A handful of men stood and made some uncouth remarks, walking out one after the other. Charity recognized two as the ones who’d accosted her in the alley.
Weariness evidenced itself in the preacher’s voice and face as he addressed those remaining. “Brothers and sisters, instead of a closing hymn, I’d like for us to have a time of silent prayer, and each of us search our hearts for those prejudices God would have us remove.”
Heads bowed and peace reigned. As each one finished praying, feet shuffled and hushed whispers accompanied them as people quietly got up and left. Charity raised her head to find Dale watching her. He rose and held out his hand.
She placed her fingers within the safety of his grasp and joined him tiptoeing out of the church.
Pastor Shuford stood by the door. “Thank you for what you said, Dale. You never told me that before.”
Charity peered up and watched Dale’s jaw twitch. She doubted that she’d ever know how much his speech cost him.
Low, gray clouds hung above the treetops and swallowed the sun as Dale walked her to the boardinghouse in silence, his limp barely perceptible. A chilly breeze shook leaves loose from their tethers and blew them across the road, tumbling with the ones that had fallen before them. No matter how long the leaves clung to the branches, eventually they’d all join the seasonal dance in a patchwork of colors.
They climbed the porch steps at the boardinghouse, and Dale reached for the door. Charity put out her hand to stop him. “I really admire what you did today. Relating your experience in front of everybody, especially those you knew would scorn it, took great fortitude.”
His lips pressed together, and he lowered his gaze. “I’m not the man I once was.”
She touched his hand. “No, you aren’t. You’re better.”
Charity crumpled another sheet of paper and tossed it in the corner with the rest. She propped her elbows on the desk and laid her head in her hands. Not a single attempt at writing the first article satisfied her. She stood and paced the small bedroom between the door and the single window, muttering to herself.
“Something’s missing.” Agitation climbed her frame as she glared at the pile of discarded beginnings of her writing. “It lacks cohesiveness.” She crossed to the window and pushed the filmy white curtain aside with her fingertips. “How do I capture what I can’t define?”
A folded piece of paper taunted her from the corner of the desk. She picked up the telegram and opened it, even though she could quote it word for word.
MUST HAVE FIRST ARTICLE BY NOV 1.
That was it. No wasted words. But she read between the brevity and the signature. If she couldn’t produce the first article on time, she might as well not bother writing the rest, and she couldn’t afford to lose this assignment.
She slid one finger over her lips and contemplated informing Mr. Peabody of her two other missions. Couldn’t she tie a search for a former slave and a Union officer into her other articles? Her editor might find it intriguing enough to warrant an additional article and grant her more time. On the other hand, catering to the readership was always foremost in the man’s mind. No doubt he’d remind her that the people of prominence and affluence who subscribed to Keystone likely wouldn’t be interested in a lowly dressmaker wanting to reunite with her long lost son.
She returned to the desk and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, its vast emptiness looming before her. In order to keep her job, she had to draw a portrait with words in a way to captivate her audience. The trouble was the issues that captivated her were very different from the ones that would appeal to a Northern aristocrat.
Frost sugarcoated the ground when Dale stepped out the door of his house. He pulled his collar up around his ears and thrust his hands into his pockets. Dawn had barely broken, and he didn’t know if the Ferguson ladies’ bakery would be open yet, but he figured if he tapped on the door, they’d let him in.
His boots crunched through the leaves as the town awoke around him. A rooster crowed, a dog barked, the aroma of fresh coffee boiling on somebody’s stove tantalized his senses, and muted sunlight filtered through the trees along the top of the mountain east of town.
He’d been awake for hours, unsettled thoughts causing sleep to remain out of his reach. People still talked of the lynching, but the past two days, the topic of most conversations was Pastor Shuford’s unorthodox church service. Many folks stated adamantly that they never intended to forget or forgive. Others revealed hearts laced with bigotry. Had it not been for God sending that black soldier to save his life, he feared he’d be among them. He couldn’t expect people to see things from his point of view if they hadn’t experienced what he had. Still, he prayed a work of grace to be done within those who still viewed the former slaves the way Tate Ridley did.
