by Beth White
Whatever the reason, he accepted the responsibility and stood atop the bridge marshaling his troops—until he saw a young woman, wearing a familiar sensible hat, leaning out the window of the wrecked car.
“Miss Daughtry!” he shouted. “Are you all right?”
She looked up, squinting into the weak sun. “I’m fine. Just waiting my turn.”
And she was the last one left in the car, God bless her.
“Stay right there—I’m coming.” Hastily giving instructions to an engineer who had come to him with a question, he abandoned his command post and swung down the rope to the cradle dangling just outside the window where Miss Daughtry waited, brown eyes anxious.
“No place else to go, Mr. Riggins.” Her smile was tight and her hands shook, but at least she wasn’t a screamer.
“True.” He grabbed the window ledge. “All right, here’s what we’re going to do. You remember how we worked together to get ourselves out from under Mrs. Norton?”
She laughed, and some of the fear leaked from her expression. “I hope she’s safely on the ground now.”
He grinned. “She is. Busy telling the men exactly how to proceed. So now you and I are going on another adventure. Take my hand and climb into the harness while I stabilize it.” When she flinched, he leaned toward her. “Look at my eyes, Selah. I promise I won’t let you fall.”
Two
SPYGLASS PRESSED TO HIS GOOD EYE, Daughtry crouched behind a tree at the edge of the creek running through Buckner’s Ravine. Some forty yards away, the first passenger car lay smashed into shards and chunks of metal and wood, crushed by the two cars behind and on top of it. The intrepid young man in Union blue who had climbed out of the last passenger car and then rappelled down from the bridge had poked about among the crushed cars. Apparently the only survivor he’d found was a gangly boy in his early teens.
The mission was complete. Daughtry watched as the Yankee hero rescued a young woman hanging from one of the precariously leaning upper cars. A woman?
What was a woman doing on a Union train—
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus. The mission. Orders. Blow up the bridge, keep the Yanks from crossing. They mustn’t cross into Mississippi. Tennessee was close to utter surrender, Memphis had already gone Federal, Grant wanted Vicksburg.
Explosives men like Daughtry had become vital assets to the Confederate cause. His training at West Point, though he hadn’t known it at the time, had prepared him to understand the engineering of bridge trestles, terrain, and above all, the composition of explosives—a feat of marvelous efficiency and spectacular beauty, as much art as science.
Indeed the boxcars and passenger cars draped down from the bridge reminded him of other defining events in his lifetime. The night he’d asked Penelope to marry him. The birth of his first child. The purchase of his first brace of slaves. The day his family moved out of the cottage into the big house.
Now he was part of the holy crusade to preserve that exquisite autonomy of the individual. The enemy must be sent running in respectful terror back to the kennel. Only then could Daughtry and his brothers-in-arms return to their children, mourn their losses, and reclaim their rightful places as masters of the homes they had built.
But it was so hard. The jagged agony in his head never left, and Penny wasn’t going to like moving to Mexico. The girls would be fine. They had learned Spanish at that liberal school and he’d gotten them out just in time.
He collapsed the spyglass, slid to the ground at the back side of the tree, and lay down with the leaden sky rotating above him.
Something about the whole scene wasn’t making sense.
The world exploded in a blast of purple and orange as he grabbed his head, succumbing once again to the pain.
Three
SELAH LOOKED UP and met Levi Riggins’s intent hazel eyes. His tall, lean body coiled around the rope, reminding her of a troupe of riverboat circus acrobats who had visited the plantation before the war. Though her entire body shuddered, his confidence and humor settled her.
But she wasn’t going to look down. She kept her gaze on Riggins’s face. “What do you want me to do next?”
“Sit on the edge of the window with your back to me. Then swing over one leg at a time as you turn around. I’ll keep the harness close to the side of the car so you can slide down into it. Don’t worry, it’ll hold.”
She had to glance at the harness to see what he was talking about, and the dizzying plunge into the ravine below sucked the breath out of her lungs.
He leaned in close again. “Selah, trust me. I’ve got you.”
