Finding Mercy

by Cindy Kelley

  Suzanne laughed harshly. “Don’t patronize me, young lady. This is my home and …”

  “Technically, Suzanne, it’s hers,” Mr. Harper said. “So I’d be careful here how you proceed …”

  “I’m going to proceed right out the door!” Suzanne said.

  “Mother …,” Beau said. “I wouldn’t be rash …”

  “Get some things together, Beau, Victoria. We’re leaving.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Charlotte said. “You can stay.”

  “I won’t spend another night under the roof you claim to own.”

  “If that’s how you feel,” Charlotte said.

  “That’s how it is,” Suzanne said. “But mark my words, Charlotte, there will be repercussions. I will fight you for ownership of my home, my land, my fields. I will be mistress of this plantation again.”

  Suzanne stormed out of the study with Beau and Victoria on her heels.

  Charlotte stood on the veranda and watched the wagon roll away with the family she had tried so hard to remember. There was no joy in the moment—just an empty, sad feeling. Mr. Harper came up beside her and settled his hat on his head.

  “I’ll head to Darien and file the will at the courthouse.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I probably don’t have to tell you Suzanne doesn’t like to lose,” he said.

  She shook her head.

  “And she’s not an indecisive woman,” he went on. “It won’t take her long to come up with a plan to regain the plantation.”

  “But if I’m the legal owner …”

  “We both know, especially after last night, she’s not going to be concerned with legalities,” he said. “You opened Pandora’s box when you brought forth the will. Suzanne will use whatever—whomever—she can to prevail.”

  “You’d better get going, then.”

  Mr. Harper put on his hat and looked at her with concern. “Be careful.”

  Charlotte felt Chessie come to stand beside her, though she kept her eyes on the departing figure of Adam Harper.

  “What we do now?” Chessie said.

  “God only knows.”

  Charlotte saw the attorney ride past fields and dozens of workers. Sun glinted on the brass buttons on the Confederate tunics that a few of the Negroes still had from their time in the war. Charlotte turned to Chessie. “When the soldiers came home from war and stayed on here as free men … what happened to their weapons?”

  Chessie looked out at the field at the people working in hopes of someday having a better life. “Dat box I gave you wit’ da will? It wasn’t da only thing in dat hole.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  With Chessie by her side, Charlotte stood on a rickety porch in the colored camp and looked at the sea of dark faces studying her. Isaac was standing next to Moby. Rose, Juba and Biddy were there—as was Bram, the man she’d seen chasing after Moby the day she arrived.

  “The sole ownership of this plantation was left to me by my father,” Charlotte said. “There are people who are angry about that and angry with me because of things I’ve brought to light. Unfair practices where your rights are concerned. I believe men will come to try and make me leave. You know the Klan—what they’re capable of. They’ll come and try to force me to leave, but this is my home. I want to fight—and I can’t do it alone.”

  Her eyes sought out those in their old uniforms, their slouch hats pushed back on foreheads.

  “This will be a battle,” she said.

  “And what if we don’t win?” someone shouted. “Or what if it come time for da fight and you ain’t dere—jes like dat meetin’!”

  “I can promise I’ll be in the fight, but I can’t promise we’ll win.”

  A surly-looking older man shook his head. “Ain’t getting myself kilt fo’ land dat ain’t mine.” A few in the group voiced their agreement.

  “It’s true, the land isn’t yours. If Beau and Suzanne come back, you’ll be handing over half the money you earn from your crops, and if I’m here, I’ll make sure you don’t lose all your profits on leasing the land. Do you want to keep paying thirty percent interest on goods, when white farmers only pay two? You need safer homes—warm in the winter, dry when it rains. Clothes for your children, medical care. Things you don’t have right now. Men are going to bring the fight to my door. I’m willing to take a stand on your behalf. It’s up to you if you will stand with me.”

  Bram took a step away from the group, pulled the hat from his head, and held it against his chest. He addressed Charlotte. “You right ’bout all those things, ma’am. All my people need is to be treated fair.” He looked at the faces around him. “I’m with you.”

  Charlotte smiled with relief. “Thank you, Bram.”

  Chessie nudged her and pointed to some other men on the fringe of the group who had raised their hands. She nodded at all of them. A few of the men in the old uniforms raised their hands. Two more traded long looks with their wives first, then put their hands in the air. Charlotte counted hands and felt a glimmer of hope that maybe they’d have a fighting chance.

  Less than an hour later, Charlotte was at the stables. She put a hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun, and looked up at Isaac sitting astride Lucky.

  “You’re sure you’re all right doing this?”

  He nodded. “I be fine. You sure you gonna be fine?”

  “I’m sure.” She studied him for a moment longer, then finally handed him a folded note. “Don’t give it to anyone other than Pastor Brady.”

  He nodded. “I’ll git it to him.”

  “Promise me you’ll be careful. Stay in the trees on the way to town. And don’t go near anyone except the pastor—understand?”

  “Yassum.”

  She stroked Lucky’s nose, then looked up at Isaac. “Give him his head and he’ll fly over the ground. Trust him. I know he trusts you.”

