The Liberator Series Box Set: Christian Historical Civil War Novels

by Stephenia H. McGee

  Peggy gave her hands a squeeze and rose. “And look at me now. Here I is in Washington City, wearing all these here fine silks like I’s some kind of lady.” She chuckled and Annabelle couldn’t help but join her.

  “Why, Peggy, you are a lady,” Annabelle said with a giggle.

  Peggy rolled her eyes and flapped the washing rag at Annabelle. “You hush now.”

  Just then there was a tap at the door, and soon a procession of young girls entered the room carrying buckets of steaming water they dumped into a tub that they placed by the hearth Peggy was now stoking.

  When they had all gone and Grandmother had promised to return later, Annabelle shrugged off her remaining clothing and stepped into the delicious warmth. She rested her head on the back of the tub with a contented sigh. Oh, but it would be lovely to get the smell of that prison out of her hair! But even as her muscles relaxed and she relished the smell of lavender soap upon her skin, her mind continually drifted toward poor George locked away and to Matthew out there somewhere looking for Booth.

  Oh, Father, please keep them safe.

  Matthew swatted a mosquito and tore his focus away from the frowning Blue Belly to his left. All of the Federal soldiers watched Matthew’s every move with calculating eyes, but this Yank in particular seemed to be ready to run Matthew through at any moment.

  Their horses clomped down the road just outside of a town in Maryland by the name of Bel Alton on a claim that said Booth had gone this way. They’d shifted Matthew to one of the search units, the 16th New York Cavalry, and sent him out of Washington. Matthew wasn’t entirely sure if it was because they wanted his knowledge, planned to keep him close, or because they plotted on murdering him in the woods and claiming an accident. He eyed the man next to him again. Wouldn’t put it past a Yank.

  “What’re you looking at, Reb?” The man lifted his hawkish nose and looked down it at Matthew.

  One side of Matthew’s lip pulled up into a sardonic grin. “Just wondering if your face always looks like that, or you’ve just got a bee in your britches.”

  The man snarled at him and nudged his mount closer. “Why you sniveling…” He reached out to grab Matthew’s collar, but Matthew had his wrist in a firm grasp before the Yank’s fingers even brushed fabric.

  Matthew leaned down closer to the man’s face, close enough that the fellow’s widening eyes were the only thing that filled Matthew’s vision. “I don’t much like the way you’ve been looking at me, fellow. You got something you want to say?”

  “Go boil your shirt, Gray Back.”

  Matthew hauled him closer until the man was nearly out of the saddle and his mud brown eyes conveyed the fear he desperately wanted to control. Matthew’s fist itched to give the Yank a taste of his frustration, but he forced his fingers to relax and shoved the fool away. He wouldn’t give them the opportunity to string him up for giving a lick to this uppity, pointy-nosed dandy. “Just a lot of parlor soldiers, invading good folk who only wanted to be left to their own.”

  The man straightened his crisp blue uniform and pointed a finger at Matthew. “Now, look here, you ….”

  “That’s enough!” the major called out.

  The Blue Belly narrowed his eyes on Matthew, but Matthew only grinned, further infuriating the Yank.

  “Daniels!”

  Matthew turned to regard the red-faced major, who had swung his horse around and pulled to a halt. “Aye?”

  “You’ll not be aggravating my soldiers or I’ll see you sent back to Washington to rot in prison.”

  Matthew sobered. “Understood.”

  The major arched his spine and nudged his horse toward Matthew, making two soldiers scramble to get their horses out of his way. The rest of the dispatch hauled up on the reins, bringing everyone to a halt. The rocks on the road crunched underneath polished hooves as the major’s roan stallion pranced forward. The officer came to a stop about four paces away from Matthew, so as not to have to lift his chin to regard one lower in rank. The corner of Matthew’s mouth twitched. Here sat a man accustomed to being in power. No hint of subordination tainted the major’s rigid frame. Matthew might have respected that, if the man wasn’t a Yank.

  “You will address me as sir or Major, Private. Is that understood?”

