Brides of Georgia

by Connie Stevens

  “The war had already started. I’d been away for months. I’d barely received word that Father was ill when the telegram came saying he’d died. I couldn’t get home for the funeral, but I was told they laid him to rest beside my mother.” He knew he wasn’t answering her question, but she didn’t interrupt, as if encouraging him to take his time.

  He buttered a biscuit, but then laid it on his plate without taking a bite. He ran his finger around the rim of his coffee cup. “I had been with Major General Cleburne for some time, but when President Davis relieved General Johnston and appointed General Hood to take his place, Hood needed reinforcements. I was sent, along with part of our regiment to attach to Hood’s in July of 1864. The Yankees were threatening to overrun Atlanta, and our job was to stop them at Peachtree Creek.”

  He sat back, the memory flooding over him, as it often did.

  “The fighting at Peachtree Creek was fierce, and we were all exhausted. I was hit in the side.” He rubbed the place with his fingers. “I tried to crawl to some bushes, but I was hit again, this time in the leg. I couldn’t move, and I knew I was going to die.”

  Charity covered her mouth with her fingers.

  “There was a soldier—I’d not known him before I joined Hood. He was a black man, no doubt a slave who’d been sent to fight in the place of his master. He bent over me and told me I was going to be all right. He picked me up in his arms like I was a child and carried me to some thick underbrush until the battle was over. I drifted in and out of consciousness, but every time I opened my eyes, he was there. He made some kind of poultice for my wounds. I remember him talking the whole time, but he wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to Jesus, asking Him for strength to carry me and asking Him to let me live. That man carried me for two days until we reached a regiment that had a doctor.” He looked across the table at Charity. Tears shimmered in her eyes.

  “I never knew his name.”

  Chapter 9

  Charity took Dale’s arm and a flutter of butterflies turned loose in her stomach. She clutched her shawl with her free hand. Darkness had fallen and the lantern light that spilled over the boardwalk cast ghostly shadows against the buildings as Charity and Dale strolled past. The evening air held a chill, but walking next to Dale felt warm.

  The short route from the café to the boardinghouse didn’t allow much time for conversation, but Dale had spoken volumes over dinner, even when he sat silently poking at his food with his fork. In those moments when their gazes locked, his eyes cracked open the door to his innermost secrets, and Charity caught a brief peek at the man he was on the inside. A surprisingly compassionate person hid behind the sullen, brooding expression she’d met the first day she made his acquaintance. As they made their way through the gathering night, the man he was on the outside barely limped at all.

  “I’ve enjoyed the evening, Dale. Thank you.” She looked up at him. The lanterns were spaced far enough apart that the light danced across his face and then hid as they moved along.

  His brow dipped in consternation. “Charity, I’ve never told anybody what I told you tonight, about how that black soldier saved my life.”

  A warm flush twined up her neck and into her face. “Then I feel very honored that you would confide such a remarkable experience to me.”

  “But are you going to…write about it?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to.”

  He gave a short nod, seemingly satisfied that he could trust her not to betray his confidence.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to give credit to that soldier. I should.” His voice dropped off, almost as if he was speaking more to himself than to her.

  Was he embarrassed to admit a black man had saved him?

  He halted and turned to face her. “Charity, there is more to that story that I didn’t tell you. During those two days that soldier took care of me and carried me to safety, I never once spoke to him.” Self-deprecation laced his tone. “He’d offer me a drink, and I grunted and nodded. He knew I was in a lot of pain, so we stopped to rest often, but he rarely spoke directly to me, other than telling me I was going to be all right. He kept up a running conversation with the Lord, though. I listened to him pray for two days, and he talked to Jesus like a best friend.”

  He dropped his gaze to the boardwalk. “Charity, I never asked his name. I never even thanked him.” He turned his head as if looking her in the eye as he admitted his shortcomings was too difficult.

  Charity waited. An owl hooted in the distance and a breeze stirred the air.

