Finding Mercy

by Cindy Kelley

  My dearest Elijah,

  As always, I was overjoyed when the post came today and with it, your letter. I know I don’t have to tell you the correspondence we exchange always lifts my heart and my spirit. Though today, dearest, I could read between the lines and sense the trouble of your own heart with the dilemma that has been presented to you. You are a good man, Elijah. I hope the guilt you feel will be assuaged with time and you will accept the grace we all receive when we believe as we do in the Lord. I pray you will come to realize the motives concerning your actions of late were prompted by your own conscience and the desire to do what is right and just according to God’s law. I know the girl left you of her own accord, but you said yourself fear motivates us to do things in the moment that don’t make sense. And she must be so afraid. I know your letter was to let me know of your plan to follow her, and yet I felt you also needed me to tell you my feelings on the matter and give your quest my blessing—which, my dear son, I most wholeheartedly do. Find Mercy and see her safely home, Elijah. Nothing less will quiet the need of your heart to do that. May God enable you to do this task, keep you safe in body and spirit—and bring you back home someday to me.

  Forever your affectionate and loving mother

  Charlotte was so engrossed in the letter she didn’t hear the door open, or her mother step inside the room.

  “I just came to check on him—and you too,” she said.

  Charlotte turned toward her, saw the pile of Elijah’s incriminating papers in her peripheral vision, and made her way to the bureau.

  “The doctor says he’ll sleep now for several hours.” Charlotte put the letter back between the pages of the Bible, then placed the book on top of the other papers. “I appreciate your concern, though, Mother.”

  Her mother took a few more steps into the room. “I’m so sorry this terrible thing has marred your homecoming.”

  “Bad things happen we can’t help,” Charlotte said.

  After a light tap on the door, Beau entered the room and directed his comment to their mother. “Just letting you know I’ve taken care of things.”

  Mother nodded. “Good.”

  Beau glanced at Elijah. “How is he?”

  “The same,” Charlotte said. “How’s Isaac? Were you able to get him to tell you what happened?”

  Beau glanced at their mother. Charlotte thought she saw the slightest of nods from her mother.

  “What is it?” Charlotte asked. “What did he say?”

  “He told me it was an accident,” Beau said. “He came into the room early this morning to tell Elijah his horse was ready, and to help him get his things together. According to the boy, he picked up the pistol and it accidentally fired. All a terrible accident, he said.”

  Every word he said dripped with skepticism, and Charlotte heard it immediately. “But you don’t believe him?”

  “Frankly, no.”

  “Well, I do. I know Isaac would never intentionally hurt anyone—least of all Elijah. He looks up to Elijah—respects and admires him. I know and trust this boy. Believe me when I say he would never do this on purpose.”

  Beau looked resolute. “You can never trust a colored man—even one that’s still a boy. They harbor secrets and hate, and their desire for revenge can take over in an instant!”

  “You can’t believe that’s true about all Negroes,” Charlotte said. “And you’re wrong about Isaac. I know him—spent weeks traveling with him. I’ve seen him with Elijah. There is absolutely no way he had any motivation to shoot him.”

  Charlotte caught another glance traded between her mother and brother. “You can’t agree with him on this, Mother.”

  “I do agree with him,” she said. “Beau and I have our reasons for being wary of Isaac. In fact, the reasons are intimately tied to the death of your father.”

  “I don’t understand …,” Charlotte said.

  “Your father didn’t die on a battlefield. He was murdered right here in this house.”

  “How?” Charlotte’s voice sounded strained to her own ears. They were talking about a man she didn’t remember, but she’d already begun to piece together the father she wanted to remember from the things people had told her about the man. Murder didn’t fit in that picture at all.

  “John was shot by a Negro man named Lewis,” Mother said. “Lewis was born here on the plantation. He was raised here, played with you, Victoria, and Beau. We trusted him, fed, clothed, and provided shelter for him. We made sure Lewis and his family had medical care and even a gift at Christmas. To anyone watching—to all of us here—Lewis seemed to respect and admire your father.” She paused. “So it seemed.”

  “Father’s regiment was in the area, and he wanted to come home for a couple days to see us all,” Beau said.

  “We had the most wonderful, loving visit,” her mother said. “When it was time for him to return to his men, we were saying our good-byes in the foyer.” Charlotte heard the catch in her mother’s voice, and Beau reached out to put a comforting hand on her arm. She smiled at him distractedly, then continued. “I remember John being near the front doors in his uniform. You were coming down the stairs, Charlotte, when …” Her mother frowned with the memory. “I saw Lewis from the corner of my eye, but that wasn’t strange. He was often in the house for errands and things. But that day there was something different about him. His expression—his eyes. I remember turning to look at him and thinking he looked so angry. So filled with hate. And then everything happened fast. He lifted his hand and he had a gun, and my mind wouldn’t comprehend it. Even after he shot your father in cold blood, I was so confused. The sergeant who’d been traveling with John heard the shot and came through the doors with his gun drawn just as Beau ran into the foyer. I remember being scared that the sergeant would get it wrong and I think I yelled, ‘Don’t shoot my boy’ as I pointed toward the killer.” She shivered. “He killed Lewis with a single bullet. And there were two dead men in my foyer.”

