© 2012 by Tracie Peterson
Published by Bethany House Publishers
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Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7099-3
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC
To Dr. Josh Knappenberger,
an awesome doctor and friend!
May God guide your work.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1 2 3 4
5 6 7 8
9 10 11 12
13 14 15 16
17 18 19 20
21 22 23 24
25 26 27 28
About the Author
Books by Tracie Peterson
Back Ad
Back Cover
1
Late June 1865
Corpus Christi, Texas
Thick clouds hung low on the horizon. Laura Marquardt studied the sky for a moment, hoping she still had time to make it home before the heavens opened and rain descended. If Mother hadn’t been desperate for her nerve tonic, Laura never would have ventured out on such a day. She certainly wouldn’t have traveled alone. A flash of lightning far out over the Gulf of Mexico caused her to pick up her steps.
So much had changed in Corpus Christi. The town had once bustled with thousands of people, but the war had reduced that number to no more than four hundred or so. With the War Between the States finally coming to an end, however, the city was once again adding to its number with a great many Union troops—most of them former slaves. Blue was the color of the day thanks to the army’s occupation. Unfortunately, many a heart was still gray, and most Southerners weren’t of a mind to be ordered about by black troops.
“Well, if it ain’t Miss Laura Marquardt! Where you runnin’ off to in such a hurry?”
She stopped in her steps, then turned to see two men walking toward her. Their raggedy appearance served as a reminder of the South’s defeat: dirty shirts covered by equally filthy coats, and worn trousers with holes here and there. There was something familiar and yet menacing about the men. Laura slipped the ties of her reticule over her gloved wrist, feeling the weight of the bottled medicine that she’d put inside.
“See, I told you it were her,” the taller of the two men said.
Recognition dawned, and Laura realized who the men were. “Mr. Edwards. Mr. Riley.” She gave a curt nod. The men approached her with a familiarity that made Laura feel uncomfortable.
“My, my, my. You’ve grown up to be quite the little belle,” Edwards declared. He rubbed his tobacco-stained mustache and grinned. “Ain’t seen you since before the war when we worked for your papa.”
Riley, a dark-eyed man not much taller than herself, nodded. “I’ll bet the men are just vyin’ for your attention.”
Edwards leaned in closer. “If I weren’t married, I’d ask for your hand. A fella could have a lot of fun with a little gal like you. Why, I’ll bet you can dance a pretty jig.”
Laura frowned. She would turn twenty-two in August, and still that made Edwards at least twice her age. Besides, such conversation was completely uncalled for and inappropriate given their stations in life. These men had once worked for her father. Not only that, but she knew they had fought on the side of the Confederacy. Mr. Riley apparently recognized her discomfort and snorted a laugh.
“Maybe she reckons that since her people are Yankee supporters, she can’t be speakin’ to the likes of us Southerners anymore.”
“I think nothing of the kind, Mr. Riley.” She looked hard at the men. “Our family has remained friends with supporters of both sides of that horrible war.”
“There ain’t such a thing as a friendly Yank.”
Laura had endured more than enough of the men, and with the first well-timed drops of rain starting to fall, she opened her parasol. It wouldn’t afford much protection, but she hoped the action would speak for itself. “I believe it’s starting to rain. Good day to you both.”
She didn’t wait for their reply but instead turned to resume walking. Without warning, however, one of the men took hold of her arm and pulled her into an alleyway. She dropped her hold on her parasol as Edwards slammed her against the back of the building. The hooping in her petticoat pushed forward, but the man didn’t care. He pressed into the thick folds of her skirt and held her in place. Leaning forward, with his index finger pointed inches from her face, Edwards leered.
“You need to tell your pa that we don’t cotton to his kind down here. He should’ve taken his place with the Confederacy or gone north. Now he’ll pay for bein’ a traitor.”
Her heart raced. “My father is a good man who believed in the solidarity of the Union,” Laura countered. “He wasn’t against the South; rather, he wanted unity among the states.”
“He chose his side, same as the rest of us,” Mr. Riley said, moving closer. “He figured there was more to profit with the Union—that’s all.”
“That’s a lie,” Laura proclaimed. She tried to move, but Edwards pushed her back again.
“Maybe your pa needs a different kind of lesson. Maybe he won’t listen to a simple message.”
Laura began to tremble. She could smell whiskey on the man’s breath as he leaned in closer.
“Maybe you uppity Yankee girls need an old-fashioned lesson in manners.”
“I was thinking the same of you, Mr. Edwards. There was a time when you conducted yourself in a gentlemanly manner. I see that day is gone.”
“The war changes things,” he said, leaning forward as if to kiss her.
