Walking Into The Unknown

by Ginny Dye

  Anthony leaned forward. “What?”

  Abby gazed at him for a long moment and then uttered just one word. “Yet.”

  “Yet?” Anthony was totally confused.

  “Nothing can come from your feelings yet.”

  Anthony sucked in a quick breath. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” Wild hope bloomed in him.

  “No,” Abby said quickly. “Carrie and I have never talked about you, and I know it is far too soon for her to even have thoughts like that. Just as when I met you I could never have imagined loving someone again after Charles. I wasn’t ready…yet. I encourage you to be willing to give it time.”

  Anthony sat back and considered what she had said. “I never knew yet could be such a beautiful word,” he finally said.

  *****

  Harold Justin swung down from the train car, taking a deep breath of Richmond’s spring air. Even with the train and coal smoke, he could feel a difference from Buffalo, New York. Of course, it could have something to do with the almost sixty degree temperature difference. A late spring storm had dumped another foot of snow on Buffalo a few days before he left. He had been eager to leave the cold behind.

  It took him only a few minutes to find a hack to carry him up Richmond Hill. He stowed his bags, folded his heavy coat, leaned back in the seat, and watched as the city rolled by. It was certainly busier than Buffalo, but everything about it felt southern. They had traveled less than a half mile before he knew he was in love with the dogwoods and azaleas that brought the city to life. He could see evidence of the war years everywhere he looked, but he also felt a burgeoning sense of hope and expectancy in the air that revealed the beleaguered city was coming back to life.

  He felt much the same way himself. When he had lost Beth, Martha Ann and Nancy, he had been certain his life was over. He had railed against the cruel fate that had left him behind to live his life in tortured loneliness. His pain had caused him to reach out to Matthew, with no idea it would lead to a new life for him. It had taken him since January to finish up his responsibilities for the Buffalo Evening Courier and walk away from the life he had built there since the war. Each mile he put behind him on the train had seemed to unleash his soul a little more.

  “We’re here, Mr. Justin.”

  Harold jerked his thoughts back to the present and stared up at the elegant, three-story brick home they had stopped in front of. He thanked the driver, and moments later was standing alone in the street with his baggage. He took a deep breath and approached the door. The Cromwells were expecting him, but with this action he was truly starting into a new life.

  It took only minutes for a tall, slender black man to open the door in response to his knock. He was not surprised when the man stared at him for a moment before he found his voice. “Hello, Mr. Justin.”

  Harold smiled. “It will probably be less confusing if you just call me Harold. That way you won’t confuse me with Matthew.”

  Micah returned the smile. “It might not be quite that easy, sir. The two of you be the spitting image of each other.”

  Harold knew the man was right. He hadn’t been sure he should cut his hair, but he had grown tired of the long locks he had grown during the war for warmth. There was little to tell him apart from Matthew now. They’d had tremendous fun as children when people couldn’t tell one from the other. It was a little disconcerting now, but with Matthew on the Santa Fe Trail it might be a little easier.

  “I’ll let Miss Abby know you are here, sir.”

  “Fine, but only if you call me Harold. Matthew assured me things were more casual in the Cromwell household.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Harold,” Micah replied, his eyes twinkling. “Your room is on the top floor in the right wing. The third door on the left. I’d love to take your bags up, but this old body don’t handle that too well anymore.”

  “Not a problem. This northern boy is not used to being waited on. I prefer to do it myself,” Harold said easily.

  “Mr. Anthony is in the room next to yours.”

  “Jeremy and Marietta?”

  “Oh no, sir,” Micah said hastily. “Not that Mr. Anthony. Anthony be Mr. Jeremy’s last name. Mr. Anthony is Anthony Wallington. He arrived just a while ago. I think he is unpacking now. Mr. Jeremy and Miss Marietta won’t be home until almost dinnertime.” He smiled. “Don’t you worry none, Mr. Harold. It might be a little confusing at first, but not near as confusing as people seeing you and knowing for certain it is Matthew.”

