by Deborah Heal
The seventh passenger, Reverend Robbins, remained standing and cleared his throat loudly. “Mrs. McGuire, it behooves me to insist that we offer our gratitude to the Supplier of all blessings before we eat.”
Charlotte blushed again. “Of course, Reverend Robbins.”
When he finished—it was a lofty prayer mostly spent reassuring God that his army in blue was up to the task of annihilating the South and protecting the Union—the men began eating.
“Thank you, Reverend,” Charlotte said. “I’ll get that fresh bread I promised.”
In the kitchen, Joshua was bolting his stew like a young dog, but he paused long enough to say, “He sure is a jackass.”
“Joshua! I’m sure your mother wouldn’t like you using such language.” Charlotte wiped the perspiration from her face and hurried to pile the fresh rolls she had baked that morning into two baskets.
“You want me to take some of those upstairs?”
“Not just yet. But thank you.”
The men had wasted no time eating their stew and were happy for the rolls, some of which they ate and some of which they tucked into pockets for their journey.
Unfortunately, they were in no hurry to leave. Their hunger having been assuaged, they seemed starved for conversation and peppered her with questions about her family. When had her father founded Miles Station? Where were her husband and father fighting? What was it like running a train stop kitchen all alone? Charlotte knew their questions were friendly. Perhaps they saw in her the sister or cousin they had left behind. But she wished them gone, the sooner the better.
“You should have more than a boy here with you, dear,” Reverend Robbins said.
Charlotte heard a snort from the kitchen. “We’re fine,” she answered. “And I have my sisters-in-law and neighbors.”
“Well, you be on the lookout for runaway Negroes,” he said. “They will rob you as soon as look at you. And a pretty white woman like you…”
Charlotte opened her eyes wide. “Surely, they’re not stupid enough to run, what with a bounty on their heads?”
“And there’s the prison sentence and a thousand dollar fine for those aiding and abetting them,” Lieutenant Hollis said, smiling grimly at her.
“I apologize. I’m sure the citizens of Miles Station are law-abiding Christians,” Reverend Robbins said.
“I’m sure they are,” Lieutenant Hollis said. He seemed eager to change the subject. “Do you and Mr. McGuire have children?”
“No, we haven’t been so blessed,” Charlotte answered. No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a child’s faint cry, abruptly shut off, drifted down from above.
“What was that?” Reverend Robbins asked.
Lieutenant Hollis stood and gave her a small bow. “Thank you for the meal, ma’am.” He took out his wallet, as did the other men, and paid Charlotte. “My men and I will stretch our legs in the garden before we leave, if that’s acceptable.”
Charlotte sent up a prayer of thanks. “Of course, Lieutenant.”
Joshua stumbled into the dining room carrying the cat Charlotte had just seen in the kitchen sleeping by the stove. “I got her, Charlotte. Pesky thing was upstairs crying to be fed.”
“The cat,” she said. “That’s good you brought her down then.”
Charlotte followed as the men filed out. Lieutenant Hollis paused on the porch. He glanced at the gourd dipper hanging beside the front door and then back at her. “You better hurry to feed her.” After putting on his hat, he followed the others out.
Hand at her throat, Charlotte went back inside and locked the door behind them.
Joshua, white-faced, stared at her. “What do we do?”
“We feed the cat.”
“Did you see how much Charlotte’s cat looked like Kit-Kat?” Merrideth said. “Wouldn’t it be cool if she was the great, great, great, great granddaughter of Charlotte’s cat?”
“But I thought Kit-Kat came with you from—”
“Chicago. She did, but wouldn’t it be cool?”
Abby grinned. “We can still pretend.”
“What was up with the gourd?”
“It sure wasn’t pretty,” Abby said. “I was wondering why they had that hanging by the front door.”
“That soldier was looking at it funny, and I could tell Charlotte was a little scared.”
“I imagine she was always a little nervous about having strangers there in the house with her father gone. I don’t know if I’d be brave enough to do it. Even though that preacher was a bigot, I think he was right to be worried about her.”
“At least she had her cousin Joshua there.”
“But I still don’t know how she ever managed to keep up with the cooking for all the train people.”
“Speaking of cooking,” Merrideth said, “I’m hungry. What’s for dinner?”
They worked together to heat tomato soup and make grilled cheese sandwiches. And then after eating lunch in record time they hurried back to the computer, agreeing they’d wash the dishes later.
Chapter 17
Charlotte put the bread and cheese she had prepared for her lunch in her pocket and went to take down the rifle her father had left for her. Papa had taught her well. As much help as Joshua was, she was glad she wasn’t totally dependent upon him. The gun was still awkward and heavy for her, but she had a good eye. She put it over her shoulder and headed for the stand of oaks east of the barn.
The afternoon sun was playing tag with the leaves and she thought about how nice it would be to just sit and enjoy the peace and quiet with no thought of her responsibilities.
. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the gun and began to systematically train her eyes over each branch above her.
After twenty minutes of patient observation, she knew the only thing moving were the leaves. Maybe she should get back to her kitchen and start supper.