Margaret Ferguson was just unlocking the front door of the bakery when Dale arrived. She gave him a syrupy smile while she wrapped up the apple fritters he selected, and batted her eyelashes at him when he paid her and bid her a polite good morning.
As soon as he left the bakery, his thoughts returned to those ponderings that had kept him awake most of the night. The “brotherhood,” as Tate Ridley referred to it, tended to protect each other, so Dale wasn’t surprised that some of Tate’s cronies swore they’d all been playing cards the night the man was lynched. Tate’s suggestion that perhaps Dale should join them, coupled with the comments he overheard, weren’t enough to make an accusation, but they certainly raised Dale’s suspicions.
Smoke curled from the stovepipe emerging from the sawmill office when Dale crossed the bridge. Hopefully Simon had brewed a fresh pot of coffee rather than warming up yesterday’s leftovers. When Dale walked in, Simon looked over his shoulder at him. “You’re early.”
Dale shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I might as well get an early start.” He laid one of the apple fritters on Simon’s desk. “Brought you some breakfast.”
“Thanks.”
Dale poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Simon.
Simon took a noisy slurp. “I’m real pleased with the way you’ve kept things going here while I was at the logging camp.”
Dale gave him a nod of appreciation.
“I’m leaving for the camp again today. Should be back early next week.” Simon took a bite of his fritter. “But there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Simon’s tone caught Dale’s attention. “Something wrong?”
“Not sure.” Simon took another slurp of coffee. “In the light of what happened a week and a half ago, I’d like you to keep an extra close eye on Tate.” Simon shook his head. “That one’s a troublemaker. I hope I’m wrong, but I think he might have had something to do with that lynching.”
Dale shot a hard look at his boss. He hadn’t said anything Dale didn’t already suspect, but he wanted to know why Simon thought so.
Dale sat across from Simon. “I’ve heard a few things he’s said. A few weeks ago he suggested I attend a meeting of their brotherhood—that’s what he called it, but you and I both know who they are.”
“Hmph. The Klan. I thought as much.” Simon finished off his fritter and licked his fingers. “I was coming back from the logging camp that Friday. It was getting late, and I knew I’d never make it before nightfall, so I made camp in the woods out by the Athens road. I’d already turned in when I heard voices. Three or four men. Couldn’t really see them, but one of them was Tate. I recognized his voice.”
“Did you hear what they said?”
“Just bits and pieces. There was a wind blowing that night. That’s why I didn’t keep the campfire going.”
Dale set his coffee mug down and waited for Simon to go on.
“I heard something that sounded like, ‘He ain’t gonna have no more need of it,’ or something like that. They moved on pretty quick.”
“They didn’t see you?”
Simon shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
Dale rubbed his hand across his face. “Have
you talked to Miles Flint about this?”
“No. There’s enough hard feelings around here toward anyone from the North. Didn’t figure the word of a Yankee would be worth much.”
Dale finished off his coffee. “There are some who don’t think my word is worth much either.”
Chapter 13
Charity stepped back to allow a young mother with two children to enter the general store ahead of her. The little ones, a girl and a boy, looked enough alike to be twins, but the difference in their height indicated the girl was a couple of years older. Before they were a half-dozen steps inside the store, the little boy dashed to the glass case that displayed the candy.
Saturday morning business was brisk, and Charity scooted past a few folks to pick up another package of writing paper. A wave of guilt pricked her when she thought of the number of sheets she’d wasted, but this time she knew exactly what she was going to write. At least, she hoped she knew.
She moved toward the counter and found herself standing behind the young mother again. Listening to the children’s chatter brought a smile to Charity’s heart. She’d hoped to have a family one day, but most men didn’t want a woman who had a career.
The little boy turned around and peered up at her. “Hi, lady. Whatcha buyin’?”