  “I wish I knew his name, and I wish I’d shaken his hand.” A sigh that sounded more like a groan escaped his lips, and he shook his head.

  She reached out and touched his cuff. “Dale, have you ever read the parable of the two sons?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Jesus told a story about a man who had two sons. He went to the first son and told him to go work in the father’s vineyard, and the son refused. Later, the son repented and went and worked in the vineyard.”

  She paused to give him time to digest the scenario. “Then the father went to the second son and told him to go work in the vineyard, and the son said he would do it, but he didn’t.”

  A frown dipped Dale’s mouth. “What does that have to do with the soldier who took care of me?”

  A fleeting prayer winged toward heaven. Please, don’t let me offend him, Lord.

  “Which one of the sons did the father’s will?”

  Dale shrugged. “The first one, but I still don’t understand.”

  “You might have started out with a hard heart, but your heart has changed.”

  A scowl interrupted his features.

  She prayed he wasn’t angry. “God knows we’re going to stumble and fall once in a while, but He doesn’t leave us where we fall. He picks us up and gives us another chance.”

  His expression mellowed and softened, and finally he gave a slow nod. “I understand what you’re saying. I’ll have to do some thinking about it.”

  The lanterns hanging from the front porch of the boardinghouse came into view, and Dale’s steps slowed. “Would you allow me to read your articles when you’ve finished writing them?”

  She arched her eyebrows. “You want to proofread them, or don’t you trust me to write impartially?”

  He chuckled. “I’m curious. In your short time here you’ve been quite thorough in your research. From what I can see you’ve interviewed quite a few people.”

  She peeked at him from the corner of her eye. “I’d like to interview Simon Pembroke. Would it bother you if I did that?”

  “No, it wouldn’t bother me, but I don’t know when you would catch him at the mill.”

  She tipped her head up. “Isn’t he there every day?”

  “He was. He’s purchased more timber land, and he’s out there supervising the forming of crews. He left me in charge.”

  Charity halted at the bottom of the porch steps. “Really? He gave you a promotion?”

  “Is that so surprising?” He scowled at her, defensiveness in his voice.

  “Oh no! I mean, you…I’m sure you can…it’s just—”

  Dale laughed out loud. “Did you know you squeak when you get flustered?”

  Charity plunked her hands on her hips. “Dale Covington, are you trying to provoke me?”

  He caught her hand and placed it back on his arm. “Simon promoted me to foreman because he needs someone to oversee the mill operation while he’s out in the field.”

  Heat scorched her face. “That’s wonderful, Dale. Truly. The reason I was surprised is because I know there are some who consider him a carpetbagger, and you’re a Southerner. There is no animosity between you?”

  They climbed the stairs and leaned against the porch railing. “I suppose there was at first. But over the past few years we’ve put aside our differences.”

  “Did he say when he’d be back at the mill?”

  “Probably not until next
week.”

  Charity glanced at the boardinghouse window where a few of the boarders sat in the parlor. She didn’t see Tate Ridley but couldn’t help wondering how the man felt about Dale’s promotion. She shivered.

  Dale placed his hand on her back. “You better go inside. It’s chilly out here.”

  “Thank you for a very special evening, Dale.”

  He gave a slow nod. “It was special for me, too.” He walked her to the door and held it open. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Dale.”

  She climbed the stairs to her room and closed the door behind her, her head swirling with a half-dozen different emotions. She lit the lamp and sat with her elbows on the desk, her chin in her hands. She couldn’t deny it. She was attracted to this man. How did that happen?

