Finding Mercy

by Cindy Kelley

  “If things get hard, remember who you are,” he said. “Not with your head, but with your heart. Heart memories are the true memories.”

  Elijah mounted his horse. She watched him gallop away, then turned back to the house.

  Charlotte made her way up the steps, and purposely stopped to look down the veranda at the men who had come to take her life but lost their own. She had survived another nightmare. But would the nightmare eventually win?

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Charlotte had been vaguely aware of the number of people milling about the front yard, workers from the house and other spots on the plantation who had presumably come when they heard the gunshots. She hadn’t paid attention to anyone but Elijah and the moment he was telling her good-bye. When Charlotte entered the foyer, she saw Jonas there with her brother. Both men glanced at her.

  “He left, then?” Beau asked.

  Charlotte nodded. “Yes.”

  “I’m sending Jonas to town for the sheriff and undertaker,” Beau said.

  She nodded distractedly. “All right.”

  Beau nodded at Jonas, who hurried out the door.

  “The sheriff is going to be upset Elijah didn’t stay and talk to him. Makes him look guilty of something,” Beau said.

  “Those men intended to kill me and who knows what they would have done with you and Mother. Elijah saved our lives, and that’s all the sheriff needs to hear.”

  Chessie entered the foyer. “You wanted me, Mr. Beau?”

  “Could you find some sheets to cover those men outside, Chessie?”

  Chessie glanced at Charlotte, then nodded. “Yassuh.”

  “I’m going up to my room,” Charlotte said.

  “No, you’re coming into the parlor with me. We want to talk to you,” he said.

  Victoria burst through the door, eyes wild. She nearly careened into Charlotte, and then saw Beau. “You’re all right? All of you? Where’s Mother?”

  “We’re fine. Relatively fine,” Beau amended. “Can’t say the same for our luncheon guests. There have been some … developments since you left.”

  “I saw Elijah tearing down the road, could barely get him to stop and talk to me,” Victoria said. “He wouldn’t explain what he was doing. Why he’s leaving when he’s in such bad shape.” She looked at Charlotte. “He said you’d explain. And then I ride up to the house and see …”—she pointed toward the veranda—“that!”

  “We were just about to hear Charlotte’s explanation,” Beau said. “Weren’t we?”

  Charlotte nodded, then made her way into the parlor with Beau and Victoria close behind her. Her mother looked like a woman who’d been through a trauma; her face was ashen, eyes seemed unfocused and glazed. She held a glass of brandy in her hand, but it shook when she raised it to her lips and took a drink. As if the play had been rehearsed, Beau and Victoria sat down on either side of their mother. Charlotte sat opposite them, and her mind went immediately back to the day she arrived. Was it really less than two weeks before when she’d sat in this very chair and told them she couldn’t remember them? She didn’t know quite how to start what she knew would be a difficult conversation. Her mother took care of that for her.

  “You knew you were being pursued by bounty hunters?”

  Charlotte nodded. “Yes.”

  “What?” This came from Victoria.

  “And you came here anyway—put us all in danger?”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Victoria said.

  “Those men lying dead on our porch were bounty hunters—after our sister for apparent crimes she committed …”

  Victoria’s jaw dropped. She looked at Charlotte. “Crimes?”

  “Wait—there’s more,” Beau said. “It also seems Charlotte has a penchant for Yankees. She was engaged to one—and then brought one home with her. Elijah fought for the North.”

  Victoria put a hand on her chest. “Do be quiet, Beau.”

  Though Charlotte tried to act calm, her mind raced during Beau’s jabs to try and find the right words to explain the last year to her family.

  “When Elijah told you that we’d met on a battlefield,” Charlotte said, “that was true. But we were on opposite sides. According to him, I chased after him, but when I found him praying over his dying brother, I let him live. I didn’t take the shot, and he thanked me for it. As a token, he gave his mercy medallion to the sergeant that spared his life that day. He walked away and I apparently did too. I don’t remember any of it.”

  “All Yankees are liars and manipulators … and murderers,” Beau said. “We’ve got two on the veranda who prove my point!”

  “You know that’s not true, Beau,” she said. “You can’t make a claim like that about Northerners any more than they can claim Southerners are heartless in their treatment of Negroes.”

  “How do you know he didn’t lie to you about that encounter?” her mother asked.

  “Because when we met again about eight months later—at my engagement party—he thought he recognized me. I obviously looked different than the sergeant. My hair had grown considerably—and I was wearing a dress. A far sight different than the brown wool shirt and green pants I’d donned for the army. He heard rumors about me. That I’d been found on the outskirts of St. Louis and brought to a clinic dressed as a man, had cuts and bruises—and amnesia.”

  “He could have told you anything and you wouldn’t know if he was lying or not,” Beau said.

  “He was staying with some old friends of his in St. Louis while he waited for his next post,” she said. “He came to me with his suspicions one evening. I didn’t believe him, of course. I didn’t know why he would lie to me, but I was convinced he was.”

  Victoria was hanging on every word. “But then …? What did he do that convinced you he was telling the truth?”