  Matthew’s jaw clenched at the reminder of the demotion. He’d been stripped of his Captain’s rank as soon as they’d forced him into blues. Matthew had earned that rank in his four years of service, and he loathed them all the more for placing him back at the bottom of the rank structure, underneath nearly every one of these scoundrels.

  The officer’s nostrils flared and he came closer.

  Matthew forced his jaw to unclench. “Yes, Major.” Try as he might, he couldn’t keep the distain out of his tone.

  To his surprise, however, the major said nothing of it. He looked at the other men in the group. “You boys leave him alone. He’s signed papers and is in Union colors.”

  The Blue Belly whom Matthew had grabbed spoke up. “But he’s still a Reb!”

  The major sniffed. “Not according to the law or orders from the White House.”

  The words hung heavy in the air, and Matthew could feel all the Yank’s eyes on him. His skin began to crawl. What orders?

  “So, no more of this bellyaching,” the major snapped. “If you don’t have something pertinent to say pertaining to this search, then keep your blasted mouths shut!” He snatched the rein and spurred the horse back to the front of the line. The rest of them fell into step behind him, reforming their two lines.

  Matthew refused to look at the man next to him. The major had said orders had come down from the White House. A bead of sweat gathered at his nape and scuttled down the back of his traitor’s collar. What did that mean?

  Matthew’s hands tightened on the leather reins. Whatever it meant, he knew one thing. It probably wasn’t good.

  “One thing will at once be conceded by all generous minds; no people or class of people in this country, have a better reason for lamenting the death of Abraham Lincoln, and for desiring to honor and perpetuate his memory, than have the colored people; and yet we are about the only people who have been in any case forbidden to exhibit our sorrow, or to show our respect for the deceased president publicly.”

  Frederick Douglass

  Washington

  April 19, 1865

  Annabelle tugged on the skirt of the black velvet dress she’d borrowed from Grandmother and hoped no one would notice that her petticoats didn’t match. Grandmother’s dress was too tight, too short, and much too warm for the balmy spring day, but one did not attend a funeral in a colorful gown.

  Annabelle popped open her black lace fan and tried to stir the air around her face as she and Peggy waited for Grandmother to finish speaking to the man at the front desk. Here outside the hotel, carriages rolled down the street, horses clopped by, and people went about their business. Yet, the somber mood of the town hung like a leaden cloud over them all, drenching them in sorrow and making even the children appear subdued.

  Peggy leaned close. “Don’t you worry, now. No one’s gonna notice them petticoats is dark blue.”

  Annabelle tore her gaze away from a family dressed in black walking down the street. “What? Oh, yes.” She looked down at her feet. Dressed with her crinoline and two navy blue petticoats underneath the velvet gown, Annabelle already grew uncomfortable. But, Peggy was right. The ruffled hem of the petticoats gave her enough length to make up for the shortened hem of the skirt, and she didn’t suppose anyone would look close enough to notice the colors were off. But then, what did it matter if they did, anyway? She didn’t care. She tightened the bow on her bonnet and gave Peggy a tired smile. “It’s fine, Peggy. But lucky for you, Grandmother’s wardrobe fits you quite nicely.”

  Peggy looked down at the dyed muslin and smiled. She’d insisted on wearing the plainest of Grandmother’s gowns, but even then she stood out with her pearl buttons and Chantilly lace collar.

  Grandm
other swished out of the hotel in a flurry of ebony silk and lowered her bonnet against the bright sun. She scowled at it as though the very notion of a chipper late spring day were the foulest of poor manners. She looked to the other women and gave a nod. “Come along now, girls. We don’t want to be late.”

  Peggy’s face twisted in confusion. “I ain’t no girl, Mrs. Smith.”

  Grandmother waved her gloved hand. “Pish. Twenty years beneath me is as good as so.” She ignored Peggy’s grunt and led the way down the crowded street.

  Annabelle watched the people flow around them in a sea of inky mourning attire, and her heart grew heavy. When would this ever come to an end? How many years would it take for the people of this country to feel united again, to feel hopeful and joyous over anything other than the slaughter of their fellow man in battle?