  Harold chuckled. “You have a valid point, Micah.” He picked up his luggage and moved toward the stairs. “Since Abby is busy, I’ll go ahead and take my bags up. I won’t be long.”

  “Take all the time you need,” Micah assured him. “May will have dinner ready at six o’clock.”

  Harold had almost reached his room when the door to the room before his swung open. A tall, lanky man stepped out and stopped short.

  “What are you doing here?” He looked totally confused. “I thought you were on the Santa Fe Trail?”

  Harold grinned. “You must be Anthony.”

  Anthony’s face cleared as understanding dawned. “You are Matthew’s twin brother. I heard about you.” He reached out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Harold.”

  “The same,” Harold replied, appreciating the firm grip. “I met everyone else at Christmas.”

  “I was with family in Philadelphia, though I admit I would have preferred to be on the plantation.”

  “It is a special place,” Harold agreed. “I hope to get out there while I’m here.”

  “Are you in Richmond on business?”

  “The two of you can get to know each other down here,” Abby called, her voice floating up the stairwell. “I have May fixing some lemonade and cookies. Might I entice you to join me?”

  Harold dropped his bags in the corridor right where he stood, and turned. “If May’s cooking is anything like Annie’s, I have no intention of missing it.”

  “My cookin’ be way better than that Annie’s!”

  Harold grinned. “Does every woman in this house have the hearing of a bat?”

  “Did you just call me an old bat?” Abby’s indignant response was crystal clear.

  “I do believe that was your answer,” Anthony whispered. “If I were you, I would stop while you are behind.”

  Harold groaned. “I’ll probably get nothing to eat at all.” He hurried down the stairs and rushed to embrace Abby. “You know I would never call you an old bat.”

  “At least not loud enough for me to hear it while you are hoping to eat in my home,” Abby agreed with a warm smile. “I promise you that May does indeed have the ears of a bat. You don’t want to say a thing you don’t want her to hear.”

  “I’ll hear it anyway,” May said with a snort as she pushed open the kitchen door and emerged with a tray full of thick oatmeal cookies and glasses frothy with lemonade. “And I’ll know if you even whisper that you like Annie’s cookies better than mine.” She fixed a steely glaze on Harold. “I don’t care if you look just like Mr. Matthew—who I adore. You got to learn how things work around this house.”

  “I hear and I obey,” Harold assured her, trying not to grin.

  May stared at him and then nodded. “You’ll do.” She laid down the tray and then disappeared into the kitchen.

  Abby laughed. “And now you know the rules of the house. Thomas and I just pretend we own it. We know who really runs things.”

  “There’s hope for you two!” May sang out from behind the closed door.

  Harold laughed, more sure than ever that he was going to have a wonderful time. He turned to Anthony. “You asked if I’m here on business. I have just finished a reporting job with the Buffalo Evening Courier. I am now officially my brother’s writing partner on his book Glimmers of Change, and all the books that will follow.”

  “I am so thrilled,” Abby said. “I know Matthew was hoping you would be here sooner. What held you in Buffalo?”

&nbs
p; “I promised Matthew I would do all the follow up articles necessary on the New York Express wreck in Angola.” His expression became grave. “We both hoped the tragedy would be the tipping point that would mandate change in the railroad industry.”

  “And has it?” Abby demanded. “I still shudder when I think about what Janie endured.”

  “It has,” Harold assured her. “It will take time to implement it all, but many railroad reforms are being enacted. They are working to replace the stoves with safer forms of heating. They have sped up the creation of iron cars to replace the wooden ones, and are demanding more effective braking systems, as well as insisting on the standardization of track gauges to make sure fewer trains derail. There will be more newspaper coverage, but I felt I had done all I needed to for now.”

  He didn’t mention that he was quite sure he could not have written one more article about the terrible tragedy that still haunted his dreams. What Janie and Matthew were going through, he could only imagine. He knew Matthew’s main reason for going on the wagon train was to distance Janie from any memories so she could heal. He hoped that was being accomplished.