  Charlotte nodded. “He described the mercy medallion he’d given to that rebel soldier.” She slipped a finger under the chain around her neck and drew out her necklace. “He described this mercy medallion. Right down to a missing letter that’s been rubbed off with time. It was his—and I had it.”

  “He must have seen you wearing it!” Beau said.

  She shook her head. “No. I didn’t have it on the night of my engagement party, or any of the other times I’d subsequently seen him. I knew he was telling me the truth.”

  “None of this explains why men are trying to kill you,” her mother said.

  Charlotte took a breath. “The man I was going to marry came from a powerful family in St. Louis,” she said. “His father was part owner of the railroad, very wealthy—and used everything within his means to help the North win the war.”

  “What was his name?” Beau asked.

  “Charles Prescott. I was engaged to his son, Rand.”

  Beau frowned. “Prescott. I’ve heard of him. Didn’t he help design the armor the North used in their train engines?”

  She nodded. “There were also some rumblings about a political office sometime soon,” she said. “To be honest, they weren’t happy when Rand wanted to marry some obscure girl who had no history—but they gradually accepted it.”

  Her mother shook her head. “I don’t understand how you could fall in love with a Yankee!”

  “I had no memory, Mother. No political leanings one way or another,” Charlotte said, “but when Elijah came to me with what he knew, he insisted I tell Rand about my past. That I was a former Confederate sharpshooter. He reasoned if my memory returned one day, so might my former loyalties to the South. I would literally be married to my enemy. Elijah insisted I tell Rand the truth before our wedding day—or he would.”

  “So you told him?” Victoria asked.

  She shook her head. “No. I couldn’t do it. I knew he would hate me. His feelings about the South and the war were still so bitter.”

&nbs
p; “So that’s why you broke off your engagement?” Mother asked.

  “Yes. But not before I attempted something very foolish,” Charlotte admitted. “I was desperate my secret not come out. I thought if I could stop Elijah from saying anything …”

  Beau’s brows shot up. “You went to kill him? Finally something makes sense.”

  She dropped her chin. Couldn’t even look at them. “I did. I went to the home of the congressman before dawn, started a small fire and waited for them to come out of the house. But when Elijah did appear, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t believe I almost had. I tried to get out of there as fast as I could and accidentally fired my gun.

  “When the authorities came to arrest me, they came to the conclusion I was trying to kill the congressman. They said I used Rand and his family connections to gain access to him. They said it was my plan all along. I was a traitor—a Confederate who couldn’t let go of the war and planned to execute a government official. The jury found me guilty of treason and sentenced me to hang.”

  “So this is all Elijah’s fault!” Beau said.

  “No. In fact, once Elijah heard about my sentence, he moved heaven and earth to get back to St. Louis from his post in Kansas and convinced the judge to commute my sentence.”

  “How?”

  “Elijah told them if I’d wanted anyone dead, they’d be dead. He arranged for me to prove myself with a gun. When they let me go, Elijah offered to escort me to the state line. There had been rumors someone was very unhappy I was set free—and that someone was willing to pay men to find and kill me.”

  “So you’re saying he’s the hero?” Beau’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

  “I’m saying he’s an honorable man who does what he believes is right. If I had told the truth about my past to Rand, I might have spared myself the nightmare of these past weeks.”

  “Maybe, if Rand loved you enough, the truth wouldn’t have mattered to him,” Victoria said.

  Charlotte shook her head. “It mattered. He was the one who told the authorities where to find me. He was the one who sounded the treason alarm.”

  “Yankee revenge and scorn,” her mother said. “We’re all too familiar with it.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all of this sooner,” Charlotte said. “I didn’t believe the bounty hunters would find me here. If I did, I wouldn’t have come back at all.”

  “I choose to acknowledge you fought for the South—you went to war because you knew the North was going to destroy our way of life,” Mother said. “You knew it was the North that influenced Lewis to kill your father. You may not remember the hate you had for the Yankees, but in your heart you have to know that’s who you still are. That’s what I’m going to count on moving forward from this terrible day. That’s what I suggest we all do.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Charlotte hoped a good night’s rest had done wonders for everyone’s temperament and entered the dining room hanging onto that hope. But one look at the tired faces around the table told her otherwise.

  “Good morning.” Charlotte took a seat next to Victoria.

  “Morning,” Victoria said. Her usual enthusiasm was noticeably missing. Beau didn’t say anything, but Charlotte noticed he had added something new to the table setting—a pistol was placed conspicuously next to his plate.

  Her mother shook her head, reached for a china cup. “You’re late.”

  The comment took Charlotte by surprise. “I am? I’m sorry.”

  “Rose has already been in to pour coffee,” her mother said.

  Charlotte reached for her own cup, then stood. “I can get my own.”

  “Don’t!” Mother glared. “It is her job. When you do the work of the servants, you’re undermining their very reason for being here.”

  Feeling chastened, Charlotte sat back down. “I wasn’t trying to undermine anything. I was going to get coffee.”

  “Don’t be impertinent, Charlotte,” Mother snapped. “It isn’t becoming on you.”

  Charlotte was shocked at both her tone and her biting comments. She stared down at her plate as Rose entered the dining room.