Laura turned her head to the right only to have the man take hold of her face and forcibly pull it back. Laura squirmed uncomfortably, wondering if she should scream for help. She didn’t have to wonder long, however. Two men from the Twenty-eighth Regimented Infantry called out.
“What’s goin’ on here?” one of the men asked as they approached.
Edwards released her with a scowl. Laura knew the only people hated more than Union supporters were the Yankee Colored Troops. Those who fought for the South found it an insult to be subjected to their authority.
“You boys need to mind your own business,” Riley said. “Ain’t no war goin’ on now . . . or ain’t y’all heard?”
Edwards laughed. “I’m sure there’s a field of cotton just waitin’ to be picked.”
Laura fought to control her fears as one of the soldiers stepped closer. “We have orders to follow,” the soldier declared.
Edwards laughed at this. “You got that right, boy. Your people ought to be followin’ orders, but they went and got uppity. Now they think they’re just as good as everybody else.”
The man ignored him and turned to Laur
a. “Are you all right, miss?”
She was surprised by his genteel speech. “I was on my way home,” Laura replied. “These men recognized me as a Union supporter and felt it necessary to express their distaste of such things.”
“Maybe you two could come along with us and explain to our commander.”
“Who’s gonna make us?” Edwards asked.
“It’d take a whole lot more than two of you colored boys to take me,” Riley said, striking a stance that suggested he was ready for a fight.
“Maybe you boys need a real man to teach you a thing or two,” Edwards added.
The soldiers said nothing, but something about their bearing changed. Laura sensed they were more than willing to take on the two older men. Apparently Riley realized the same thing.
“I think they’re itchin’ for a fight.” He grinned. “Well, so am I. I didn’t kill enough of you boys in the war. It’s mighty obligin’ of you to give me a second chance.”
Mr. Edwards started to take off his coat and one of the soldiers leveled his rifle.
This caused Riley to put out his hand to stop Edwards. “They ain’t worth the effort. They won’t fight like real men,” Riley said. He punched his friend on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”
Mr. Edwards muttered a string of curses and insults on the men before spitting at them. “You darkies should learn your place, but I ain’t got the time to teach you.”
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” the armed man declared.
Laura was about to speak when Mr. Riley took hold of her and threw her toward the soldiers before he and Edwards took off down the alley.
“Halt!” one soldier called out as the other steadied Laura so she wouldn’t fall.
The men laughed and continued their escape with a glance over their shoulders. If anything, Laura thought they’d slowed their steps in a taunting manner.
“I said halt, or I’ll shoot.”
One of the soldiers aimed his rifle, but Laura hurried to push the gun down. “Please don’t. There’s been entirely too much bloodshed already.” Edwards and Riley took her actions as a cue to run.
Laura continued to try to reason with the men. “Please don’t go after them. They aren’t very honorable men and may be planning an ambush down the way.” She patted the arm of the soldier. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to the two of you on my account.”
“What’s going on here?”
Laura and the two soldiers looked to find a Union captain approaching. The man was rugged in his appearance and his broad shoulders bulged under his coat, but it was his striking blue eyes that held Laura’s attention.
“The lady was bein’ detained,” one of the soldiers began, but the captain raised his hand.
“Say no more. I’ll deal with this. You two go on about your patrol.”
“Yes, sir,” the men said in unison. The soldiers nodded and tipped their forage caps. “Ma’am.”
The captain turned his gaze on Laura. She felt his eyes studying her carefully, as if he could assess her value. The set of his jaw suggested a no-nonsense manner. Perhaps he was growing weary of rescuing damsels in distress. The thought made Laura smile.
“I suppose you think it funny to argue with Federal soldiers, but I’m not amused,” the captain told her. “The sooner you folks learn to accept that the North won this war, the better off you’ll be. I will not tolerate rude behavior . . . even from Southern ladies.”
“I assure you, sir, I was not arguing with anyone,” Laura countered. She felt miffed at his mistaking the situation. Why, he hadn’t even asked for a full explanation from his men.
“I won’t discuss it with you, ma’am. You would do well to stay off the streets without an escort.”
Laura drew up to her full height. “Whether I walk unescorted or not is none of your concern.”
“It’s my concern, ma’am, when you argue with my men. This town is under occupation for your welfare as much as anything. I realize you Southerners are angry and hostile toward our soldiers, but we have our orders. Orders that, as I have already stated, are for your benefit.” He let his gaze travel the length of her and back. “It seems a lady of your upbringing would realize this. Nevertheless,” he said, fixing her with a hard stare, “I am not going to argue with you.”
“Again, Captain . . . ?” She waited for a name.
“Reid.”
“Again, Captain Reid, I am not arguing. You merely misunderstood the situation.” Her nerves were finally steadying themselves, and fear was quickly being replaced by anger.
