Brides of Georgia

by Connie Stevens

  Charity stepped off the town doctor’s porch and tucked her notebook into her pocket. Doctor Jonas Greenway had some interesting comments about the war and the reconnecting of all the states back into one nation, from a medical point of view. He’d seen and treated his share of war casualties from both sides. As he’d said so eloquently, “Soldiers don’t bleed blue or gray. As a doctor, their blood was all the same to me.” He told her he’d not prayed for the South or the North to win the war. He simply prayed for the war to be over. She’d filled several pages with notes.

  Her only disappointment in the interview with the doctor was that he had no knowledge of a former slave named Wylie. Since he’d been away, attached to a regiment as a field surgeon, he’d not returned to Juniper Springs until after the Covington Plantation house burned.

  She wished to interview Simon Pembroke as well, since the man hailed from Massachusetts. His take on the subject might prove interesting, but she didn’t know how to approach the man without encountering Mr. Covington. She puzzled over the quandary.

  After their confrontation in the boardinghouse kitchen ended with such a strange twist, for some reason, his feelings were important to her. After she’d recalled their heated discussion, she still couldn’t put her finger on what had affected him to such a degree that he turned momentarily pale and speechless. But whatever the reason, it moved him visibly, and she desired to sit down with him again for another conversation.

  Tate Ridley proved disconcerting. She found him rude and openly hostile, but he wasn’t alone. Many Southerners still held deep resentment toward Reconstruction. She’d not anticipated encountering such hateful contention, but like it or not, she must include it in her articles.

  Clearly, she didn’t have a complete understanding of both sides. Until now, she’d only considered the perspective with which she and her mother had lived during the war and in the months to follow as they awaited word from her father. After her conversation with the doctor, chagrin pinched her as she acknowledged the thousands of Southern women who lost loved ones in the bloody conflict.

  Pondering the depth of the research and inquires she still needed, she couldn’t put off contacting her editor any longer. Mr. Peabody tended to be a stickler for accuracy, so hopefully he’d agree to extend her deadline.

  Charity stopped at the telegraph office and wrote out a brief message to the magazine editor indicating she’d need more time. The telegram cost much more than sending a letter, but she justified the expense, anticipating Mr. Peabody to be pleased with her meticulous fact-finding.

  She stepped out the door of the telegraph office into the warm Georgia sunshine. Despite being late September, she didn’t need a shawl at midday. The mountains just to the west of town shimmered with dappled autumn colors. Charity paused to appreciate the view. The mountains were strong, enduring for millennia, and even a tragedy like the war couldn’t destroy them. They stood as a silent testament of God’s power and strength. Charity took solace in the thought.

  Up the street, the schoolchildren spilled out of the schoolhouse, scrambling for the best place in the yard to eat their lunch. She had an appointment to speak with the town lawyer, Ben Latimer, and she didn’t want to be late. She checked the time. Thirty more minutes—time to stroll around the little town.

  She backtracked and walked along a treed lane that led to the tumbling creek. Pembroke Sawmill stood on the opposite bank. On the far side of the lumberyard, Dale Covington wrangled a team of mules, hitching them to a massive log and driving them forward to drag the giant tree trunk into position for the saw blade. As she watched him, she imagined the drastic change the war brought to his life, and she admitted her shame to the Lord for her initial critical attitude in depreciating the man’s losses. Enduring wounds on the battlefield and his house burning to the ground would be hard for anyone to bear.

  Concealed by a holly bush, she watched him work. No doubt he’d once been a wealthy man if he owned a plantation. Now that he had no grand house or land, and no slaves to work for him, he earned his wage by the sweat of his brow. There was nothing careless or lazy in the way he did his job. For that, he earned her admiration.

  She found it interesting that he stayed in Juniper Springs and found employment after the war, especially doing physical labor. How difficult had it been for him to remain in the area where he’d once been a prominent landowner? He must have known humiliation at having his social status jerked out from under him. Why did he stay here? Did he ever consider going someplace where nobody knew him? Her curiosity piqued, and she wondered if she’d dare ask him such questions, even in the name of research.