  Charlotte couldn’t believe what she’d heard, and she realized she was crying. She swiped a hand across her cheeks. “That’s why earlier you kept saying ‘Not again.’”

  Mother nodded. “Yes.”

  “But only one shooting was intentional …,” Charlotte said.

  “Even if Isaac is telling the truth and it was an accident, he had no business even touching that gun. The black codes in Georgia prohibit any person of color from using a firearm,” Beau said.

  Charlotte couldn’t get the mental picture of her father’s death out of her mind. She wondered if the picture she conjured up was worse than what her memory might have been.

  “You’re going to find out sooner or later, so I’d rather you hear it from me,” Beau said. “But I had a public punishment carried out for Isaac’s offense.”

  Her eyes flew to her brother. “What kind of punishment?”

  “A few lashes across his back,” Beau said. “And I’d say that was lenient.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “No! Please tell me you didn’t use a whip on a child!”

  “The only thing keeping the newly freed blacks in line is fear. Without that fear, what’s to say we all won’t be shot dead in our beds by our former slaves?”

  “He’s right, Charlotte. They hate us. They hated us for owning them as slaves and even now when they’re free, they hate us because they aren’t equipped to take care of themselves. Every weed they pull or dollar of debt they incur is somehow our fault and they’ve been very vocal about that,” Mother said. “They want me to apologize for the life I was born into—as if their lot in life is my doing.”

  Charlotte shook her head, trying to hold her anger in check. “But to use a whip on a boy like Isaac …”

  “News runs rampant through the colored camps,” Beau said. “Isaac’s offense had to be dealt with swiftly and without remorse. Even if you can’t remember how we did things here, and
even if you don’t approve of them, you need to stand with us when we make these kinds of decisions. You can’t be a chink in our armor if you intend to live here as a Chapman.”

  “So I’m to say nothing, even when I think something is wrong?” she asked.

  “Before the war, my sister Charlotte would have been the first to make sure a message was sent to the Negroes for an offense like this,” Beau said. “It’s what needed to happen, what Father would have done. You need to decide where your loyalties lie. With your family, or with some colored boy who picked up a gun and shot that man right there.”

  Beau offered a smile as if to soften his words. “I’m sorry. I really am. I wish we could have had a few more days of fun and parties and happy stories. But it seems real life has come calling much sooner than any of us wanted.”

  He looked at Elijah. “If and when he wakes, we’ll ask Elijah for his side of the story. If Isaac told me the truth, then he’s already received his punishment for handling and firing the gun.”

  “And if Elijah doesn’t tell you the same story?” Charlotte’s voice was cold with dread. She was afraid she already knew the answer.

  “Then he’ll hang for shooting a white man,” Beau said. “Your mind might not remember what’s true, but in your heart, you know that’s what has to happen.”

  “Your father loved you very much, Charlotte. He was a fine man—held in great esteem in this county and around the state. I’m sure you’ve heard that time and time again,” her mother said.

  Mutely, Charlotte nodded.

  “There was nothing in the world he wouldn’t have done for you—it’s probably why his portrait was so meaningful for you … why you took a chance and came here to find out who he was. Now, the least you can do for his memory is to be loyal to it and never forget he died by the hand of a trusted servant.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It was the end of the day when Charlotte sat dozing in the chair next to Elijah’s bed. Her fingers were given a gentle squeeze.

  “Mercy.”

  She opened her eyes to find Elijah’s hand over her own. “You’re awake!”

  His voice was hoarse. “So it seems.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’ve been shot,” he said.

  “You’ve been out for the better part of two days,” she said. “You’ve got to be thirsty.”

  She helped him drink. “Let me bring you something to eat.”

  He shook his head. “Not now. Maybe later.”

  “All right. But you do have to eat something …”

  “How is Isaac?”

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Charlotte asked, evading his question.

  “Where is Isaac?” he asked again.

  “He’s in the colored camp,” she said. “He was found hiding in the wardrobe the morning you were shot, Elijah. You need to tell me what happened.”

  “As best as I can figure, his curiosity about my gun got the better of him. It went off and I had the bad luck of being in the bullet’s path. But it was an accident. I know that without a doubt.”

  She nodded. “He told Beau it was an accident.”

  “And Beau believed him?”

  “Beau wants to hear it from you, but then it will all be over,” she said.

  His face was creased with worry. “And there won’t be any repercussions for him?”

  Charlotte weighed the truth against a lie that would lessen his concern. “No. I know Isaac’s been very worried about you,” she said. “I’ll go and talk with him in a little while.”

  Elijah relaxed against his pillow. “So, what’s the damage?”

