Swept into Destiny

by Catherine Ulrich Brakefield

  “Daughter?”

  Maggie whirled around and ran to her father’s outstretched arms. She buried her head in his shoulder and wept. “Oh, Father, I’m so sorry for getting you and Mother in this trouble. Can you ever forgive me?”

  “There, there.” Patting and stroking her hair, he pulled her an arm’s length away. “So we got ourselves another slave girl?”

  “Yes, and I know you said that we must be careful with our finances. And now we’ll need to employ a lawyer.”

  “But we shall. I’ve already hired Honest Abe. He waits for us at Spirit Wind. He almost didn’t accept the job. What with his tight schedule and all. He’s making plans to run for the presidency in the next election. But this fight is so dear and close to his heart, well, he couldn’t resist. Your court date is scheduled for Monday morning.”

  Tall and gangling, Abe loomed over every man with easy grace. Maggie felt the hidden strength behind his piercing, steadfast eyes. His square chin jutted out like a prize fighter, as if daring anyone to argue with him. Maggie offered him her hand as they entered the courtroom, her petite hand gobbled up in his mammoth one. “Are all northerners as large as you?”

  A rolling rumble sputtered from within Abe’s mouth, like an artesian well of mirth. His eyes were as merry as his smile. “Are all southern ladies as pretty as you?”

  “No wonder Father has joined your allegiance, Mr. Lincoln.” She drew closer and on tiptoes whispered, “But I fear for your safety.”

  Just moments ago, angry southerners lining the road had yelled obscenities at Mr. Lincoln as he approached the courthouse in his buggy. He had to run into the building before a volley of tomatoes and other rotten fruit damaged his distinguished looking hat and suit.

  “I must apologize for my fellow countrymen. They are listening to propaganda. You are a brave, compassionate man, Mr. Lincoln. Have you always been this willing to sacrifice your life for your convictions?”

  A clamor of tomatoes hit the courtroom windows making Maggie jump. She’d meant her question to be a jest.

  He patted her hand, his eyes serious as they looked into hers. “Die when I may. I want it said of me, by those who knew me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower when I thought a flower would grow.”

  “I pray some of your wisdom might rub off on me.” She laughed, then fear grabbed her heart, despite her determination to make light of the moment. “I shall pray you do not leave this earth until you have finished the work our good Lord has intended for you. The Almighty has a plan for these United States and I believe you are predestined to accomplish this.”

  “If we do right, God will be with us, and if God is with us, we cannot fail. Remember that, Maggie. Whatever happens here, remember that .”

  Hours went by, but Mr. Lincoln’s strong claims of insufficient evidence were ignored, the jurors’ stony faces and akimbo arms conveying their resistance to the defense. The words of Matthew 13:15 swaddled like solace her wounded heart. “For this people’s heart is waxed gross, and their ears are dull of hearing, and their eyes they have closed; lest at any time they should see with their eyes and hear with their ears.” Maggie listened intently as Lincoln addressed the jury with his final remarks.

  “It has been said of the world’s history hitherto that might makes right. It is for us and for our time to reverse the maxim and to say that right makes might. There has not been anything entered into this court to prove that Maggie and her mother, Marie Gatlan, have willfully stolen Mr. Reynolds’ slaves. Mr. Reynolds has used his powerful might to sway this jury. With no evidence, there should have been no trial and hence no verdict.”

  Lincoln waved his arm in the air. “Remember this before deciding the fate of your neighbors: Character is like a tree and reputation like its shadow. The shadow is what we think of it; the tree is the real thing. Vote the right, not the might.”

  The jury retired to reach a verdict. Ten minutes later they reentered the courtroom. The judge rapped his gavel. “Order in the court. Jury have you reached a verdict?”

  “We find Mrs. Gatlan and Maggie Gatlan not guilty of harboring slaves. However, in order to assure that Mrs. Gatlan will disperse the school and burn all abolitionist material—”

  “Flog her, flog her!” someone yelled.

  A gasp went up in the courtroom. The judge pounded his gavel to no avail. Two burly men, masked and armed, grabbed Maggie’s mother and hauled her out into the courtyard. Two other men immediately barred the exit of the courtroom.

  “No! No!” her father yelled as he bolted up from his seat in the courtroom. Two more masked men held him there. Chaos reigned, women screaming as the crowd pushed their way to the exit. Two men grabbed Mr. Lincoln and Maggie and rushed them into an inner room. They blindfolded her and tied her hands, ignoring Mr. Lincoln’s protests.

  At the first sound of the whip slapping across her mother’s back, the crowd in the courtroom grew silent. Once, twice, three times. Maggie hung her head, wishing she could block out the noise. She heard her mother groan. Then nothing.