Her heart galloped, but she could hardly stay on the train, waiting for it to go crashing into the ravine.
“All right,” she said, releasing a long breath. “Here we go.”
She turned her back and bunched her skirt up to her knees as she sat on the window ledge. Trying to ignore her hot face and trembling limbs, she soon found herself awkwardly enveloped in the harness, dangling forty feet in midair with Levi Riggins’s arms around her. Feeling as if she might be sick or faint, or both, she flung both arms about her rescuer’s waist and hid her face against his chest.
“Hey, hey, you did just fine,” he said in her ear. “Now all we have to do is let them lower us to the ground.”
“Is that all?” she said with a weak laugh. “I can’t look.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll let you know when we’re about to reach the ground.”
“All right—” The word ended on a squeak as the harness jolted and began to swing with the rope’s descent. “Oh, my goodness, we’re going fast!”
“You’re one of the bravest women I’ve ever met. Doing what you have to do when you’re afraid—that’s what courage is.”
Riggins seemed like someone who would understand that in a most personal way. Curiosity about him overcame some of her fear. But before she could think of a suitable response, the harness jerked once more as their descent slowed. Daring to open her eyes, she saw that they were within a few feet of the ground, and that a circle of men waited to assist her. A long line of buggies and wagons snaked out of the clearing as far as the eye could see.
Riggins had already jumped to the ground and stood waiting to assist her out of the harness. Selah was soon on her feet, trying to control her buckling knees. When Riggins slipped a strong arm about her waist with no fuss or comment, she looked up at him with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
“I was a little weak in the pins after my first trip down too.” He winked and all but carried her toward a wagon waiting nearby.
“Really, I’m fine,” she said breathlessly. His touch was far from intimate, but still . . . “There must be others who need you right now.”
“All the survivors are out now. I’ll stay and help with the removal of the poor souls who didn’t make it out alive. The railroad will take over everything else.” His arm about her tightened a bit, as if he wanted to comfort her. “I wish I could come with you, to make sure you arrive safely.”
He’d had an extraordinarily stressful afternoon, and he must be exhausted, hungry, and frustrated at the delay. Yet he had gone out of his way to be kind to her. “Mr. Riggins, I can hardly tell you how deeply I appreciate—”
“I’ve only done what any man with an ounce of sense would have done, Miss Daughtry.” He hesitated, then added, “Though I don’t know if you’re Miss Daughtry after all. Perhaps you have a husband who is worried sick about your failure to arrive—”
“No. I’m not married.” Overcome with the awkwardness of the situation, Selah looked away and encountered the wide-eyed stare of a tall, skinny young teen standing beside a large wagon with “J. A. SPENCER, FINE MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS AND PIANO TUNING” lettered along its side.
Riggins followed her gaze. “Miss Daughtry, this is Wyatt. He is one of a handful of survivors from the cars ahead of us. You and he will be traveling with—ah, here he is.”
A bespectacled man with a graying beard r
ose from behind the horses and approached, smiling, as Riggins made the introductions.
“Mr. Spencer, meet Miss Selah Daughtry. Miss Daughtry, Mr. Spencer is one of the fine Oxford citizens who has come to lend his aid in the emergency.”
As Selah curtsied, Spencer touched his bowler hat. “Happy to be of service,” he said warmly. “I’m very glad you were not injured. My wife and I would be honored if you’d stay the night with our family. No doubt the hotels are all full by now.”
“Thank you for your generosity.” Selah glanced at Riggins. “I don’t want to inconvenience you—”
“Put it right out of your mind.” Spencer waved a hand. “My wife takes the Good Book seriously and would banish me to the barn if I failed to extend hospitality to strangers in need.”
Selah smiled. “Well, I wouldn’t want to be the cause of marital discord. In that case, perhaps Mr. Riggins would give me a hand up. You must be anxious to get home.”
Riggins gave her arm an appreciative squeeze, then held her elbow as she climbed onto the seat. Meanwhile, the boy named Wyatt scrambled into the back of the wagon.
