A Place of Peace

by Iris Penn

  He busied himself with his saddlebags, and Melinda noticed he was checking the powder in his pistol and charging his rifle which lay slung behind his saddle. He noticed her looking and grinned. “Never hurts,” he said. “Always be prepared.”

  He mounted his horse, who took a half step sideways. “After you,” he took off his hat in one sweeping motion and gave a half-bow from the back of his horse. “The main road is the easiest for your wagon, I think, but if it comes to it, you might have to abandon your wagon and go across the countryside.”

  “I know how to ride,” said Melinda. “I’ve been on a horse since I was old enough to walk.”

  “We could have used you up in Kentucky,” said Alisander. “We had some of those new farm boys who didn’t know which way to sit in the saddle, let alone ride. We had some situations up there when they fell off their horses as we were trying to go for a full gallop.”

  “Well,” said Melinda, moving up into the bench of her wagon. “You don’t have to worry, sir.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Alisander, putting his hat back on. “I can see that.”

  ***

  THE ROAD WAS DUSTY, and the sun was blazing overhead. July in northern Tennessee was not for the faint of heart. Rivulets of sweat were dripping down Melinda’s face beneath her hat, and when she removed it to wipe her forehead, her hair all fell out in a messy tumble. Alisander trotted alongside her wagon, eyes straight ahead, but she could tell he was sneaking glances at her from the corner of his eye. She thought she saw a small grin, but when she looked at him directly, he remained eyes front.

  She thought she must look terrible. Grains of dust were clinging to her, sticking to her from the sweat, and the trees lining each side of the pitted, rutted road offered no shade in mid-afternoon. The silence between them was only broken by the jingle of the horses and the slow creaking of the wagon’s wheels.

  Melinda swatted at a stray insect that happened to land on her arm. The hazy, summer buzz of insects filled the air.

  “Have you ever been to Nashville?” Alisander asked, his sudden voice startling Melinda out of her dreamy daze.

  “Once,” she said. “When I was little. About ten, I think. My father and I drove down to see his sister, my aunt. I barely remember where her house is.”

  “What happens if she’s not there?”

  Melinda stared straight ahead. “I’m trying not to think about that.” But in her mind, she was thinking exactly that. What if there was no one there? Where would she go? She would only have to wait out the war for her father to return home. If he returned at all.

  Alisander said, “You could go back to farming. You’re more than capable. Find some men to help you, rebuild your farm. You could do it. I think you have a strength in you. I mean, you’ve survived more than most people already.”

  His words touched her. She knew she was capable. Her father wouldn’t have left her if he had felt like she couldn’t take care of herself. “Bad timing, I guess,” she said, thinking of her farm.

  “We can blame the Yanks,” said Alisander. He voice grew quieter. “They took things from me as well.” He didn’t elaborate, even though he had opened a line of conversation that Melinda was wanting to hear more of.

  She decided to push. “Your home? Your family? A sweetheart?” The last part of that was hard for her to get out for some reason. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had a sweetheart or a wife. She had known him exactly four hours, but somehow, the thought of him having someone back home was staring to nag at her. Jealously? No, that couldn’t be it. She shook off the feeling.

  “Do you know anything about Johnson’s Island in Ohio?” she asked. “I heard a lot of the prisoners from Shiloh were taken there.”

  Alisander shook his head. “Don’t know much,” he said. “I think a lot of the officers might have been taken there. It’s out on Lake Erie, I think. We had an exchange a few weeks back. Got us a major back in return for two captains.”

  “My father,” said Melinda. “I think he was taken there after the battle. I haven’t heard from him in five months. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. I was hoping to get some news but… there’s been no word.” She tried not to sniffle. She didn’t want Alisander to see her cry. She refused to blink until her world turned watery and she couldn’t see the road ahead. Luckily, her horse kept plodding ahead.

  “I’m sorry,” said Alisander. “What was your father’s name?”