  An hour later, the bailiff untied her and removed her blindfold. Her hand flew to her neck and grasped Great-grandmother Gatlan’s heirloom necklace that now hung there. Just before entering the courtroom, Mother had clasped the necklace around Maggie’s neck and whispered, “Daughter, you will need this when I am gone. Always remember God will never take you where His grace cannot protect you.” … Mr. Lincoln! Maggie looked frantically around the room, but he was gone. She prayed he had escaped safely to Illinois. Perhaps the north was the only safe place to be. It was certainly not here.

  The bailiff’s arrogant face scowled into hers and fear wrapped her body like cold iron. Would she be whipped next? They were all slaves now, slaves to this new wave of hate that had grabbed her beloved South. What was it Mr. Lincoln had told her earlier? I have said nothing but what I am willing to live by and, if it be the pleasure of Almighty God, die by.

  “What did your father expect would happen hiring that Lincoln fellow?”

  “A fair trial. Now may I leave?” The blood would flow soon. She had no doubt if Lincoln was elected to be the Republican choice for president that the South would rise and secede from the Union. Too bad, she liked Mr. Lincoln. He and Ben would have gotten along beautifully.

  Ben. Would she ever stop thinking about him? Oh Jesus, help me to forget Ben and help this nation remain whole and beneath Your sheltering arms.

  “Just make sure you don’t go educating those slaves again.”

  She heard the key in the lock and hurried toward the door. “Mother?”

  Chapter 18

  B en groaned and looked up. All he could see was rock and more rocks. A couple of hungry looking vultures attempting to gorge on Samson that he had chased away with his stick now observed him for a possible dinner. Or was it closer to the supper hour? What’s the difference, he wasn’t eating… those vultures were.

  His left arm, still oozing, was a bloody mess. He must have been lying there for days. Dear Lord, what I could use right about now is that handy angel to fetch me another cup full of water. Had he dreamt it? It seemed real enough at the time.

  He looked over at the stream running down the mountain not more than an arm’s length away. More likely he’d gotten water from there. He missed something… Christmas, he was looking forward to eating turkey with Maggie. Night, day, night, day, four he counted in all. He’d yelled for help until his throat was hoarse.

  He laid back. What was the use? Lord take me to heaven with ya. I’m too far gone to be of any help to anyone. Maggie, what about her? He’d had a dream…

  “Anyone be down there?”

  “Dad? Is that you?” Ben tried to yell, but his throat was so dry, he only managed a hoarse whisper. He rolled over with difficulty; his bullet wounds and being near starvation had taken their toll. Sitting, he stretched his good hand out for a rock; eyeing one nasty long-beaked vulture, he swung his arm. The vulture rose higher and higher in the air. �
��Go a little farther, my winged meat eater.”

  “Look, there he is… quick, Big Jim, hoist me over.”

  That’s Dad.

  “Then I’d have another man ailing and not being able to do his share of the work.” Big Jim’s baritone echoed through the mountains. “Here, grab hold of the rope and tie it around that tree. Be quick.”

  Ben looked up, raising his arm toward Big Jim. He rolled his tongue around his mouth and rested his head back on the hard ground. Dirt and pebbles fell across his face. Big Jim grabbed Samson’s stiff foreleg and pulled at the dead horse.

  Ben choked back his dry tears. Samson’s stiff limbs, the glassy eyes… reaching out his hand, he felt Samson’s silky coat for the last time. The horse had kept him warm in the cold nights. “He was shot trying to protect me.” Ben licked his lips. “Water?”

  Big Jim lowered his canteen. “Careful, this might hurt, your lips are cracked and bleedin’.”

  “Can’t believe I’d have that much blood left.”

  “That Reynolds fella and his bounty hunters been bragging up and down the Tennessee and Kentucky border about killing you, but your Dad wouldn’t give up. Said he would believe that when he saw your dead body for himself. We’ve been looking for you ever since Christmas. And here you are. Can you grab hold of my neck?”

  “I’m so happy to see ya I might strangle it a little too tight.” Ben felt a surge of energy run through his veins as he clutched Big Jim and they made their way out of the ravine.

  “The saints preserve us.” Ben’s dad kissed his cheeks, wetting them with his tears and then did a little jig. Now, loaded on the back of the wagon, Ben rose on one elbow and gazed out toward the ravine. Samson, I’m sorry. He laid his head back on the pillow and sobbed. Samson kept him company. His warm body solace for a while. That is until Ben had to use his revolver on him. He couldn’t stand to see the big fella suffer any longer.

  Tears rolled off his cheeks. “Did you hear if the children got to Canada safely?” he whispered.

  “Yeah, they did. Only don’t sound like Maggie or her mother faired too well. Hear there was a trial. Didn’t hear the outcome.”

  Ben puckered up his lips, coughed, and whispered, “A trial? They wouldn’t dare hurt those sweet southern ladies.”