Once she was settled, Selah looked down at him, suddenly bereft at the thought of parting so soon. “Thank you again for all you’ve done today.”
Backlit by the sun going down behind the bridge, his face was shadowed. He touched the brim of his hat in a courtly gesture, then addressed Spencer, who had clambered onto the driver’s seat and taken up the reins. “I’m certain your Good Samaritan deeds won’t go unrewarded, but I’d be happy to reimburse you for any expenses you incur on behalf of Miss Daughtry and the boy.”
Spencer waved away the offer. “Not necessary, I assure you.”
Riggins glanced at young Wyatt, slumped in the back of the wagon. “Even so, I’d like to come by in the morning to see what else I may do for them.”
Spencer stroked his beard thoughtfully. “As justice of the peace, I’ll be responsible for contacting the boy’s relatives. I’d appreciate any help in locating them. Maybe I can convince Miss Daughtry to linger until you come by. What do you think, Miss Daughtry?”
“I should be glad to see you again, Mr. Riggins,” she said with what dignity she could muster.
Spencer nodded. “Then, it’s settled. Breakfast with the Spencer clan at eight.” Waving at Riggins, he gave the horses leave to start.
Selah resisted the urge to look over her shoulder at her rescuer. Maybe something nice would come of this awful day after all.
Oxford, Mississippi
By the time they arrived in Oxford, Selah and the loquacious Mr. J. A. Spencer had become fast friends. She discovered him to be, besides the purveyor of an up-and-coming music business and justice of the peace, married to his childhood sweetheart and father to a quiverful of boys and girls aged fourteen down to an infant still on the breast. As they entered his tidy home near the business district, his bustling, energetic wife welcomed the two unexpected guests with open arms. After providing them with nightwear and a comforting mug of hot milk each, she settled Selah in for the night with her two eldest daughters and Wyatt with the little boys.
As she listened to the girls whisper in the dark about the accident until they fell asleep, Selah lay praying for Wyatt. The boy had endured the ride to Oxford in stoic quiet, his arms propped on bony knees and chin on his chest. He struck Selah as a little too sober and mature for his age, like a college professor in a fourteen-year-old body. Though he hadn’t shed a tear, she couldn’t believe he was not traumatized by the loss of his father.
Finally she slipped out of bed, pulling on the wrapper Mrs. Spencer had loaned her, and tiptoed to the living room. Maybe she could find a book and read by the fire until she got sleepy.
At the doorway, she stopped short. Wyatt sat on the hearth, wrapped in a blanket.
“Hullo, Miss Selah,” he said softly. “You not sleeping either?”
She approached and knelt on the rug at the boy’s feet. “I keep thinking about . . . today.”
“I know.” He shrugged.
They sat in companionable silence for a time, then she gently touched his bare foot. “Wyatt, honey, are you hungry? I could probably find us something to eat.”
“No, ma’am. But if you are, go right ahead. Also you don’t have to stay awake with me. I know you must be tired.”
The oddly correct speech pattern, not to mention unusual concern for an adult’s well-being, went to her heart. “I’m tired, but I don’t think I can sleep yet. Why don’t you tell me a little about your family. Sometimes talking about it will ease the pain. Mr. Riggins told me you lost your father today.”
“Yes.” He sighed. “You’re going to think I’m hard-hearted, but I didn’t know him very well. It’s just that I’ll need to work somewhere, and I’m worried that nobody is going to hire a fourteen-year-old kid—”
“Wait. Start over. Where’s your mother?”
“She’s dead. Died of scarlet fever just before Christmas.”
“But you didn’t know your father . . . ?”
“It’s a bit complicated. My mother and I lived up in the Tennessee hills with her folks. Pa was a railroad man and gone a lot. He was a Union sympathizer too.” Wyatt swallowed, glancing at Selah as if not sure how much to reveal to a Southern gentlewoman.
Selah nodded. “What happened?”
“Well, when I was about seven or so, some Rebel soldiers came through, looking for what they called traitors. Somebody turned Pa in, and the Rebs came after him. I was watching from the hayloft when they marched him away. I thought we’d never see him again, but he returned one night about a week later to say goodbye. He said he’d escaped and had to leave until after the war, when it would be safe to come back for us.”