  “James Jacoby,” said Melinda, and saying her father’s name made her miss him even more. “He was a lieutenant with the 24th Tennessee Infantry.”

  Alisander whistled. “I knew some of the boys from the 24th,” he said. “They had a hard time of it near the church.” He saw her face start to crumple. “Oh, hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I know a lot of them were captured, though, so he’s probably okay.”

  She rubbed her eyes fiercely and frowned. “I’m not a child,” she said. “You don’t have to make things sound better than they are. I know the realities of war.” In her mind, she could still feel Blocker’s hands on her. “If my father is dead, I can take the news.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Alisander. “I believe you can.” He watched her for a moment, but she didn’t break down. “They’re exchanging more prisoners every day. More than likely if he’s an officer, he’ll be paroled sooner rather than later. He’ll likely be home by summer’s end, if that’s the case.”

  “I hope so,” said Melinda. The thought of her father returning home to their non-existent farm made her feel even sadder, almost like she had disappointed him by not keeping the farm together. She decided she had done the best she could, and she could do no more considering what she had been faced with.

  They were about ten miles out from Nashville when Alisander held up one of his gloved hands. Melinda pulled back on the reins and made the wagon creak to a halt.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Alisander slowly drew his pistol. He leaned forward in his saddle as he peered ahead. “Not sure,” he said. “Bushwackers, perhaps. Maybe nothing. Could be Union scouts.”

  Melinda picked up the rifle. A few months ago, she couldn’t imagine firing it at anything except maybe a few stray crows. Now, she was prepared to unload it into another human being if it came to it. Before she could process this change in her, there was a puff of smoke from somewhere down the road, and a sharp pain jabbed her in the back of her left arm as the wood from the wagon seat’s back splintered and threw shards of wood as the bullet smashed into it.

  “Get down!” yelled Alisander. As Melinda scrambled down from the wagon and scurried behind it, she noticed Alisander had already dismounted and was aiming his pistol down the road. His horse trotted off the side of the road as Alisander grabbed Melinda’s arm and pulled her further behind the wagon, crouching down with her behind it. Her own horse, still hitched to the wagon, stood very still in the center of the road, but as another bullet crashed into the front of the wagon, it lurched forward, pulling the wagon away.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Alisander. “Get off the road!” Still holding her arm, he pulled her to the side of the road and dove behind a copse of trees. She stumbled after him and fell on top of him as they dove to the ground. Her elbow jabbed deeply into his ribs as she tried to roll off of him.

  “Not Union,” said Alisander, staring through the trees. “Looks like locals. Robbers, maybe.”

  Stray voices drifted with the smoke towards them. Melinda could hear the accents. They were probably from farther south. Alabama, maybe. Another rifle crack and puff of smoke and a large chunk of the tree they were standing behind vanished.

  “Why aren’t we shooting back?” whispered Melinda. Alisander held up a finger to hush her.

  “We don’t want to give our position away,” he whispered back. “Just stay quiet.”

  Melinda watched Alisander’s horse as it moved farther away. The horse was spooked by the sudden gunshots, and now it looked as if it was going to just trot
away.

  “He’ll come back,” said Alisander. “He always does.”

  Melinda nodded, watching as her own horse, still pulling the wagon, kept walking down the road without them directly towards the bandits. It a few more minutes, her horse would have delivered everything in her wagon directly to the ones who wanted to rob them.

  “They’re not trying to kill us,” said Alisander. “They’re just trying to scare us into abandoning the wagon. I think that’s all they really want.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Melinda.

  Alisander pointed to Melinda’s arm, which was now bleeding from the splinter of wood that had scraped across it. “They probably wouldn’t have missed, otherwise.”

  Another shot and Melinda swore she could hear the buzz of the bullet over her head.

  “That one was close!”

  Alisander put his finger up to his lips to shush her. He leaned around the side of the tree, hoping for a clearer look at the shooters.

  “Maybe three of them,” he whispered. “I can see their hats.”