  Charity scribbled as fast as she could push her pencil. Mr. Latimer, whose speech patterns identified him as a Southerner, gave her some insightful answers to her questions from the legal angle, explaining the process by which the legislature ratified the amendments required for readmission to the Union. In addition, he clarified the different periods of Reconstruction, outlining the nullifying of the state constitution before reorganization would take place.

  Latimer leaned back in his desk chair. “Two years ago, the General Assembly expelled twenty-eight Negro members newly elected to the legislature because the state constitution didn’t specifically give blacks the right to hold public office. Then they reversed their own decision on the fourteenth amendment, so the Federals returned and occupied the state again.” He shook his head. “It’s been a wickedly hard time for the people of Georgia.”

  Charity paused and tapped her pencil on her chin. “But why didn’t they simply go along with the stipulations set down by the Federal court in the first place? It seems to me the Georgia Assembly made it harder on the people by continuing their rebellious posturing.”

  Latimer stroked his trimmed gray beard. “Some would agree with you, but you must remember Southerners are a proud people. They refused to admit defeat, and noncompliance with the demands of Congress was to them an act of pride and independence. Whether it was good for the people wasn’t really taken into consideration.”

  Charity jotted down the lawyer’s comments and closed her notebook. “I wonder if you could answer a couple of unrelated questions.”

  Latimer pulled out his pocket watch and flipped the cover open. “I have to be at the courthouse shortly, but I have a few minutes.”

  Charity breathed a quick prayer. “Would you happen to know of a former slave who worked at Covington Plantation before it burned? His name was Wylie.”

  Latimer frowned. “A slave, you say.” His tone shifted. After being more than willing to supply information for her magazine articles, disapproval now peppered his voice. “A young lady like yourself shouldn’t be pursuing a darkie. Why would your magazine send you on such an unseemly errand?”

  Charity tightened her grip on her notebook, sliding her defensive bearing into place. “It has nothing to do with the magazine.” She straightened her shoulders. “Wylie is my friend’s son, and she longs to find him. I promised her I’d do everything I could.”

  The lawyer’s brow furrowed into a V, and he shook his head. “It’s unbefitting and crosses the line of propriety. I don’t know any darkies by name. There’s some that live on the other side of the river, but it’s no place for a lady to go.”

  “I see.” She stood and smoothed her skirt. The muscles in her neck twitched, a warning sign that her temper was about make an appearance. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Latimer.”

  He rose and came around the side of his desk and took her hand. His gracious demeanor returned. “If there’s anything else I can do to help you, why you just come by and we’ll have another chat.”

  After acting like her Uncle Luther, showing gross disapproval of her mission to find Wylie, Mr. Latimer turned back into the benevolent sage. She walked toward the door before he could see her smirk. He strode past her to open the door in gallant fashion.

  She paused, clutching her reticule in one hand and her notebook in the other. Turning to face the lawyer, sh
e voiced one more hesitant question.

  “By any chance would you know where the prisoner of war records are kept?”

  Latimer rubbed his hand over his whiskered chin. “There was more than one prisoner of war encampment. The largest, of course, was at Andersonville. But I would suppose those are confidential military files. Why? Was this Wylie fellow a prisoner of war?”

  A cold chill ran through her at the mention of Andersonville, the notorious prison where so many men died. The very thought of her father being imprisoned there nauseated her.

  “I don’t know about Wylie. I’m not even sure if he fought in the war. I’m looking for…a particular name.”

  “No.” Latimer shook his head. “I’m not familiar with military courts. Perhaps if you contacted the war department in Washington.”

  She’d already done that five years ago, but they’d been unable to help since the records she sought were from the Confederacy.

  “The man for whom I’m searching was a Union officer who was wounded and captured by the Confederate army in a battle here in Georgia.”