She put her right foot forward and then her left. When her right foot touched the ground the second time, it seemed to ignite with a fiery pain that began at her ankle and then radiated up her leg—a pain so shocking it drove her, screaming, to the ground. The gun discharged when she hit the ground, but she hardly heard it. She writhed helplessly on the ground, blindly clawing at her foot.
When her hands found the metal jaws and teeth that were gnawing at her ankle, the pain that had been monopolizing her brain was pushed back by a healthy dose of anger: poachers were back with their filthy traps on her father’s land.
The second thought, after the anger, was fear, because now she understood firsthand how a trapped animal could bring itself to chew off its own leg.
Joshua wouldn’t be home from the mill until suppertime. She wondered how long it would be before he came looking for her.
She forced herself to sit up and assess the damage. The trap had captured her leg just above the top of her shoe. She reached down and tried to pull the jaws apart, but blood covered everything and made her fingers slippery. She tried to rip a piece of her skirt to help her grip, but her fingers felt boneless and were much too weak to tear the sturdy cloth.
Then she remembered her bonnet hanging down her back. She untied it and wrapped it around the steel jaws. They moved a little but she lacked the strength to open them sufficiently to pull her foot out. The jaws slipped out of her hands and snapped together. She cried out and nearly fainted. On her second try, the jaws moved a little more, but she couldn’t hold them long and had to let them go back, more carefully this time, to their death grip on her foot. There was more blood now. So much blood. The bonnet was saturated with it. The leaves under her leg were a glossy scarlet, brighter than the most colorful autumn foliage. She stopped for a minute to concentrate on breathing.
By the fifth attempt, her fingers wouldn’t obey the command to grip. She fell back and lay there, gulping the cool air. The light coming through the leaves was so pretty. After a while, the only sound was the leaves rustling …
“She’s dead. Oh, Abby, Charlotte’s dead.” Merrideth
bolted from her chair.
“Wait, Merrideth.” Abby reached out to stop her, but she slipped away and rushed from the room. Down the hall, her door slammed shut.
Abby glanced back at the computer screen, but quickly turned her face away at the sight of Charlotte bleeding to death under the trees. In a small part of her brain, she had worried about this very thing. Merrideth, in her fragile emotional state, was bound to take it hard when it came time for Charlotte to die. But she had assumed they had plenty of time. Who could have known she would die so young in such a freak accident?
She went to her door and tapped softly. “Merrideth? May I come in?”
She didn’t answer. Abby tried to turn the knob, but the door wouldn’t budge. “Open up, kiddo. Let’s talk.” Putting her ear to the door, Abby heard a soft sob and a muffled, “Go away.”
“Come on, Merrideth.”
“You don’t even care that Charlotte just died.”
“Of course I care,” she said. Even if she was only a fictional character it would be sad. But if she was real…
“Just go away.”
“You had to know that Charlotte was going to die,” Abby said. “She’s been dead for over a hundred years, Merrideth.”
She sobbed louder. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? Go away.”
Abby felt a stab of irritation. If she was going to indulge in a childish pity-party—well, obviously, there was no sense talking to her until she calmed down.
The door opened and Abby jerked in surprise.
“Wait! Abby, I know,” Merrideth said, sliding past her.
“What?” Abby followed her back to the computer room.
“We’ll go back. Back before the accident.” Merrideth took the mouse and began a fast reverse until Charlotte was back in the kitchen.
“Now what?”
Merrideth began clicking on the icons at the top of the screen. “We’ll warn her not to go into the woods. There’s got to be some setting on here that we can change.”
“Merrideth, you know we can’t—.”
“We’ve got to talk to her! Warn her.” She continued to click frantically on each menu icon.
“Listen to me!” Abby said, grasping her arm. Her touch seemed to break through Merrideth’s panic, and finally she looked up at her and blinked.
“If this is real,” Abby said, “and not some computer game, then we can’t just go back and change a setting. There’s nothing we can do about it. It happened to Charlotte before we were even born. We’ve just been ignoring the fact that it was going to happen eventually. It’s done.”
“You finally believe it’s real?”
“It’s either real or the computer nerd who invented it really needs to get a life—and I do mean one of his own.”
Awkwardly, Merrideth stood and stumbled over to stare, unseeing, out the window. “It’s not fair,” she said.
“Did you think we control our lives? God is in charge—you do believe in God, don’t you?” What was that verse about things working together for good? Somewhere in Romans. Abby fervently wished she had overcome her timidity about talking to Merrideth about her faith much earlier.
“Yeah, I believe there’s a God, and he does whatever he wants. We’re the little puppets he plays with. We live for a little while and then we die. There’s no sense in even trying.” Merrideth leaned her head against the window frame and began to cry.
Abby was at a complete loss for words. If one of her college friends had said something so wildly blasphemous, she would have been shocked. But for a kid this age? What on earth should she say to something like that? Finally, stepping to the window, Abby put her arms around Merrideth and rubbed her back, hoping she could give some comfort, even if she was woefully unprepared to give sound biblical explanations.
Merrideth stopped crying, and Abby felt a wave of relief. Maybe she wouldn’t have to come up with answers to such cosmic questions. Maybe the worst was over. After all, Merrideth had been making such progress, at least academically and socially—even in the area of hygiene. Abby looked hopefully at her. “It’ll be all right.”