  Tears gathered in her eyes, but she blinked them away. The closer they got, the more the crowd began to thicken, until she felt as though she would drown in the murky waters of their sorrow. Women sniffled, men stood about with stoic expressions and hard eyes, and children stood numbly at their parents’ sides. For as many people who milled about, the air remained eerily quiet. People spoke in muted whispers, apparently afraid too much noise would disturb the dead.

  The three women made their way with the crowd until they reached the White House, which appeared to be so full they were beginning to turn mourners away. People gathered on the lawns to await the end of the funeral. Annabelle turned toward the shade of a large tree to shield her from the relentless sun.

  “What are you doing?”

  Annabelle blinked at Grandmother’s brisk tone. “I am choosing us a cooler place to wait. This velvet is getting rather warm.”

  Grandmother grabbed her arm and tugged her out of the comforting shadow. “Nonsense. We are going inside to attend the funeral.”

  Annabelle looked up at the Executive Mansion, its white walls covered in yards of black cloth. The balconies were draped, and every window was darkened with inky fabric. Annabelle wondered where they had acquired so much material.

  Knowing that telling her Grandmother they would only be turned away would do no good, Annabelle allowed herself to be guided all the way to the front door of the White House, where a sour-looking Union soldier stood guard.

  The man opened the mouth hidden in his ample beard and mustache to protest Grandmother’s determined gait, but she spoke before he had the opportunity.

  “Eudora Smith, widow to Franklin Smith of New York,” she said, thrusting some sort of tickets at him she’d plucked from her reticule.

  The man snapped his mouth closed and gestured inside.

  Suddenly there was a great boom and Annabelle startled, grasping at the fabric about her throat.

  “Don’t worry, miss,” the soldier said. “It’s just the minute guns from the forts giving salute.”

  Annabelle willed her trembling heart to slow, her nerves feeling as though they held on by only a fraying thread. “Oh.”

  The startling sound fractured the air again, disrupting the ever present doleful toll of the church bells. Annabelle offered the man a friendly smile as she moved to step past him. It faltered on her lips, however, when the man’s cold glare landed on Peggy.

  “No Negroes allowed inside.”

  Peggy paused, her gaze darting between the soldier and Grandmother. “This woman is freed, soldier,” Grandmother stated.

  The man emphatically shook his head. “All Negroes remain outside.”

  Storm clouds gathered in Grandmother’s eyes, and Annabelle feared the lightning that would soon spark from her tongue.

  “I’s gonna wait for y’all under that shade tree,” Peggy said, casting her gaze on the floor.

  “Now, wait just a moment…”

  Peggy looked at Grandmother with pleading eyes. “Please. Don’t want to cause no trouble here.”

  Grandmother drew her lips into a line, but said nothing further. Annabelle gave Peggy’s hand a squeeze as she turned to hurry off the portico. Annabelle shot the soldier an annoyed look, but he was already addressing the people behind her waiting to be allowed inside.

  The inside of the mansion was adorned in much the same manner as without, covered in so much heavy cloth that Annabelle could scarcely tell what the house would have looked like on any other occasion.

  In a few moments they passed into the darkened East Room, where people had already begun to fill the space. Another soldier at the door looked at Grandmother’s tickets and gestured to a place on the raised steps that occupied three sides around the catafalque. Whoever heard of such a thing? Tickets to a funeral as though it were some type of performance?

  Annabelle looked to the platform with four large posts draped in heavy black cloths hanging around the open coffin at the center and could not suppress a shiver. The still form that lay inside looked not much different from the face she had seen lying in the bed in the hours after the assassination.

  Memories of that evening were still raw upon her senses, and she had to shove them away lest they clench her heart too tightly. She gulped and clung to Grandmother’s side, her restless gaze roaming over the scene.