  “You may fill Miss Charlotte’s cup now, Rose,” Suzanne said.

  “All right, missus,” Rose said.

  Rose made quick work of pouring coffee, carefully avoiding any eye contact with Charlotte.

  “Thank you, Rose,” Charlotte said. “I apologize for my words yesterday …”

  Rose dipped her chin in a nod and hurried away. Beau shook his head. “Why are you apologizing to her?”

  “I was … I called her …”

  “With everything else that happened yesterday, you’re stuck on that?” Beau said.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday,” Charlotte said. “I truly am.”

  Suzanne glared. “Sorry doesn’t change things. Sorry is said to lessen the guilt of the one who did wrong.”

  “It’s not to lessen my guilt …”

  Rose and her constant shadow, Biddy, arrived with plates of grits and pancakes. Victoria wrinkled her nose at the food.

  “In my wildest dreams, I never imagined I would miss eggs so much,” Victoria said. “I will never take chickens for granted again.”

  “When did Mr. Jackson say to expect the order you placed?” Mother asked.

  “He said it would be about a month,” Charlotte said.

  “A month?” Their mother shook her head. “That’s not acceptable. I want them sooner. You should have checked in with Jackson when you were in town, Victoria.”

  “I had lunch with friends yesterday, Mother. I wasn’t there to see about chickens. Besides, there’s nothing we can do about it now.”

  Mother sighed. “It’s like everything else. I should have done it myself.”

  “I’ll go to town,” Charlotte said. “I’ll speak to Mr. Jackson and impress upon him the urgency of the order.”

  Her mother looked at her. “I suppose …”

  “You can’t ride to Darien alone,” Victoria said. “Have you forgotten what happened here yesterday?”

  “She’s right,” Mother said. “It’s not safe.”

  “I’ve got to check on repairs that were made at the mill, so I can’t do it,” Beau said.

  “I’m perfectly capable of going,” Charlotte said. “I’ll take one of Father’s guns.”

  “And what about the man who was wounded yesterday?” Victoria asked. “What if he’s still looking for you?”

  “He doesn’t have to look for me,” Charlotte said. “He knows where I live.”

  Mother sipped at her coffee, then looked at Charlotte. “Please be careful, dear. And tell Mr. Jackson we want those chickens in two weeks’ time.”

  Charlotte nodded and wondered how fast she could eat her grits.

  The ride into Darien on Lucky lifted Charlotte’s spirits. She’d tucked her pistol into the reticule around her wrist and gave herself over to the ride. The horse seemed as happy galloping along the road as she was, and they reached their destination much too soon. She slowed Lucky to a walk through town. This time in town, Charlotte saw a few people whose faces she recognized, and they greeted her. She noticed a few curious glances as she arrived at the feed store, dismounted, and tied Lucky to a hitching post.

  Charlotte entered to find Mr. Jackson and a young Negro man standing on opposite sides of the counter—staring at a ledger. Jackson looked her direction and raised his brows.

  “Miss Chapman. I’m happy to see you looking so well,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Jackson,” she said.

  “I heard about all the commotion at your place yesterday,” he said.

  “You did?”

  “Word gets around,” he said. “Just glad to see you’re fine.”

  “Yes, I am. Fine. We’re all … fine,” she said. “When you have a moment, I nee
d to speak to you about our order.”

  “Sure thing. Just let me wrap things up with Parker here.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” Charlotte said. She noticed that Jackson’s cousin, Sam, was at some shelves on the side of the small store, straightening things so that they lined up precisely against the wall. He was mumbling to himself.

  Charlotte made her way to a bookshelf near Sam. Jackson was rattling off numbers as his finger ran down a page in the ledger.

  “All the figures are right here, Parker. You can read ’em for yourself.”

  The black man called Parker stared hard at the paper, but shook his head. “Seems like too much, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Look,” Jackson huffed out impatiently. “You got five acres you’re trying to cover. Takes you about thirty thousand seeds to cover an acre …”

  Charlotte heard Sam murmur, “Thirty thousand, thirty thousand. One hundred fifty thousand …”

  “And you divide that by two thousand seeds per pound … giving you fifteen pounds …”

  “Fifteen, fifteen, fifteen, fifteen.”

  Jackson seemed oblivious to Sam’s nattering. “You got about fifty-six pounds a’ seed in a bushel— I’m charging you two dollars a bushel. So you can see right here you’re needin’ three bushels to plant your fields. That’s six dollars.”

  Sam shook his head slowly back and forth, then spoke more softly. “One and a half bushels, one and a half, fifteen into fifty-six is one and a half.”

  Parker looked at him. “And then you’s charging me on top a’ that?”

  Jackson nodded. “Got to, Parker. I’m basically lending you the money for your seed. The only collateral you got is your land. I take a quarter of the cash value of your crop when you harvest. Then there’s the matter of the interest on that loan, but again thirty percent is standard practice.”

  Parker looked upset and undecided at the same time. Jackson sighed heavily. “It’s up to you. But I don’t see how you’re going to get any planting done unless you accept the terms.”

  Parker finally nodded. “Fine.”