His mother gave his shoulder a gentle tap. “Timothy! That’s not polite.” She turned and gave Charity an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. He just says whatever is on his mind.”
Charity smiled. “It’s all right. Both of your children are adorable.”
The woman blushed. “Thank you. We haven’t been introduced, but I’ve seen you at church. I’m Auralie Danfield, and this is my daughter, Rose, and my son, Timothy.”
“Papa hadta go to the freight depot,” Timothy piped up. “He said he’d be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
Charity chuckled, and Auralie placed her hand atop Timothy’s head. “You’re Miss Galbraith, aren’t you? My brother mentioned you were here on assignment from your magazine.”
“Your brother?”
“Dale Covington is my brother.”
Charity nodded with understanding. “I should have seen the resemblance. Dale told me he had a sister, and I do recall seeing you and your family in church, but I didn’t make the connection. It’s nice to meet you.”
The storekeeper finished Mrs. Danfield’s order, and she stepped aside so Charity could pay for her paper. She sneaked a peek at the children, both of whom had their noses pressed against the glass case, gazing with longing at the selection of candy. Charity leaned toward their mother and whispered. “May they each have a peppermint stick?”
Her new friend smiled and nodded. “I suppose one peppermint stick won’t spoil them too badly.”
Rose and Timothy chorused a “thank you, ma’am” and scampered outside with their treat, while Charity became better acquainted with Dale’s sister. The two women strolled out to the boardwalk together. The previous day’s chill had mellowed into a milder, sunny day, providing a pleasant moment for visiting while they waited for Mr. Danfield to return for his family.
“I’m glad I finally got to meet you, Miss Galbraith.”
“Please, call me Charity.”
“Only if you will call me Auralie.” She set her market basket down and turned to check on the children before continuing. “Are you going to write about last Sunday’s church service in your articles?”
Charity tilted her head. “I hope to include many angles in the articles, but I must admit last Sunday’s service was different.”
Auralie’s eyes misted. “I didn’t know about that black soldier who saved my brother’s life.”
“Dale said he hadn’t told people about that, but why didn’t he tell you?”
Tiny lines appeared between Auralie’s brows. “Dale and I have been estranged for the past ten years. He didn’t approve of me marrying Colton. When the war started and Colton fought for the North, Dale was outraged. He refused to have anything to do with us. He even made it clear that we weren’t welcome at his wedding.”
“His—” Charity’s breath caught. “His wedding? I didn’t know he was married.”
“Oh dear. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything.” Auralie touched her lips with her fingertips. “My brother has always guarded his privacy, but I didn’t realize he’d not told you he’d been married.”
The revelation spun in Charity’s mind. “I don’t believe I’ve seen his wife.”
“Oh no.” Auralie shook her head. “She died six years ago.”
“I see.” Uncertainty rattled her. Perhaps his wife’s death was something he didn’t wish to discuss. She tucked the information away for future consideration and steered the conversation in another direction that piqued her interest. “You said your husband fought for the North.”
“It’s a very sore spot with many people, but Colton did what he believed was right.” Auralie’s voice rang with pride for her husband.
“I can imagine. Dale has told me a little about his time during the war.” A tiny light of understanding emerged in Charity’s mind. She suddenly felt very privileged that Dale had shared with her as much as he had. “When I first met your brother, it was to ask him about a former slave I’m seeking. He is my friend’s son. His name is Wylie, and he belonged to Covington Plantation from the time he was thirteen, but Dale didn’t remember him.”
“Wylie?” Auralie put one finger to her chin. “When I was a young girl, I used to sneak down to the slave quarters to visit with some of the children. I taught a few of them to read until my father found out. But I don’t remember anyone named Wylie. I’m sorry.”
Admiration for her new friend filled Charity. “It must have taken a great deal of courage to teach slave children to read when you were only a child yourself.”
