by Cindy Kelley
“Here’s more bullets, Miss Charlotte,” Isaac said. He stood next to her, hand out with the ammunition. She was so intent on reloading her gun, she didn’t see or hear the man behind her until his hand snaked around her mouth and he dragged her away from the window. She could see the white of his sleeve, the robe around his legs. She struggled, tried to scream, saw Isaac’s terrified eyes. Then a voice in her ear said, “Charlotte. It’s me.”
Her own eyes widened with recognition. The hand eased the pressure over her mouth, and she spun around at the same time the man removed his hood.
“Elijah!”
He put a finger to his lips. “Shh.”
It was the most natural thing in the world to throw herself into his arms. She felt his arms go around her, hold her close for a precious few seconds. Then he pulled back and looked into her eyes. “I leave you alone for two weeks …?”
She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Isaac was there then, awkward at first, but hugging Elijah. “Cap’n, I can’t believe it. Jes can’t believe it.”
“There’s talk in town,” he said. “I became one of the enemy to find out their plan.”
She couldn’t get over it. “You’re here.”
“I’m here,” he said with a reassuring nod. “Now where are the men who came with the pastor?”
“Shorty, Barney, and Joe are guarding the staircase that goes to the foyer,” she said. “Bram and Bobby Wilkes are at the other end of the hall at the top of the kitchen steps. Our defense is the high ground—take out whoever tries to come up.”
“Shorty and Barney are Klansmen. They planned to get in a place where they’d be able to do the most good …”
“Shorty? No!”
“They’re going to let the Klan breech the stairs once they’re through the front door,” Elijah said. He pulled the hood down over his face. “They’ll think I made it up the back steps. Gives me the advantage.”
He was back out the door so fast that Charlotte and Isaac almost didn’t believe he’d been there at all.
Elijah made his way to the top of the grand staircase. He could see Shorty and Barney positioned side by side, looking down on the floor below. Between them lay another man, motionless, presumably Joe—and almost certainly dead. Elijah reached down into his boot and withdrew his knife. He could hear the last of the boards being flung from the front door below as he got to within a few feet of the men.
“Sounds like they’re almost through,” he said.
The men turned, saw him in his robe and hood and nodded. Elijah squatted down between them and one of the men grinned. “Here comes the cavalry.”
“Don’t sully the name,” Elijah said. In quick order, he dispatched both men with his knife. They slumped at the top of the stairs as the front door burst open. Hooded men poured inside and made straight for the stairs. Elijah began shooting, and men started falling.
Behind him, he heard the same kind of firefight ensuing at the opposite end of the hall. Klansmen, confused at first by the hooded man shooting at them, dropped down, tried to take cover, but the repeating action on Elijah’s rifle let him pepper the bullets until the men were either dead or running.
From the window, Charlotte counted five hooded men run from the house toward their horses.
From the other end of the hall, Bobby could see the Klansman firing down the stairs. He made his way until he was midway down the hall, stopped, cocked his gun, and pointed right at Elijah. As his finger pulled the trigger, a feminine hand shoved the gun up and away from his target. The shot rang out and smashed into the wall.
“He’s with us! He’s one of us!” Charlotte yelled. “Shorty was in the Klan. So was Barney.”
The sound of sporadic gunfire echoed while they stood there. And then Isaac was hollering. “They’re leaving! They’re running away!”
They could hear the shouts of victory coming from the other men in the house. “They’re running scairt, now!” Bram shouted.
Elijah pulled off his hood, came striding down the hall. Bobby studied him.
“Wait. You’re that Yankee …”
Elijah shucked off the white robe and nodded. “Guilty as charged.”
Bobby made his way closer to Elijah, stopping just a couple of feet away. “It was a Yankee who took my leg,” he said.
“It was a rebel who took my brother,” Elijah replied.
Bobby stuck out his hand. “Glad we’re fighting on the same side now.”
Charlotte watched the men shake hands. Isaac rushed up to Elijah and fired off questions without taking a breath.
“How’d you get here, Cap’n? Did you take the train again? Are you feeling all right? Did you find out who hired the bounty hunters that tried to get Miss Charlotte?”
“All great questions, Isaac,” Elijah said, “and I’ll answer them right after I have a few words with Miss Charlotte.”
He took Charlotte’s hand and pulled her into a room across the hall and closed the door. They could hear the muffled sounds of the men celebrating their victory. But standing alone with Elijah in the moonlit room, Charlotte could think of nothing but his nearness and the serious look in his eyes.
“I had a terrible fever from infection after I got to St. Louis,” he said. “Would have died in the hotel basement if not for the kindness of an industrious janitor …”
“Elijah …”
He furrowed his brow. “There were dreams. Strange dreams of white horses stampeding toward you. Fire that streaked through the sky. I knew I needed to get to you—help you. But I couldn’t and it nearly drove me crazy.”
“I knew you shouldn’t have gone. You could have died,” she said.
“The fever broke and the terrifying dreams were gone and in their place—another dream. A hopeful dream.”