  Melinda chewed her lip in frustration. She hunkered down with her back against the tree. “I can’t believe we’re getting shot at! By our own people, too!”

  Alisander shook his head. “It looks like they’ve got the wagon,” he reported.

  “What!” Melinda popped around the tree and, sure enough, three men were now escorting Melinda’s wagon and the Johnsons’ old horse over to the side of the road. One of them was looking through the back of the wagon while the other two stood with their rifles ready.

  “I can’t believe we’re going to let them take it!” she said.

  “Calm down,” said Alisander, lowering his pistol. “It’s better that you stay safe than to risk getting yourself killed over a bag of flour and corn meal. Killed… or worse.”

  Melinda sighed. “Can’t we just shoot them?”

  Alisander smiled. “No, Miss Jacoby. We will live to fight another time.”

  There really wasn’t much in the wagon, Melinda thought. Just some food and a trunk of old farm clothes she had scavenged from the Johnsons’ barn. But it would have been enough to get to Nashville. She looked at Alisander, who was still staring between the trees. At least he still had his horse.

  “Will they come looking for us?” asked Melinda.

  “No, I don’t think so. They’ve got what they want. They probably think we’ve done run off.” He crept out from behind the trees and started to move down the side of the road, careful to stay near the overhanging shadows of the trees.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Shhh,” Alisander hissed. “I’ll be right back. I’ll make sure they’re gone. Just stay put.”

  Fuming, Melinda stayed crouched behind the trees watching Alisander move down the road. It wouldn’t do her any good if he got himself shot. She felt mad at him for leaving her here, and she knew she would be even madder if he got killed.

  The rifle barrel felt cool in her hands, and she pressed it against her hot forehead. A small chill radiated through her and made her feel a little better, even though it wasn’t much relief from the hot, July sun. She closed her eyes and listened to the hum of the insects and the still, dry wind rustling the leaves overhead. She missed her farm, and she missed her father. She opened her eyes and saw only a dusty road trailing back towards Gallatin, but she knew somehow that she could never go back. Her life had taken a sharp turn forever.

  A hand on her shoulder caused her to flinch so hard she almost pulled the trigger on her rifle, which would have been bad since the barrel of it was still against her head.

  “They’re gone,” Alisander’s voice was comforting in her ear. He looked around and then looked up at the sky. “Maybe we should camp here,” he continued. “We’ll be slower going now with only one horse, and I don’t want to be on the road near dark. I’ve got enough in my saddlebags to get us through.” He smiled and she felt better. “Don’t you worry none. I’ll take care of you.”

  Somehow, she believed him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “THE AXLE IS BROKEN,” announced Holcomb as he surveyed the overturned wagon. “We won’t get anywhere with this.”

  Lilly and Colby stood a ways off watching as Holcomb circled the wagon, and then circled again. Each time he circled, he said the same thing. “The axle is broken.”

  Their possessions were scattered along the grass near the road: the result of the reckless fleeing from the Union troops. They had covered about ten miles at almost full gallop when there was a sharp crack, and the horse and wagon tumbled over.

  Lilly looked at Colby. She thought he was looking paler than normal in the warm afternoon sun. She felt his forehead, testing for fever.

  “John,” she called to him sweetly as he circled the wagon one more time. “Colby needs to sit down. We’re going to go over here in the shade for a moment.”

  “Fine,” muttered Holcomb. He glared at them as she looped her arm through Colby’s and helped him limp to a shady patch of trees, where they sat in a pool of shadow.

  Holcomb took off his hat and wiped his brow. By his estimate, they were still too far outside of Columbia to try walking the distance, especially with Colby’s leg, and the Union cavalry could still come looking for them. They weren’t so far away that they couldn’t be found in a matter of hours if the Union really wanted to pursue them. In the meantime, their belongings were scattered around the road free for taking by whomever decided to wander by, and Lilly was only concerned about Colby. Colby, however, didn’t seem concerned about much at all… except for that damn locket.