“My father called me rebellious, not courageous.” A rueful smile wobbled across Auralie’s face. “Maybe Barnabas knows him. Barnabas was a slave before Colton bought him and freed him. He lives by us and works with Colton. I’ll ask him when we get home.”
“Meanwhile I’ll keep looking.” Charity shifted her package of paper to her other hand. “I’m also searching for information about my father. He was an officer in the Union army, but he never came home from the war.”
Sympathy etched lines across Auralie’s brow. “I’m so sorry.”
Charity acknowledged the woman’s compassion with a slight nod. “I’m hoping to find some records that might tell me what became of him after he was wounded and captured.”
Auralie pointed down the street. “Here comes Colton. He might be able to give you some information.”
A wagon driven by a handsome man wearing a black coat pulled up in front of the general store.
“Papa! We got peppermint sticks!” Rose and Timothy clambered into their father’s arms the moment he alighted from the wagon. He ruffled Timothy’s hair and caressed his daughter’s cheek.
Auralie reached for her husband’s arm. “Colton, this is Miss Charity Galbraith. She and I have become friends.”
Colton pulled his hat off. “Miss Charity. I’ve been hearing about you. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise, Mr. Danfield.”
His wife slipped her arm through his. “Colton, Charity’s father was an officer with the Union army, and she is looking for information about him. I wondered if you could help her.”
“If I can.” Colton looked from Auralie to Charity. “What is it you’re trying to find?”
Charity’s heart accelerated with hopeful anticipation. “My father was Major Charles Hampton Galbraith, and he served under Major General Oliver Howard with the Fourth Army Corps. The last my mother and I heard was that he’d been wounded and taken prisoner at a place called Pickett’s Mill.”
A flicker of recognition lit Colton’s eyes. “I started out with General George Thomas and the Army of the Cumberland, but I was briefly with the Fourth Army Corps in May of 1864. I was returned to Tennessee just before the battle
at Pickett’s Mill.”
Charity’s heart soared, and her breath quickened. “So you might have known my father?” A tremble ran through her.
“Major Galbraith?” Colton frowned in concentration. “I seem to remember a Galbraith. Tall, dark hair with gray streaks in it, thick mustache, soft spoken.”
Tears of joy and anguish intertwined and gave Charity’s heart a release of its long pent-up ache. She covered a tiny sob with her fingers. “Yes, that sounds like my father. He always said people would listen more closely if one spoke quietly.”
Auralie touched Charity’s arm.
A thread of caution laced Colton’s tone. “I didn’t really know him. I only remember him briefly. The battles at New Hope Church and Pickett’s Mill occurred after I was sent back to the Army of the Cumberland, so I’m afraid I can’t tell you what happened after that.”
While a drop of disappointment trickled through her, the joy of speaking with someone who remembered her father—even for a short time—sent encouragement coursing through her veins.
“Perhaps you can tell me where I might find the prisoner of war records.”
Colton pressed his lips together. “Hmm. I know the records for the Federal Army are kept in Washington, but the Confederate records aren’t there. They might be in Milledgeville, but I’m not sure. I wish I could be of more help.”
“Just speaking with someone who knew Father means so much to me.” Tears burned the back of her throat. “Thank you for that.”
Auralie reached over and squeezed Charity’s hand. “I’m so glad we met, and I wish we could stay and chat, but we really must be going.”
Charity returned the squeeze. “Will I see you tomorrow at church?”
“We’ll be there.” Colton picked up his wife’s basket and deposited it behind the wagon seat, and then swung the youngsters into the back. He held his wife’s hand while she climbed aboard then turned to tip his hat to Charity. “It was nice to meet you, Miss Galbraith. Good day to you.”
Charity hugged the package of paper tightly against her and waved as the Danfield family wagon rolled down the street. Emotions tumbled within her. Dale’s sister was a dear person, her children adorable, and her husband a man of character. His description of her father sang in her ears. But the thing that tugged for her attention was learning that Dale had been married. Why did it bother her that he hadn’t told her?
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