  When she arrived here three and a half weeks ago, the drawl she heard in everyone’s voice—Dale’s included—sent shards of irritation through her. She’d wanted to blame every person she met for her father not coming home. The day she disembarked the carriage that brought her from Athens to Juniper Springs, she might have walked on the very soil where her father walked, where Wylie may have walked. The thought should have excited her, but that day she’d felt nothing but animosity. She’d thought her anger fueled her perseverance and gave her the motivation to press on. But now her anger and bitterness tumbled and twisted with empathy for Dale, compassion for those who’d lost so much, and even affection for a few of the folks she’d met. On top of everything, the flutters in her stomach every time she welcomed Dale into her thoughts mocked her with the paradox. How would she ever untangle the web?

  “God help me. My feelings are so mixed up. I don’t know how to balance what Dale told me about the slaves and how his attitudes have changed. I prepared myself to dislike him. Last Sunday and tonight he was such a different person from the day I first met him—gentler, caring. I don’t know what to do.”

  Only God could sort out her bewildering emotions and put them in the right order. She closed her eyes and prayed. When she finished, she left her turmoil in God’s hands.

  She readied herself for bed, pulling on the heavier woolen socks and her warm flannel gown. She turned down the lamp and snuggled under the thick quilt Hannah had put on her bed.

  Despite closing her eyes and curling up into a ball, sleep wouldn’t come. She couldn’t dismiss from her mind Dale’s story of the black soldier who saved his life. Her chest tightened with emotion as she recalled Dale’s telling of the way the man cared for his wounds and prayed for him. He was a slave, sent to fight in his master’s place. He could have run off in the heat of battle, but he didn’t. Instead, he asked for God’s help in caring for a white man he didn’t even know.

  She breathed a prayer of gratitude for the black soldier and asked God to bless him. “I wonder if such a man might have tried to care for Father.”

  Dale blew out a frustrated breath. He’d begun inventorying this load of logs twice and lost count both times. A certain lady’s face kept pulling his attention into a state of preoccupied distraction. The wistfulness in Charity’s voice and the longing in her eyes when she spoke of her missing father wouldn’t leave him alone. Their conversation on the back porch of the boardinghouse last Sunday afternoon echoed in his mind as well as the pained look on her face last night in response to his inquiry.

  His own circumstances had haunted him for over six years, but at least he knew what happened. He steeled himself against the onslaught of horror crashing over him again. There was no wondering, no speculation. He’d repeatedly tried to put himself in her place, receiving word that her father had been wounded and captured, but then—nothing.

  He moved back to the opposite side of the wagon and began counting and marking again. Eight at twelve feet. He scrawled the tally. Ten at eight feet, or was that eight at ten feet?

  He and Charity had taken some sure steps toward friendship. How easy it was to tell her about the black soldier who saved his life. He’d never told anyone about that before. A niggling dissatisfaction nipped at him, however. Could he—should he justify forming a friendship with Charity Galbraith, that Yankee woman, as some in town called her? Was it wrong to feel comfortable in her presence and confide in her things he couldn’t bring himself to voice to anyone else, not even Pastor Shuford?

  Guilt skewered him. Wondering whether or not he should pursue a friendship with Charity wasn’t what kept distracting him, and he knew it. As an officer in the Confederate army, he’d been privy to many confidential military files. He knew where the prisoner of war records were kept. Why didn’t he share that information with her? Would she desire friendship with him if she knew?

  Tate Ridley’s words rolled through his mind again. “A Yankee is a Yankee.” Dale ground his teeth, old hostilities slicing across his heart. His entire focus for over four years had been to destroy the enemy. In the aftermath of the war, the acid desire for reciprocation fueled the bitterness of his soul. Why should he care about Charity’s pain? The Federals had inflicted plenty of pain on him. His life had been ravaged. His wounds left him crippled, his home and land stripped away. But his heart screamed when he thought about the one whose very soul mattered more than his own breath; if only he’d been given the chance to lay down his life in place of that one.