“Tell me about it,” she said.
Elijah shook his head. “I don’t think I can …”
“That’s not fair. Now you have to tell me,” she said.
“I think I should just show you.” He stared into her eyes, leaned down, and kissed her.
“Cap’n? Miss Charlotte?” Isaac’s voice came through the door. “Dey’s lookin’ fo’ you out here!”
Charlotte felt Elijah’s smile against her lips. She tipped her head back to look at him. “I’ll go talk to them, thank them. Once I do that, I’m all yours.”
He smiled. “That’s the rest of the dream.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Charlotte gently swayed at a writing desk situated under a small round window. She dipped her pen into the inkwell, and began to compose another entry into a journal twelve months in the making.
September 5, 1867—Is today the day? Lord, I hope so. This unresolved feeling follows me—lingering in the back of my mind. It’s not just me it affects but all of my relationships both present …
She stopped for a moment and gently placed her other hand on her rounded belly.
… and future. Elijah keeps reminding me we can’t undo the past, but we must always do our best to right our wrongs.
The floor beneath her rolled, and she swayed in her chair. She took hold of the desk with her left hand to wait it out. Once the motion stopped, she turned her attention back to the journal and continued …
We are just over forty-eight hours into our journey following the latest information we’ve obtained. Please, Lord, don’t let it be another dead end.
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and she turned in her chair.
“Come in.”
The door opened and Elijah poked his head inside. “We’ll make landfall soon,” he said.
“Good.” She paused, concerned. “How is she doing?”
“Nervous,” he said.
“I would imagine so.”
“How are you doing?” he asked.
She offered a tremulo
us smile. “Nervous too.”
His smile was reassuring. “I would imagine so. You’ll want to join us soon.”
“I will.”
Elijah disappeared back out the door, closing it behind him. She turned back to her journal, saw her left hand splayed across the page, then after a moment’s hesitation, slipped the gold wedding band off her ring finger. Lifting the mercy medallion from around her neck, she unhooked the clasp of the chain, threaded it through her ring and put the necklace back on. Charlotte tucked the chain under the bodice of her dress, then turned her focus back to the journal. A half smile played on her lips, and her eyes filled with amusement as her pen once again flew over the page …
I asked Elijah the other day if he had any regrets about resigning his commission to be my husband, and he didn’t hesitate for a second. “Life with you has been much more dangerous and unsettling than any assignment I had in the army—including the Indians. Regret? Never.”
Charlotte put down her pen, blew softly to dry the ink on the page, then closed the journal. The floor continued to sway beneath her. When she stood, she took a moment to get her bearings before she made her way from the room.
The schooner deck was filled with activity. The vessel had been rigged to carry both freight and passengers, and the crew had a plethora of duties to carry out in preparation for docking. Charlotte looked up at the voluminous sails that had caught the wind early and carried them from the Georgia coast toward the small island in front of them. The swell of the turquoise ocean gently rocked the ship when the first mate began to lower the mainsail. There were a few other passengers who had journeyed with them from the East Coast, and they stood at the rail of the boat looking toward land. Charlotte spotted Elijah and Chessie on the bow. Ever conscious of the motion, she made her way toward them and put her arm behind Chessie’s back.
“Almost there.”
Chessie nodded, her eyes on the land. “I got worries ’bout home.”
Charlotte and Elijah traded a glance. “What kind of worries?” Charlotte asked.
“Ain’t none of us there if a problem happens,” Chessie said. “Dat ain’t good.”
“Bram is perfectly capable of handling problems that arise while we’re away,” Elijah said. “He’s proven himself to be an excellent overseer.”
“Dat’s true. He has taken to da job,” Chessie agreed.
“And you know what a taskmaster Isaac is,” Charlotte added. “He’ll make sure everyone is doing their job.”
Chessie chuckled. “He a good boy. Loves you and Elijah like a son loves his ma and pa.”
“You know that’s how we think of him,” Charlotte said. “No more worrying now, you hear?”
Chessie nodded and looked from Charlotte to Elijah. “I knows how hard you both been tryin’. Dat counts for a lot.”
As they approached the island, they could see the tall palm trees dotting the landscape like sentries and the hot white glare of the sand against the azure blue of the water.
They came to anchor in the port of Nassau and disembarked the ship. There were dozens of locals looking to make money on the few tourists coming from the boats. Men hollering out prices for buggy rides, tours of the island, fresh shellfish. Elijah maneuvered through the hawkers, keeping Charlotte and Chessie close behind him. He went up to the one man who wasn’t aggressively trying to get his business.
“Can you take us to the Royal Victoria?” he asked.
The black driver nodded, quoted a competitive price, and then gestured to his open-topped buggy.
The road was populated by a few pony carts and women in brightly colored dresses balancing large flat baskets on their heads. They passed a large swath of land edged by piles of debris.
Charlotte frowned at the devastation. “What happened here?”
“Had a bad hurricane blow through here last year, mum,” the driver said. “Very scary for everybody.”