  “It can’t possibly make up for the lost lives and destroyed families, but I’m glad change is coming,” Anthony responded. “The railroads are experiencing tremendous profits. It’s beyond time for them to put those profits into safer travel.” He shook his head and turned back to Harold. “Do you have a particular assignment, or are you scouting for stories? I’m fascinated by the book. There is such a need for good stories in the midst of the pain and chaos of this country right now.

  “Both,” Harold responded. “I’m here to meet with a man Matthew met when he was in Independence. He met him there just before the man moved here to Richmond in early February. When Matthew heard his story, he knew we had to include it in the book.”

  Abby eyed him expectantly. “Aren’t you going to tell us any more?”

  “No,” Harold said with a grin. “I’m going to meet with him tomorrow.”

  “You want to eat tonight, Mr. Harold?” May called. “I want to be hearing that story, too!”

  “Do you want to hear it tomorrow?” Harold retorted. “You’ll want to make sure dinner tonight is fabulous!”

  May chuckled and went back to slamming pots around.

  Abby eyed him thoughtfully. “I believe you’re the only person to ever put May in her place,” she whispered dramatically. “I do hope you will be here for a while.”

  Harold sniffed the odors coming from the kitchen. “Me, too,” he sighed.

  “So we’ll be the first to hear the story?” Anthony prompted.

  “You’ll be the first,” Harold promised.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “You’re sure this is the right place?” Harold asked. He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but the ramshackle cabin on the edge of town was certainly not it.

  “This be the place,” Spencer assured him, eyeing the cabin doubtfully. “It don’t look no worse than most of the black quarter looks. In fact, it looks a heap better than some of it. I don’t reckon you’re seeing many places like this up in New York, though.”

  Harold couldn’t dispute that fact. He had seen plenty of poverty in the North, but this was a notch above anything he had experienced. He didn’t know how he could possibly create a story of hope worth reading about, but Matthew had asked him to interview the man, so he would.

  “You want me to wait for you?”

  Harold hesitated. His first inclination was to tell Spencer to do just that, but that would be as good as saying he didn’t believe there was a story here worth telling. If he was to achieve Matthew’s goal of looking for stories of hope in the country, he had to be willing to look. “No. How about if you come back in about four hours. That should give me enough time.”

  Spencer looked dubious. “You can’t need that much time to do anything here,” he muttered.

  “I’ll be fine,” Harold insisted. He suddenly, and without reason, was sure he should be here. “Come back in four hours.”

  Spencer waited for him to step out of the carriage, and then drove away, the wagon wheels kicking up dust behind him.

  Harold watched him for a moment, hoping he had not made a mistake, but realizing that if there truly wasn’t a story here, he could just walk back to town. It was a beautiful day, and the exercise wouldn’t kill him. When he turned toward the house, he saw two people watching him. He was surprised when he realized the man was white, and the woman was black.

  “Hello,” he called, walking forward to discover whether this was a story worth telling.

  “Howdy,” the man called back. “Who are you?” He frowned as Harold drew closer. “You look like a fellow I met a couple months back in Independence, but I thought he was headed out on the Santa Fe Trail.”

  Harold sighed but decided to make light of it since he would have to get used to the situation. “You met Matthew Justin,” he explained when he drew closer. “My name is Harold Justin. We are twins.”

  “I’ll say,” the man said with a whistle. “Do you ever feel like you’re looking in a mirror?”

  Harold grinned. “All the time,” he agreed, and then continued. “Matthew told me where I could find you. Your name is Willard Miller?”

  “The last I checked,” the young man agreed with an easy smile that lit green eyes beneath a thatch of brown hair that reached his broad shoulders.

  Harold liked him instantly.

  Willard reached for the hand of the willowy black woman by his side. “This is my wife, Grace.” His eyes dared Harold to have a negative reaction.

  Harold smiled warmly. Matthew had not told him about a black wife, but he had no reason to care. He had friends in New York that were biracial couples. “Hello, Mrs. Miller. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The look of relief in her eyes told him how difficult it must be to live in the South in a mixed-race marriage.