  Charlotte had never been to the overseer’s house before that afternoon. With a pistol tucked into the waist of her skirt, she knocked—and waited. Knocked again. She had not seen him in the fields that day so she could talk to him—thus the visit. She knocked harder, one more time. Finally, Jonas opened the door. Reeking of whiskey, he squinted at her.

  “G’day to you, Miss Chapman.” His gaze went to her gun. “Expecting trouble?”

  “Just like to be prepared.”

  He stepped out of the door and swung a hand wide to invite her in. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  Charlotte entered the unkempt house but stopped just inside the door. “I’m assuming you’ve heard the news?”

  “That you booted the family out of your house?” He smiled. “Yes, ma’am. Heard something about that.”

  “They were given the choice to stay, Jonas,” she said. “Just as I’m giving you the choice to stay.”

  He rubbed a hand over his unshaven face. “You know this ain’t over for you.” He looked at her gun again. “Of course you do.”

  “I am aware,” she said. “And I’m preparing to fight for what’s lawfully mine. My question to you is, are you prepared to fight with me?”

  A frown. “I’m ’fraid I’m a little too drunk to make any such decisions right now. Come back tomorrow and I’ll think about giving you my answer then.”

  Charlotte looked around at the mess, then made her way to pick up a basin of water. Without breaking stride, she carried it back toward Jonas and tossed it right into his face. He sputtered, cursed, and lunged at her but nearly lost his balance in the process.

  He glared at her. “You can count me—out. I ain’t helping—ain’t fighting.”

  She digested his answer, then nodded. “Fine. Then you aren’t staying either. I want you gone by the end of the day.” She covered her pistol with her hand. “And if you’re not—don’t forget, I am a woman who is prepared.”

 
Charlotte pried open an old ammunition crate that Bram and the other sharecroppers had unearthed from Chessie’s burying spot. Nestled inside a bed of straw were several rifles, a few pistols, and enough ammunition to see them through a small war. She carefully checked each weapon she pulled from the crate while men around her boarded up the downstairs windows.

  Isaac came through the door, shaking his head at her questioning look. “No message from da pastor, Miss Charlotte. He didn’t give me nothin’ to bring back to you.”

  She felt her heart sink. “What did he say?”

  “He say he pray for you,” Isaac said. “Dat be it.”

  She issued a disappointed sigh. “I’m glad you’re back safe and sound, Isaac.”

  “I tucked Lucky back into his stable,” Isaac said. “Kin I help here?”

  He looked around as he said it, then backed away when she pointed to the guns in the crate.

  “You can help me distribute these,” she said.

  “No, ma’am, I cain’t.”

  Understanding dawned. “Of course, it’s all right, Isaac. You can help Bram and the others with the windows.”

  “Yassum.” The boy quickly made his way to the far side of the parlor where two more men were hammering boards into place over another window.

  They heard the sound of an approaching wagon just before dusk. Charlotte hurried to a still unboarded window and peered outside. “Men are coming,” she said. “And they’re armed!”

  She grabbed a rifle. The others followed suit as she made her way to the front door, opening it a crack as the buckboard drew nearer.

  “I can’t tell who it is,” Charlotte muttered. “Can’t see …”

  The wagon kept rolling toward the house. Charlotte yelled outside. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  The driver stopped short in the gathering dusk, and a familiar figure popped up from the back of the wagon. “Don’t shoot! We’re here to help!”

  Charlotte released a pent-up breath and opened the door, telling those behind her, “It’s the pastor!”

  She ran outside and saw Bobby Wilkes sitting on the buckboard with Shorty Smithson beside him. The pastor was jumping out of the wagon, as were two men Charlotte vaguely remembered seeing at her welcome-home party. Charlotte hurried to the pastor’s side.

  “I didn’t think you were coming,” she said.

  Pastor Brady didn’t look especially pleased to be there. “Nevertheless, here we are.”

  Bobby made his painstaking way off the buckboard and propped himself up with his crutches. Shorty had jumped off the wagon and started to pull out some rifles.

  “We’re here to lend a hand,” Shorty said. “Pastor said you’re in trouble and I wanted to help.”

  Charlotte pressed her palms together over her heart and smiled. “Thank you, Shorty.”

  Shorty gestured to a man in his early thirties with a balding pate, and another man who was as short as Shorty was tall. “That’s Barney and Joe.”

  “I’m grateful you’re all here,” Charlotte said.

  “You got a plan of defense?” Shorty asked. “’Cause if you don’t—you’re gonna need one.”

  “We’re boarding up the lower level,” she said. “Our best defense will be to take the second floor—hope they come in through the door and we’ll get them as they head up the stairs.”

  Shorty nodded his approval. “Good plan. Looks like you still have some boards to put in place?”

  She nodded and he made his way toward the house with Joe and Barney in trail. Bobby started past Charlotte on his crutches, then stopped. “Took a lot of nerve to bring that colored boy to church,” he said. “Thought you were crazy.”

  “You and everyone else,” Charlotte said.

