the corn. When she demanded to know what he was doing, he looked at her and said, ‘What’s the use of being free when I have to work harder than I did as a slave?’”

  “It sounds like it’s been a tough transition for everyone,” Elijah said.

  “They need a firm hand and an uncompromising example made of anyone who doesn’t toe the line,” Beau said. “We have an overseer who worked here when my father was still alive. Jonas is tough but fair. And under him is Bram, the driver of the colored gangs that work the fields.”