  The man arched his brow. “Oh?”

  “His family is hoping for some kind of official statement…one way or the other.”

  “I’m truly sorry, Miss Galbraith.” He sounded as if he suspected the person for whom she searched was dear to her. “I wouldn’t know where such military records are kept, or if they are open to the public.”

  A lump grew in Charity’s throat, and she forced a tiny smile. “Thank you, Mr. Latimer.” An ominous burning in her eyes warned of eminent embarrassment. She hurried down the boardwalk.

  How many dead ends must she encounter before she finally gave up?

  Chapter 6

  Charity sat at the kitchen table across from Hannah Sparrow. The heavenly aroma of sweet potato pies cooling on the windowsill seasoned the air in the room while they sipped their tea.

  “So, now that you’ve been here almost two weeks, how do you like our little town?” Hannah pushed a plate heaped with oatmeal cookies in Charity’s direction.

  Charity relaxed in the cozy kitchen and in the comfortable presence of the woman. “It’s lovely.”

  Hannah cocked her head. “That sounds as if there is something you’d like to add but don’t want to offend anyone.” She softened the remark with a smile that deepened the creases around her gray eyes.

  “Well, I will admit I’ve encountered a few people who will probably not be added to my Christmas list.” She took a nibble of a thick cookie and savored the cinnamony flavor.

  Hannah’s hearty laughter filled the kitchen. “At least you’re honest.” She selected a cookie and munched. “How is your research going?”

  “Fairly well. I’ve spoken with a few people but have several more I’d like to interview, which reminds me”—she pulled her notebook from her pocket—“would you mind answering a few questions?”

  “Me? Merciful heavens, child, couldn’t you find anyone more interesting to talk to?”

  Charity grinned. She would miss this sweet woman when it came time to go home. “I’m talking with people from all walks of life to get different perspectives.”

  Hannah reached for the teapot and refreshed her cup. “I can’t imagine anything I have to say being of interest to anyone outside of Juniper Springs, but I’ll help whatever way I can.”

  Charity opened the notebook and flipped several pages, but when she pulled out her pencil, she paused. “May I ask you about something else first, Hannah?”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  Charity explained about her mission to search for Essie’s son and asked if Hannah knew of Wylie. The woman’s eyes misted.

  “No, I’m sorry, but I don’t know him. I can’t imagine how your friend felt being separated from her child. The practices associated with keeping slaves were pretty heartless.” She reached across the table and patted Charity’s hand. “I’ll be praying you find this Wylie so his mama can hold him in her arms again.” Her voice held a wistful note. “Dale Covington didn’t remember him?”

  “No, and after he explained why, I tried to understand. Things are just so different here from the way I grew up.”

  Hannah nodded. “Yes. Those differences are what tore our country apart.”

  Charity tapped her pencil on the blank page of her notebook. “Has the war and the Reconstruction affected your business here?”

  “No.” Hannah shook her head. “Not much. I had a couple of boarders who joined the state militia when the war first broke out. They were both killed. Owen Dinsmore died at Shiloh and Randall Kimber at Chancellorsville. Both of them had lived here at the boardinghouse for a few years.

  “Two of the boarders I have now came after the war. Arch Wheeler is from New York and fought with the Union army. He came to take over at the land office after Randall was killed.”

  “Is that why Tate Ridley dislikes him so much?”

  Hannah sighed. “I suppose. Those two haven’t gotten along since the first day Arch arrived. Elden Hardy is from West Virginia. He doesn’t talk much about the war, but a few suspect he was one who was denied citizenship in West Virginia because he aided the Confederacy.”

  Charity sipped her tea. “What about the town? You’ve been here most of your life, right?”

  “I’ve lived in this area for thirty-five years. There were a lot of hardships during the war. With most of the able-bodied men from age sixteen to fifty off fighting, most of the work fell to the women and children. We didn’t experience the food shortages to the degree that the cities did because most folks around here raised their own food, but there were things we couldn’t get. Coffee was scarce and salt was rationed.”