Fighting tears, Selah stared at the boy. She and her sisters had experienced a good deal of hardship, but at least they’d been old enough to understand what was going on, and they’d had Uncle Frederick as a buffer through the worst of it. She couldn’t imagine what this child had been through, living in war-torn Tennessee. “When was the next time you saw him?”
“After the war, he went to work for the railroad in New Orleans. He sent money every now and again, but never came back to Tennessee. After my mother died, I wrote to Pa to let him know. He came for me a couple of weeks ago.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t come back for you sooner.”
“Of course I asked him why he didn’t, but he wouldn’t give me a straight answer.” Wyatt’s mouth tightened. “He seemed to be afraid people were still looking for him.” The boy looked away. “Frankly, I think he was a little crazy.”
Selah thought so too. “But now . . . Perhaps you’d better go back to your relatives—”
“I’m not going back to Tennessee.” Wyatt’s voice cracked on a stubborn note. “I want to go to school and learn to be a doctor. Do you know how I could do that?”
Selah blinked. “Well . . . I could perhaps find out. I have a good friend at home in Tupelo who is a physician. I imagine he could steer you in the right direction.”
Wyatt’s body straightened with excitement. “That would be—oh, ma’am, I’ll do whatever you need me to do, to earn my way!”
Selah restrained her impulse to exclaim that Wyatt had misunderstood her—that she hadn’t meant she’d take him home with her. How on earth would she pay an extra fare when she could barely afford her own? And where would he stay? Unable to keep up the big house, she and Joelle and their second cousin ThomasAnne had been living in cramped quarters in the tiny agent’s house, subsisting on next to nothing—to the point that it looked like they would be forced to comply with their grandparents’ demands that they come to Memphis.
Words boiled on her tongue, ready to spill out and dash the flare of hope in the boy’s tired, sad eyes.
“I’m not sure how we’ll do it,” she heard herself say, “but we’ll manage something.”
She said good night to Wyatt, went back to bed, and lay there for a long time. Despite her concert
ed effort to “let today’s worries be sufficient unto themselves,” an ocean of worries flooded in, through, and over her. Her father, crippled mentally and physically by his losses, living like a vagrant in the woods. The strong possibility—in fact, the near inevitability—of being forced from her home. Her worry over Aurora’s flibbertigibbet ways.
She struggled with hopelessness, an enemy who roared against her on a nightly basis. Almost unable to breathe, she grasped for verses she’d learned as a child. “The LORD is my Shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me . . .”
At last she fell asleep.
Levi sat by the fire in the constable’s home, chewing on the tip of his pen, notebook open on his lap. He couldn’t stop thinking about the broken bodies. He’d spent a grim, grueling couple of hours helping to recover the last of the train wreck victims and send them off in the mortuary wagon. By the time they’d finished, darkness blanketed the ravine, so he’d gladly accepted the constable’s offer of a ride into town and a roof over his head.
Now every bone ached with weariness, and his injured shoulder was on fire. He rubbed it, remembering days during the war when he’d been encamped in much less hospitable circumstances. Nothing to look forward to on the morrow but another breakfast of hardtack, fatback, and boiled beans—and the privilege of being shot at by a fierce, cunning enemy motivated to protect home and property at all costs.
By God’s grace, he’d survived. Following Lee’s surrender at Appomattox, he’d resigned his commission and gone home to Illinois. At first he’d been all right, working for his father, recovering his humanity under the gentle, prayerful hands of his mother and sisters. But Lincoln’s assassination had come as a bitter blow, setting him adrift in grief that even his music couldn’t reach. Finally his father saw an advertisement in the local paper for Pinkerton agents and in desperation sent him off to Chicago.
“Keep your mind busy as well as your hands, boy,” Pa had said. “You’d be good at this.” When Levi protested that he was needed in the store, Pa brushed him off. “You’re scaring off all my customers with that sour face.”