“Any deaths?” Chessie asked.
“In the islands we lost over three hundred people.”
Charlotte saw Chessie draw her arms over her chest and furrow her brow.
“It’s gonna take a long time to put things back together again,” the driver continued. “The place seen better days for sure. Lots of desperate people. Wind is mighty.”
“How did the hotel fare?” Elijah asked.
“It was spared, but it’s got its share of scars,” the driver said. “They lost part of the roof and nearly all the gardens. Used to be folks would come just to see those gardens.”
The driver pulled the buggy in front of the Royal Victoria Hotel, a white four-story building that seemed to be deserted.
Elijah helped both ladies from the buggy and tipped the driver. Chessie started toward the hotel entrance. “Let’s go see.”
The former grandness and glory of the hotel was visible behind the overall feeling of struggle. A young couple walked arm in arm through the lobby, and an older man sat with a cigar and a newspaper in a cluster of chairs near a window. They were the first white faces they’d seen since leaving the boat. The hotel was quiet. They went to the front desk and rang a bell.
A handsome black man appeared and smiled broadly. “Welcome to the Royal Victoria.”
“Thank you,” Elijah said.
“How many rooms, sir?”
“We’re looking for some information first,” Elijah said.
“What kind of information?”
“We believe there’s a young man in your employ,” Elijah said. “His name is Kitch.”
The man barely gave it any thought at all before shaking his head. “No, I’m sorry. Never been a man named Kitch in my employ.”
“Are you sure?”
“Unusual name,” the man said. “I’m sure.”
Charlotte looked at Chessie, but she had already turned her back on the counter and walked a few feet away.
“Have you worked here long?” Elijah asked.
“Since we opened in ’61,” the man said. “I have several young men on staff, but no one with that name. I have an Earl, a Washington, a Thomas. There’s a Maxwell, Jordan, and Lincoln …”
Elijah held up a palm. “It’s all right.”
Elijah glanced at Charlotte, and she tried to put an accepting smile on her face, though she failed miserably. He turned back to the man behind the counter. “We’ll be needing two rooms for the night.”
“Good, very good, sir.”
Charlotte looked over her shoulder to see about Chessie—but she was gone. She stepped away from the counter, gaze covering the lobby, but there was no sign of her.
Making her way to the double doors that led outside, Charlotte pushed through and stepped into the garden. It was filled with new plants and young trees, and she could see the effort that had been put in place to create a beautiful vision someday. She walked a few feet down the path, made a turn and stopped short when she saw Chessie and a young man in an embrace. Though Chessie’s grandson, Kitch Washington, towered over her, he leaned low and she patted him over and over on the back. Her expression was one of bliss.
Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears, and before she fully realized it was happening, she started to sob. Deep, racking sobs she couldn’t stop, couldn’t quiet. Even though the memory of how she’d wronged Kitch and Chessie was still missing, the relief of putting things right was greater than she could have ever imagined. She saw Chessie coming toward her, and she shook her head.
“I had no idea … no … idea.”
Chessie reached out for Charlotte and gathered her close in a hug that calmed her, and she gave herself over to the warm embrace.
I always thought of my circumstance as entirely unique, but what I’ve come to realize is that I’m just like everyone else in that we all carry burdens. Many of them are tucked away, deep inside under lock and key. We go through life knowing there is some
thing not quite right about ourselves but don’t understand why. Today, I got to unlock the box—and release a burden. The music I discovered was a piece of my life; the song that played was about a girl who realized her mother is a seventy-year-old woman with ebony skin and deep brown eyes.
She raised me, loved me, and showed me Mercy.
… a little more …
When a delightful concert comes to an end,
the orchestra might offer an encore.
When a fine meal comes to an end,
it’s always nice to savor a bit of dessert.
When a great story comes to an end,
we think you may want to linger.
And so, we offer ...
AfterWords—just a little something more after you
have finished a David C Cook novel.
We invite you to stay awhile in the story.
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• Mercy’s Real-Life Counterpart
Mercy’s Real-Life Counterparts
Thousands of women served as nurses during the American Civil War—risking life and limb to be angels of mercy to wounded and dying soldiers. Through personal diaries and eyewitness accounts, their stories have been recounted on the pages of history books and their bravery and sacrifices have been well documented.
Clara Barton, the most famous of those nurses and founder of the American Red Cross, was quoted as saying, “I’m well and strong and young—young enough to go to the front. If I can’t be a soldier, I’ll help soldiers.” Barton, known as the Angel of the Battlefield, felt it was her Christian duty to help soldiers, a notion instilled in her by her father. She knew well the perils that faced her on the battlefield, recalling a time where she nearly died when administering to a soldier: “A ball had passed between my body and the right arm which supported him, cutting through the sleeve and passing through his chest from shoulder to shoulder. There was no more to be done for him and I left him to rest. I have never mended that hole in my sleeve. I wonder if a soldier ever does mend a bullet hole in his coat?”