  “How has the town changed since the war?”

  “It’s grown.” Hannah reached for another cookie. “I remember when Juniper Springs wasn’t much more than a half-dozen buildings. Now there are over thirty businesses. Simon Pembroke and a few others came to the area after the war and bought up land cheap.”

  Charity watched Hannah’s eyes as she talked—“the windows to the soul” her mother used to say. Emotions lingered behind her landlady’s eyes. “Are you saying these men came to make money on the rebuilding? Sounds like they’re war profiteers.”

  Hannah splayed her hands on the table and shrugged. “I didn’t mean to sound harsh, but I suppose they did come for the opportunities. Some resented it. Simon bought several hundred acres of timber and built the sawmill. But now he employs fourteen men—some work in the woods felling trees, and others work at the mill. Not only do these men have good jobs, Simon also provides a service we didn’t have before the war. Four other new businesses opened in town, and over a dozen new families make this their home.”

  Charity laid her pencil down and leaned closer to Hannah. “Doesn’t Tate Ridley work at the sawmill?”

  “That’s right.”

  Charity rolled the information over in her mind. “Tate doesn’t like Arch because he’s a Northerner who came here and took the job that one of the local men used to have, but Tate works for Simon, who is also a Northerner who came here, some say, to make money from the war.” She cocked her head. “Isn’t that a contradiction?”

  Hannah rose and pumped more water into the kettle. “Tate says if a man is handing out money, he’ll take it.” She set the kettle on the stove and poked another piece of stove wood into the firebox. “To answer your question, yes, it seemed so to me as well, but Tate’s ethics are his own business.”

  Charity picked up her pencil again. “So then I imagine Simon has made a lot of money supplying lumber for all the rebuilding over the past five years.”

  Hannah reclaimed her seat. “There wasn’t a lot of destruction in this part of the state, but I think the sawmill has supplied building materials for some places south of here.”

  Charity tipped her head to one side. “Not a lot of destruction? But what about Covington Plantation?”

  Dismay creased Hannah’s face. “There were skirmishes,
and certainly there were troops who passed through. But the worst were the scavengers toward the end of the war. They looted and burned several places, including Covington Plantation.” She shook her head. “It was a terrible time. Even here in town we were in fear for our safety, but more from the scavengers than the actual fighting.”

  Charity jotted down some notes. She paused. How to address the next part of the conversation? She asked God for discretion and proceeded carefully. “Hannah, yesterday at church I noticed a large plaque on the wall with all the names of those men from this area who were killed in the war.”

  Hannah seemed to age a few years in the time it took to for Charity to speak her observation, as if the woman knew what Charity’s next question would be.

  “There are two names on the plaque—Matthew Sparrow and Edwin Sparrow. Were they your sons?”

  A faraway look eased into Hannah’s gray eyes. “Yes. I lost both my sons in the war. Matthew fell at Chickamauga in September of 1863. I traveled there to see his grave two years ago. It gave me a bit of peace to lay wildflowers there and ask God to take care of my boy.”

  Charity didn’t interrupt. What could she say? How did one comfort a mother on the loss of her child? The ache she felt for Essie grew with Hannah’s telling of her grief.

  “I think Edwin died at Gettysburg.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “So many fine young men, their lives snuffed out like a candle.”

  She thought? Charity couldn’t force the words past her lips. She sat without moving, barely taking a breath for fear of disturbing Hannah’s deep, sad musing.

  “I don’t know where Edwin is buried.” Hannah pressed her lips together and the tiny lines between her eyes deepened. “That plaque was put up just a few months ago.” Her grief was underscored by her strained words. “People fussed and argued over it for five years.”

  How odd. Why would people not want to put up a memorial to their loved ones and friends who died in the war? Her puzzlement must have shown on her face, because Hannah explained.