  “But then I watched that kid look at you with such admiration in his eyes. You did a brave thing for him. You did the right thing. I want my boy to be proud of me for doing something besides wasting my days feeling sorry for myself. I want him to look at me that way again.”

  Bobby headed toward the house. Charlotte turned to Pastor Brady, who stood clutching his Bible. “I don’t know why you changed your mind about coming,” Charlotte said. “But I’m thankful you did.”

  “After Isaac left, I tried to pray for your safety,” he said. “But each time I prayed, the answer I got back from God was my praying wasn’t enough. He told me to come and stand with you—so here I am.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  They stood behind a second-story window and peered out at the red-orange glow that wove in and out of the trees lining the road to the house. The streaks of orange grew brighter, flames licking at the black sky.

  “Shouldn’t a’ done this. Lord, shouldn’t a’ done this,” Bram said in a shaky voice.

  Charlotte stared down into the darkness, the flames of torches high in the air as horses pounded their way closer and closer. White robes flowed behind the men and hoods covered their heads and the heads of their horses. She shivered at the macabre sight they made and had to remind herself they were just men under those sheets. Just evil men.

  “Everyone to their places,” Charlotte said.

  Men scattered. Isaac stayed near Charlotte, and the pastor reluctantly took the pistol she pressed into his hand.

  “Aim at anything in white, Pastor,” she said.

  “My best weapon is the Lord’s Word, Charlotte,” he said.

  “But you can shoot?” she asked.

  “In a pinch.”

  “I’d say we’re in that pinch, Pastor,” she said.

  He nodded and hurried away. Charlotte watched the men dismount, torches sent sparks into the air. She counted thirteen men under those hoods. She had ten in the house with her.

  From her vantage point, Charlotte could see one man had stepped in front of a line of men that had formed. “Come out of the house, Charlotte!” he bellowed.

  It sounded like the baritone speaking—though he wasn’t making as much of an effort to disguise his voice as he did during their first encounter.

  “Come out or we’re burning the whole place down!”

  “Sweet Jesus, no,” Isaac said. “He gonna burn us out.”

  Charlotte pulled the hammer back on her rifle and said a silent prayer of thanks that there was just enough moonlight to illuminate her targets.

  Pastor Brady, trembling from being in the possible presence of violence, felt God nudge him to speak. He knew he could be the voice of reason before chaos ensued. He kept cover beside the window, but held his Bible in the air, the book lit from the lantern in the room so all could see he was a man of peace—a man of the cloth. “Stop! Stop your threats in the name of all that is holy and good. Evil acts only bring you to the gates of hell!”

  A voice from below yelled out to him. “You joined forces with evil, Pastor. You’re headed to your own lake of fire!”

  Beside the house, six more hooded men moved through the darkness. There were no torches, no calling cards of fire to announce their arrival. They were silent as they made their way up to the house and began to look for a way inside.

  Pastor Brady yelled out in his best sermonizing tone, “I am here as an ambassador of peace! I beseech you to leave …”

  A bullet ripped through his Bible, tearing it from his hand. He dropped to the floor, trembling with the thought of how close he’d come to dying, then crawled across the room to retrieve the book. He stuck his finger into the hole in the center of the leather cover. “Truly a holy book.”

  Outside, he could hear the leader of the Klan continue to yell at Charlotte.

  On the ground floor, a window in the kitchen slid up its sash and a white-hooded figure pressed through the space and into the room. To the sound of sporadic bursts of gunfire outside, the man strode across the kitchen, white robe flowing out behind him with his haste, and entered the walk-in pantry. He found a small
door in the wall and pressed the mechanism to open it—then folded his large frame into a good-sized dumbwaiter. He disappeared into the wall, between the floors—until he arrived at his second-floor destination.

  Outside, the baritone Klansman moved closer, continuing his tirade. He swiped his torch back and forth in the air as if he were waving a fiery wand. “I’m not fooling around here, you black-loving turncoat!”

  Charlotte cocked her rifle with steady hands.

  “I’m giving you to the count of three to show yourself at this front door,” the man shouted. “Or I’m burning everything!”

  “Isaac, you might want to move away,” Charlotte said.

  “One!” came the voice.

  Charlotte eased the barrel of her rifle into position.

  “Two!”

  She settled her eye near the sight.

  “Three!”

  She fired on the man with the torch. He dropped and the other men scrambled for cover any place they could find it. Torches lay in the red clay of the circle drive like small pools of fire.

  Shots rang out that skittered into a window frame of the house. Isaac yelped. And Charlotte heard sweet music to her ears: the pastor started to shout from the window again.

  “Cowards! Heathen! Listen to the Word of the Lord! ‘And hath made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell on all the face of the earth.’ You are wrong! You are wrong in your thinking and wrong to be here!”

  Charlotte could see the men below her fanning out. She took aim again and fired. Another man down and now two men sprinted around the house. She yelled out instructions. “Two men heading east. Someone stay on them!”

  In the hallway, the door to the dumbwaiter opened a crack and the man in the hood peered out as two black men ran past. Silently, the hooded man pushed out of the dumbwaiter into the hall. He knew where she was now—knew where to go. When he entered the room, they were occupied—and unguarded.