  Little of what Annabelle assumed to be a luxurious carpet could be seen under the black-wrapped risers surrounding the coffin. Annabelle guessed that they had been constructed in this manner so as to allow all the invited attendees to have an adequate view of their murdered leader. She adverted her eyes from his still form and looked to the mountains of black fabric that hung over the windows, gilded frames, and even from the chandeliers. To think her dear friend Molly had to try to dye old fabric to make mourning cloths for all the widows around Lorman when it seemed the North had such a massive abundance of material.

  The tight features of all those pressed in the room remained fixed on the grand and gloomy catafalque. In the space immediately surrounding it sat what appeared to be four clergymen, two men she did not recognize, Lincoln’s sons, and a handful of others Annabelle guessed to be family or close friends.

  Mary Lincoln was nowhere to be seen. Remembering the woman’s wails from the Peterson Rooming House across from Ford’s Theatre, Annabelle wondered if the First Lady’s fragile state was keeping her away. She’d heard many rumors that Mrs. Lincoln had been volatile in her moods, though Annabelle would guess that any wife with a great love for her husband would have reacted in the same manner regarding such a tragedy.

  She could not imagine seeing Matthew shot right in front of her. Oh, that poor woman. Tears gathered in her eyes, and she did not bother to brush them away when they began to streak down her cheeks.

  Her gaze drifted over the dark-clad mourners to a group of brightly attired gentlemen, their foreign costumes in stark contrast to their surroundings. Like peacocks amid a flock of ravens, their bright, formal attire made Annabelle wonder at the funeral customs of other countries. People’s attention swung toward the door, drawing Annabelle’s gaze off the foreign dignitaries and onto the new president, who entered along with a group of men who were obviously members of his new cabinet. After the men had found their places, a pastor entered and took his place at the head of the coffin and announced the commencement of the funeral rites.

  “Dr. Phineas Gurley,” Grandmother whispered in her ear. “He conducted the funeral for Lincoln’s boy, Willie, as well.”

  Poor Mrs. Lincoln. Was it any wonder the woman was more nervous than a starved cat? Not only had she endured the constant threats against her husband, but the loss of a child as well?

  After a brief speech no doubt meant to comfort but laced with pain, the preacher stepped aside and another took his place, opening a book and reading with a strong voice.

  “The words of our Lord Jesus, as recorded in the book of John. ‘I am the resurrection and the life saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’”

  Annabelle breathed in the words as a manner of comfort, knowing tha
t a man who had so often professed his faith in God surely now lived in His presence. Soon after, Dr. Gurley returned to give a stirring sermon about faith in God, using Mark 11:22 as the text. The man’s voice carried over the muffled sobs of the crowd and urged them all to see past their sorrow and celebrate a man who deserved the love and confidence of the American people.

  “His integrity was thorough, all-pervading, all-controlling and incorruptible. God’s guidance and mercy were the props on which he humbly and habitually leaned. They were the best hope he had for himself and his country. Remember that God Himself raised Lincoln for a great and glorious mission, furnished him for His work, and aided him in its accomplishment.”

  The preacher turned to listing a great number of Lincoln’s virtues, but Annabelle’s mind flitted to the horrors of war instead. Why would God allow it all? Did He really raise Lincoln up for a great purpose? A man who so many claimed had brought the war upon them? Annabelle crossed her arms and tried to push unanswerable questions from her mind.

  “Our president’s greatest virtue of all, however, was his abiding confidence in God and in the final triumph of truth and righteousness.”

  Righteousness? How righteous could a cause be that laid waste to the South, burning cities to the ground, ravishing women, and murdering families in their beds? The thoughts clawed at her until she shook her head violently, causing Grandmother’s fingers to dig into her arm.

  She looked at her elder, noting the concern in her eyes and mouthed, “Forgive me,” before turning her attention back onto the preacher who then challenged all in attendance to have faith in God for the future and devote themselves to the cause of freedom and humanity.

  Another man stepped forth and delivered a long-winded prayer in the old English of the Bible, and Annabelle soon lost his words in the churning waters of her own thoughts.

  Why, Father? Why this war of pain and destruction? Both sides were wrong.