  Perhaps there was a sympathetic farm nearby, thought Holcomb. One that could help them in exchange for some trading in… let’s see… medicine? Food? Anything they had would be worth a lot to a family in need. In fact, they might even get another wagon or a horse out of the deal.

  He looked over at the two in the shade. Colby was staring off into the distance, while Lilly was sitting beside him leaning her head on his shoulder. He spat in the road and replaced his hat.

  “Hey, you two,” he shouted. “What do you want to do now?”

  Lilly frowned at him. She slowly unwound herself from Colby’s side, although Holcomb thought it was very reluctantly, and walked out of the shadows into the sunlight, leaving Colby propped against the tree.

  She coolly surveyed the wreck and then narrowed her eyes at Holcomb. “Can’t you fix it?” she asked.

  Holcomb almost laughed. “I’m a newspaper man, not a wagon fixer.”

  Lilly looked down the nearby road. “We’re near Franklin,” she said. “I used to travel up here with my father sometimes.” She glanced back at Colby, then stepped up to Holcomb. “This is what you do,” she said. “Take what you can and take the horse. Ride up this road until you get to Franklin. Colby and I will stay here until you can come back for us. I’ll watch out for him.”

  “What if I don’t come back?”

  “You will,” said Lilly. “You’re too honorable not to.”

  “We’ll push the wagon off the road and you and Colby can at least use it if it rains, perhaps.” Holcomb looked at the sky. “But it probably won’t.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Lilly sounded eager for Holcomb to get on his way. “You just go on now.”

  Holcomb grumbled but slowly began moving supplies around and packing up things he thought he would need. The rest of the items he assumed that Lilly could gather and store near her new favorite spot over there in the shade next to her new interest.

  It took almost two hours for Holcomb and Lilly to gather up what had been spilled and take inventory of everything. They ended up placing most of it in a neat stack near the trees, and Holcomb took his prepared bag over to the horse.

  “It shouldn’t take you more than an hour or so to get up to Franklin,” said Lilly as Holcomb mounted the horse. The horse, glad to be free of the wagon, now seemed irritated of having to carry a rider.

  “More than likely it’ll be da
rk before I can get back,” said Holcomb. “Might have to wait it out until morning.”

  Lilly nodded. “We’ll be fine.”

  Holcomb shook his head and he and the horse trotted off down the road and left Lilly standing in the center of the road. He looked back once and saw she was holding her rifle.

  Colby might be safe from the Union, thought Holcomb as he rode. But that’s all he’s probably safe from.

  ***

  LILLY HAD LIT A fire as the shimmering heat of day dissolved into the cooler darkness of twilight. She cooked some slices of salted ham and scrambled some potatoes she pulled out of one of the small boxes from the ruins of the wagons.

  “I’m worried about you,” said Lilly, looking across the fire at Colby.

  “How so?”

  “Your leg, your farm. The fact that you’re going to be looking for a girl you’ve never seen except in a picture. You’re going to need someone to help you, Colby.”

  “How can you help me?” he asked.

  Lilly sighed and stretched her legs out near the fire. “I think you should abandon trying to deliver this letter. You’re never going to find her. And if you do, she’s not going to like what you have to tell her.”

  “I will find her,” said Colby, and his voice grew soft. “I will. I made a promise to her father.”

  Lilly moved around the fire to crouch near Colby. “I need to check your dressing,” she said as she moved even closer to him. He could smell the faint perfume on her that she had applied days ago. It reminded him of an autumn day, crisp and light. She calmly touched his leg, checking for tenderness around the amputation.

  “Does this hurt any?” she asked as she prodded.

  It did hurt a little, and Colby winced, but the gathering darkness concealed his grimace. “No…”

  She sliced away his bandage with a small pair of scissors. The sudden air felt cool and good on his stump.

  “It’s healing pretty well,” she said as she looked at it. She looked up in his eyes. “How does it feel?”

  His eyes locked onto hers. “It’s a little sore,” he finally said. Her touch along his leg was sending shivers along the rest of him.