  “Hello, Mr. Justin,” Grace replied, her voice at once soft and firm.

  Harold liked the way she stood erect, the proud tilt of her head saying she would not be an easy woman to intimidate. “I understand you have quite a story, Mr. Miller.”

  “Call us Willard and Grace,” Willard responded. “We weren’t expecting anyone, but Grace just pulled some biscuits out of the oven. We would be honored to share them with you.”

  “And I would be honored to enjoy them,” Harold replied, once more warmed by the appreciative glow in Grace’s eyes. Within a few minutes, they were seated on the porch enjoying the spring breeze, with a plate of hot biscuits and strawberry preserves in front of them. “There is not a woman in the North who knows how to make biscuits like these,” Harold murmured as he slathered butter and preserves on the fluffy mounds. “Thank you, Grace.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Justin.”

  “Harold. If I am to call you Willard and Grace, you must do me the same honor of calling me by my first name.”

  Grace nodded shyly.

  “I’m not sure why Matthew sent you over,” Willard said. “After we talked a little while in Independence, he said he would like to hear the whole story, and then asked me if I would talk to you. I don’t really know what you are looking for.”

  “Me either,” Harold said lightly. “Why don’t we just talk?” He wanted Willard to stay relaxed and comfortable. “From what Matthew told me, your story started when you got captured at the Battle of Lookout Mountain in Alabama. Is that where you are from?”

  “Born and raised,” Willard agreed, his Alabama twang coming through loud and clear. “I joined up with the Confederate Army in October of sixty-three, after I finally convinced my mama I had to fight. I was the second of twelve children, so I stayed out of the war for a while because my mama needed my help. My father died a few years back before the war started.”

  “I imagine she would need help,” Harold agreed, and then thought about what he had heard. “You couldn’t have been in the war very long if you were captured at Lookout Mountai
n.”

  “One month,” Willard said ruefully. “I spent the rest of the war years at Rock Island Prison in Illinois.”

  Harold winced. “I’m sorry.”

  “You know something about Rock Island?”

  “Not much,” Harold admitted, “but my brother was held here in Libby Prison during the war. He barely survived before he led an escape attempt that freed many of the prisoners. He says he still has nightmares about it.”

  “Yep, I suspect I will, too,” Willard replied, his eyes saying far more than his words. “I’ve heard a whole lot about how horrible the prisons were in the South, but nobody talks about the prisons in the North. I assure you they were just as bad.”

  Harold listened carefully. He knew Union soldiers had experienced the end of the war in a very different way than the Confederates had. While there were many hardships for returning soldiers in the North, most of them had gone home to the land of plenty and people who were grateful for their service, as well as pensions to carry them through until they found jobs. People listened when they talked about their horrible experiences in Southern prisons, and articles were written. He had written some of them himself. He tried to remember a single thing published about Northern prisons, but came up blank. Obviously, it was something the North didn’t want to acknowledge. If there were ever going to be healing in the country, people should know what Confederate soldiers had gone through. “Will you tell me more?”

  “Will you write it?” Willard demanded. “No one else wants to know about it.”

  “I do,” Harold stated. “And, yes, I will write it.” Even without hearing all the story, he understood why Matthew had sent him here. People might not like the truth, but that fact alone made the truth even more mandatory if they ever wanted to rebuild America. “I promise.”

  Willard stared at him and then nodded his head abruptly. “I got to Rock Island in December. There was two feet of snow on the ground, and the temperature was below zero. I don’t reckon I’ve ever felt that kind of cold. Some Yankee soldier took my shoes on the way there, and they weren’t handing any out,” he said bitterly. “I suppose I was lucky to have a blanket, even though it was a pitiful excuse for one. Some of the fellows who came in after me didn’t get one. We were stuck in those buildings like sardines in a jar, but that might have saved some of our lives. The only way to keep from freezing at night was to huddle around one of the two coal stoves in the building. We would take turns getting close enough to keep from freezing to death.” He stopped talking and looked off into the distance.