  He sucked in a ragged breath and limped across the pole barn to sit on an overturned barrel. He wanted to roar out his pain. His heart pounded in his ears, and the familiar burning ache that started deep in his gut rose up to strangle him again. Pastor Shuford said it was bitterness that crippled him, not his wounds. For the first time, Dale realized what the preacher meant. A physical limp didn’t make him a cripple, not in God’s eyes. The debilitating impairment he dragged around with him was inside, bound by unseen shackles to which he’d clung for so long he wasn’t sure how to peel his emotional fingers away.

  With elbows on his knees, Dale dropped his head into his hands. “Oh, God, the war ended on this land over six years ago, but it still rages within me. I’m so tired of fighting. I hate the way this anger holds me captive.”

  “Let go, son. Let it go. Your hunger for revenge will devour you.”

  Dale raked his hands over his face. “But God, what they did—how do I let it go?”

  “Give it to Me.”

  Letting go of his animosity toward those who took everything from him meant giving God control. Was he ready to do that? Could he take that step?

  On the other side of the lumberyard, Tate Ridley and Jude Farley carried sawn boards from the mill and loaded them onto a wagon. The two made no pretense of their sentiments, openly spouting their hatred for everything connected with the North. In many ways they were more honest than Dale.

  The way he’d looked forward to his evening with Charity last night proved it. The day she arrived and he’d first heard her speak, her Northern twang bayoneted him, and he hated her without even having been introduced. But the conversations he’d had with her over the past couple of weeks chipped away at the brittle rust around his heart. As he walked to the boardinghouse last night, his limp had all but disappeared in his anticipation of their time together. By the time they’d said good night, he could no longer deny he felt something for her. Was he a traitor, as Tate said? A few conversations didn’t change who she was. He’d long equated the word Yankee with enemy. The two were synonymous.

  But the Yankees he faced on the battlefield and his image of Charity weren’t compatible. She wasn’t a warrior. She was a daughter hoping to reconcile in her mind whatever destiny befell her father, and she was a friend seeking to ease the heartache of a mother.

  A thought startled him. What if the black soldier who saved his life was this Wylie for whom Charity was searching? Unlikely, but possible, and a sudden urge to know the answer to that question burned within him.

  He rose and walked back to the rack of logs. With the desire to help Charity find Wylie came another realization—another reason he’d refrained from telling her he had knowledge o
f the prisoner of war records. But this reason had been buried under an avalanche of resentment. Shoveling away the dross, he cleared the way to see his other purpose for keeping that information from her.

  Whether he admitted it or not, the feelings he had for her went beyond empathy. If his suspicions were correct, learning the truth about what happened to her father would only deepen her pain, not relieve it. A stirring of protectiveness in his heart awakened a sense within him he thought was dead. Did that mean he was ready to break out of the bonds of bitterness?

  In wrestling with the decision of whether friendship with Charity was right or wrong, a thread of dissatisfaction wormed through him. Friendship wasn’t what he wanted.

  Chapter 10

  Dale braced himself for an argument. Tate crossed his arms and sneered in response to the instructions Dale just issued to the crew. A couple of the men resented Dale’s new position as foreman, but no one more so than Tate Ridley.

  Tate glanced to his left where Jude leaned against the side of the pole barn, whittling. “Seems to me you been dumpin’ the heaviest work on me and the boys here while you been slackin’ off ever since the boss’s been away. He might’ve made you foreman since the both of you are Yankee-lovers, but it ‘pears mighty lopsided, iffen you ask me.”

  Dale stared, unblinking, at Tate. “I didn’t ask you. Nor do I intend to stand here wasting time explaining the number of orders on this clipboard or the time frame in which this crew of six men must complete these orders. I gave you and Jude and Amos your orders for the day. Since today is Saturday, you need to be finished by noon, or you’ll stay until you are finished.”

  Amos hooted while Tate and Jude looked at each other. Tate took a step forward. “Maybe we’ll just wait for Pembroke and see what he has to say.”

  “If you decide to do that, it’ll be on your own time.” Dale pulled the pencil from behind his ear. “I’m telling you for the last time, Tate. Get busy or go home.”