  “We had a doctor from town come, and he performed a surgery to remove the bullet. It could have been so much worse, Elijah. You’re lucky to be alive at all.”

  “Another day or two and I can be on my way …”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Doctor Hawkins will be back in a week to remove your sutures and then he recommends another three weeks before you can be on a horse.”

  Elijah sat up quickly, then sucked in a painful breath. “I can’t possibly stay here another month. I’ve got a post to get back to.”

  Charlotte slipped a hand behind his back. “Judging by the way your face just paled, I’d say you might be rethinking that day or two.” She helped ease him back against his pillow. Beads of sweat appeared across his forehead.

  “Maybe three or four days,” he conceded. “I’m a quick healer.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Is that right? How about bouncing up and down in the saddle for hours on end?” she said. “The very least you can do is give that bullet hole the respect it deserves.”

  Elijah chuckled, then immediately grimaced. “I’m respecting it now.”

  “Good.”

  He grew serious. “You know, the longer I’m here, the better the chances are of your family finding out what I did in the war. I don’t want you to have to face the consequences of that.”

  “I’m doing all I can to make sure they don’t find out.” She wiped his brow with a cool cloth. “It’s not something you need to worry about.”

  “I appreciate all the worrying you seem to have done on my behalf.”

  She could see he meant it by the look in his eyes. She held his gaze a little longer, then busied herself by folding the cloth in her hand.

  “Mother, Beau, and Victoria have all been worried about you too,” Charlotte said. “And this whole incident has brought back some very painful memories for them.”

  “Something you want to share?”

  “It’s about my father and how he died,” she said, then shook her head. “You don’t need to hear this right now. Later, when you’re more rested …”

  “You just told me I’ve slept for nearly two days,” he said. “I’m sure I’m more rested than you are.”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “As you already know, my father died about three years ago. His regiment happened to be in the area, and according to my mother, he wanted to come home and spend a few days with the family. After a wonderful visit, it was time for him to rejoin his men. Apparently we were all to meet in the foyer to see him off …” Her voice trailed off.

  “If you don’t want to continue …”

  “No. I do,” she said. “There was a slave named Lewis. He was born on the plantation, was a playmate of ours growing up. As he grew, he became a trusted servant, coming and going in the house when the need called for it. The general feeling was that Lewis greatly admired my father—and to hear it told, it sounded like my father had affection for Lewis. That morning, just as Father was to tell us all good-bye, Lewis entered the foyer, shot, and killed him.”

  For a moment, Elijah was speechless. “And you were all right there to witness it.”

  Charlotte nodded. “They remember the nightmare vividly. Finding you shot in this house … well … as you can imagine, it brought a lot back to them.”

  “And Lewis? What happened to him?”

  “He was killed by the sergeant who’d been traveling with my father.”

  Elijah slowly shook his head. “Survived the battlefields only to die in his own home.”

  “Is it cowardly to say for once I’m glad I don’t remember?”

  “No. Not cowardly at all. It would be a hard memory to live with,” he said. “But at least now you know what happened.”

  “Yes. Now I know,” she said. “And I also know you need to eat something to help you gain back your strength.”

  “I don’t think I can right now. But soon …”

  “All right.”

  He relaxed completely back into the pillow, fought the heaviness of his eyes for a moment until he gave in and was back asleep. She fussed with the sheets and quilt that covered him, then sat back down in the chair next to the bed. All the while, she reci
ted a litany over and over in her head. Thank You, God. Thank You for hearing my prayer.

  Chapter Thirty

  The setting sun cast gold shadows across the red clay dirt beneath Charlotte’s feet as she made her way across the property to the south end of the rice fields. The humidity felt heavy and slick across her skin, and though the sun was slipping toward the horizon, the evening was warm. A slight breeze stirred the air and on it, the familiar scent of the ocean. She added that to the things in her recent memory that were comfortable, like slipping into the only dress she’d worn for ages, the smell of lemon verbena and the taste of tea laced with sugar. Every memory she could add to those she could call up at will made her happy.

  Charlotte turned down the path to the colored camp. The closer she got, the more dismayed she became at the condition of the houses. Made of thin wooden boards stacked one upon the other, they looked like a strong wind would flatten them back against the earth. She could see space between the boards and wondered how the inhabitants stayed dry in the rain or warm in the winter. A few of the houses had rickety porches that appeared to have been tacked on as an afterthought. Several people were outside having an evening meal, sitting on squares of burlap in the grass. Children looked up as she approached. Somewhere she heard a baby crying. The men and women seemed to avoid her glances, eyes averted and faces turned down. It seemed they would look anywhere but at her. The thought crossed her mind that many of these people may have known her before she left. It seemed strange that no one was welcoming her back—or was it? She had been as much a slave owner as the rest of the family. As her father had been. She desperately wanted to believe she’d been fair-minded and kind, but she knew the answer because Beau had given it to her. “Before the war, my sister Charlotte would have been the first to make sure a message was sent to the Negroes for an offense like this.”