“No,” Merrideth said wrenching herself away from Abby. “It won’t.” There was a thick film of scorn coating her words. “What’s the use of all the work Colonel Miles did to build this town?” Merrideth furiously wiped at her tears.
The cessation of her tears turned out not to be an accurate indicator of a lessening of Merrideth’s pain. Beyond the well of despair that Abby had sensed from the very beginning and had been confident she could heal, something burst and Merrideth’s words came out in a raging torrent.
“If Colonel Miles could see this pitiful so-called town, I bet he’d puke. And you saw Abraham Lincoln—such a good man—pouring out his heart in that speech, standing up for what’s right. But no one listened. No one voted for him.”
“Yeah, but…”
“It’s the same for me. It’s my fate to be a failure, isn’t it? Fat and stupid, right? No wonder Dad left! Who would want to be around such a loser?”
“Merrideth, you’re not a loser! Maybe you have a few areas you’re weak in—we all do—but you’re making such improvement.”
“And Mom stays away as much as she can,” Merrideth said as if she hadn’t heard. “I used to try so hard to be good, but I never could make them happy. So I stopped wasting time. Why did you ever come here and start making me want to try again? I was doing just fine before you got here.”
With that bombshell, Merrideth ran from the room.
“Oh, Merrideth…”
She’d known all along that she had a good brain, but clearly, Merrideth had been thinking more deeply than she had. And she was supposed to be the teacher? Abby felt ashamed that she had been so glib, so sure she—a silly college girl—could cure Merrideth. It had taken the death of Charlotte—be she real or only virtual, Abby still wasn’t sure—to reveal to her that Merrideth’s depression and spiritual pain were far worse than she had imagined.
“And I was so worried about her bathing habits. I haven’t helped her at all.” She sank into the chair and lay her head down next to the keyboard.
“Dear God,” she whispered, “I can’t do it. I realize that now. Please help me to help Merrideth.”
Chapter 18
“Merrideth,” Abby whispered. “Wake up, kiddo.” She gently laid her hand on the sleeping girl’s shoulder. The room was dark except for the light from the hall. Wind blew in through the windows, bringing the sound of rustling leaves, and at long last, the sweet smell of approaching rain. Abby’s hair blew softly around her face.
“Wha—?” Merrideth sat up in bed and rubbed her red and tear-swollen eyes like a toddler.
“Hurry. I want to show you something before the storm gets here.”
“What time is it?”
“Three-thirty. I couldn’t sleep so I did some more time-surfing.”
“You’re crazy if you think I’m going to watch any more of that.” Merrideth fell back onto her pillow and turned away.
“It’s Charlotte. She didn’t die. Come see.”
Abby was afraid she would have to coax her, but Merrideth stumbled from her bed and followed Abby down the hall.
“She didn’t?” Merrideth asked, confused.
“Nope. Look. There she is.”
Abby clicked the mouse and the action on the screen that she had paused resumed. Charlotte sat in the parlor with her bandaged foot on a pillow. She looked pale and in pain, but smiled when Lucinda came in from the kitchen carrying a tea tray.
Abby paused it again. “If only I had remembered the dates from the library book, I would have known that Charlotte lived for many years after the war.”
Merrideth started to take the mouse, but Abby stopped her. “Charlotte did some pretty amazing things after this. I want to show you, but some of it’s hard to watch.”
Merrideth put her hands over her eyes. “I can’t stand to see any more of—”
“I don’t mean that. Rememb
er the gourd hanging on Charlotte’s front door?”
“Yeah?”
“It kept bugging me, so I looked it up. Gourd dippers were often used during that time as a symbol of the Big Dipper and thus the North Star.”
“I think I’m still asleep. You’re not making any sense.”
“As runaway slaves went north following the North Star, they knew that a gourd dipper hanging on a front door meant it was a safe house. The reason Charlotte seemed so nervous when the soldiers were there was because she was harboring slaves in her attic.”
“You’re saying this house was part of the Underground Railroad?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Remember that part about the cat?”
“Yes, that was weird. That sound wasn’t a cat, was it?”
“Nope. It was a little boy crying because he was hungry. He and his older brother and mother were up in the attic the whole time Charlotte was serving train customers as cool as a cucumber in her dining room. Later, she sent them on their way to another safe house.”
“I want to see.”
“Good. But I’m going to skip over some of it, just because there’s so much I want to show you.”
“And Lord protect those under this roof from those who would do us harm. In Jesus’ name—Oh, and please, dear Lord, give me the strength—and time enough—to get everything done that needs doing. Amen.”
Charlotte rose from her knees and dressed quickly. It was too cold to dawdle. In the kitchen she stoked her cook stove and made a trip out to the smoke house for a slab of salt pork. She sliced it and then made cornbread batter in her blue bowl. She put the cornbread on to bake in one iron skillet and the salt pork on to fry in another.
Someone knocked on the back door and then opened it before Charlotte could finish wiping her hands on her apron.
“Lucinda Brown, what are you doing here so early in the morning?” At twenty-five, she was six years older than Charlotte and considered herself well on the shelf.