He shook his head. “Rather like the North misunderstood being fired upon at Fort Sumter?”
She opened her mouth to reply, then dropped her head. He wasn’t worth the effort. Besides, it was beginning to rain in earnest. She picked up her parasol and marched back to the street. No doubt she’d be drenched by the time she reached home.
“Men,” she muttered, picking up her pace.
2
Captain Brandon Reid was only a month away from mustering out of the Union Army, and yet the future eluded him. He felt directionless . . . uncertain. He could return home to Indiana, where his preacher-father owned a small but well-managed horse farm; he knew his mother would be delighted with that choice. Brandon, however, wasn’t sure that God would be.
The heaviness of the Texas air felt like nothing compared to the weight of indecision perched upon his shoulders. When war had been declared, Brandon knew without a doubt it was his duty to enlist and come to the aid of his country. His family had long been abolitionists, and freeing slaves was a cause he believed in—as well as keeping all states united as one. But now that his soldiering days were coming to an end, Brandon couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with the choices before him.
He made his way down Water Street, past John Dix’s house. Rumors ran amuck about the owner. The man was said to be an avid Union supporter and had offered invaluable help during the war. Or so Brandon had been told. As a sea captain it was rumored that he signaled Federal ships in the harbor by hanging lanterns from his house. Brandon had also heard it said that Dix’s son had served in the Second Texas Cavalry under Colonel “Rip” Ford and completely disagreed with his father’s stand. Sadly, such was often the case with the War Between the States. How many families had been forever divided because of politics?
He continued his walk a block to Taylor Street, where his destination was the same house that had once been assigned as a commissary for Zachary Taylor’s troops during the war with Mexico. And, even though the house had been built by a man named R. C. Russell, the place was now known simply as the Ironclad House. The strange title was due to the ironclad oath that every Texan who had not borne arms against the North was required to take. The oath required men to swear they had never given service to the Confederacy and that they were loyal to the Union. This was required if a man were to vote or hold office. In fact, given the demands placed by the North, this oath was necessary for most anything a man wanted to do. Some said it would have been impossible to buy so much as a bag of flour on credit without having taken the ironclad, but Brandon knew this was stretching things a bit.
He paused a moment. Despite its years and neglect due to the war, the architecture of the Ironclad House spoke of money and charm. On the porch were a couple of rocking chairs and a wicker settee. The pieces seemed to suggest a quiet evening spent with friends, but Brandon knew better. Inside, General Charles S. Russell, no relation to the original builder, oversaw the grave duty of restoring order to this part of the South.
Charles was a good friend from before the war, but now he was Brandon’s superior, overseeing the Second U.S. Colored Cavalry, as well as the Tenth and Twenty-eighth Regiments of the U.S. Colored Troop Infantries. Brandon served as a captain for the latter.
They had seen many battles together over the years. Both Brandon and Charles had left family in Indiana to serve with the colored troops, enduring insult and slander for their positions. While the No
rtherners were all for freeing the blacks, few wanted to associate or work with them. Brandon was frustrated by the hypocrisy.
Neither the North or South had won this war, as far as he was concerned. He’d lost good friends on both sides, and though Brandon and his family had strongly supported the abolitionist movement, he wasn’t convinced that the Emancipation Proclamation had done for the slaves all that Lincoln had intended. Already, Brandon had heard from his superiors that many of the slaveholders were ignoring the law. The most cunning found ways around the demands of the deceased president they had abhorred. It was said that in some places the Negroes were forced to leave all of their possessions—including clothing—if they were to be freed. The former owners defended this, saying that while Mr. Lincoln might have freed the slaves, clothing would come at a price.
Of course, none of the former slaves had money. In order to pay for their clothing, the Negroes were required to stay on and work for an allotted time—time that inevitably grew with additional charges for food, housing, work tools, and other supplies the white masters forced their laborers to pay. It didn’t take a mathematical genius to see that it would soon be impossible for a former slave to work himself out of debt.
Freedom for the blacks had, in many ways, only served to cause them more pain and suffering. It grieved Brandon in a way he couldn’t express. Having grown up in Indiana, not far from the Ohio River, Brandon’s family had been active in helping runaway slaves. He knew the horrible conditions many had endured. He’d helped to bury more than one slave who had taken ill or received fatal injuries during his escape. Even so, it was often said by those who survived that it was better to die in freedom than live in bondage.
Brandon entered the house and was immediately greeted by a uniformed soldier jumping to attention. “Sir, General Russell is awaiting you.” The man simultaneously saluted and Brandon returned in kind.
“Thank you, Corporal.”
He made his way past the man and into the small room where a tired-looking man sat deep in thought. He glanced up and motioned Brandon to his desk.
Touching the Sky Page 1