  Big Jim followed behind, straddling his big bay gelding. “Things are different. Tempers are flarin’, not so sure who they’ll burn next. You can sniff it in the air. Like a keg of dynamite ready to explode.”

  Maggie gently bathed her mother’s lacerated back. Downstairs her father’s angry voice rose like a roaring tide exploding its banks.

  “What do you mean you can’t find the men responsible for whipping my wife?”

  “Gatlan… be sensible. The men were wearing hoods.”

  Maggie peered over the upstairs banister. Sheriff Pundy, usually a mild-mannered man, was getting equally angry. Maggie could tell by the way his voice quivered and his face turned redder by the second.

  “How can I arrest who I don’t know?”

  Her father slammed his fist down on the table. “What I can’t figure is how you and your deputies could let them get away.”

  The sheriff slammed something against the table. She couldn’t see what it was. “Two of my deputies are in the hospital with multiple gunshot wounds. Get it in your head that these are times we’ve never been in before. I can’t trust anyone. Part of this is your fault. Why did you hire Abe Lincoln, of all people, to be your wife’s lawyer?”

  Her mother groaned. “Maggie, help me up.”

  She turned the corner of the doorway, and ran to help her mother. “Mother, don’t try and get up, you need to sleep and let these wounds air. Doctor Jordon said that’s the only way to speed the healing.”

  “Your dear father will make himself hoarse with all this yelling. Now help me.”

  When her mother got something in her mind to do, it took a crowbar to pry it loose. Maggie knew it was no use arguing. She tenderly rubbed her mother’s wounds with salve, wrapped gauze around her mother’s back and chest, then put on the lightest garment she could find, a cotton shirtwaist and skirt.

  “Hand me my shawl. There, that should do.” Her mother looked at herself in the mirror, pinched her pasty-white cheeks and chuckled. “Too bad I can’t add some of the red on my back to my cheeks.”

  As soon as they stepped into the hallway, her mother grabbed the spiral handrail and Maggie held her other arm. With every downward step, her mother groaned.

  The half glow of the setting sun illuminated the tall windows graced with lace shears and red-velvet curtains, as red as the faces of her father and Sheriff Pundy. What could Mother do? There seemed no way to halt the volley of heated words that grew more volatile with every mouthful.

  The polished wooden floor met their steps beneath the winding stairway. Her mother paused. Taking a deep breath, she anchored her shoulders back and plastered a smile on her face. The men hadn’t noticed them standing in the hallway.

  “Mother, you’re so brave,” Maggie whispered. “I don’t think I could have come through this as well as you. But, oh, I wish so that it had been me and not you.”

  Mother kissed her on the cheek. “The past is behind us, Maggie. Now let us face this present storm and calm it before a typhoon erupts.”

  Father had his back turned toward the doorway, his body rigid as a post, his hand upraised as if to hurtle it into the sheriff’s face. “I want these men to come to justice, do you understand? I don’t care if you arrest all of Maryville. You can start with that bailiff. How dare they do this to my wife?”

  Sheriff Pundy wasn’t looking at him, but at Matron Burns and Miss Peabody crying in the corner of the room. Maggie could only see Matron Burns, who dabbed at her nose with her lace handkerchief as she gazed out at the rose garden.

  “I can’t remain silent any longer or else I’ll bust my corset stays. I just can’t believe this happened.” Matron Burns raised her handkerchief to her moist eyes, then blew her nose. “What is our country coming to, flogging women?”

  “You forget, Matron Burns, Mrs. Gatlan is half Cherokee.”

  Matron Burns turned, waving her linen handkerchief as if to infuriate him the more. “Pishposh. She’s more of a lady than I and it’s as plain as that revolver sitting on your hip!”

  Miss Peabody’s thin face twisted in wrath. “No woman deserves such treatment. Sheriff, you must put a halt to this barbarism.”

  Sheriff Pundy twisted his coffee cup around in his hand. “I know I’m throwing a log on an already blazing fire, but talk in town is Reynolds is planning something. But I can’t arrest a man from gossip.”

  Leaning heavily on Maggie, her mother entered the room and shuffled her feet to her husband.

  “Marie, what are you doing up?”

  Pulling him down to her height, she kissed him gently on the cheek. “My dear husband, do not worry. All is well,” she whispered.

  The sheriff turned away, his face revealing his embarrassment with the deep red flush that burned its way from his neck to his pudgy cheeks. “Mrs. Gatlan, I… am sorry.”

  “I am proud of my Indian heritage, and proud to be a southern lady.” Mother’s eyes flashed about the room, taking in at a glance each face. “Jesus was whipped for no crime and I shall bear my stripes remembering my Savior’s sacrifice. I pray this discourse and hatred that presently rips through our beautiful southern heritage, Christ’s love will dissolve.”

  Tears welled in her father’s blue eyes. His scowling face relaxed and the upsweep of his lips crested into a smile. “You are better, my love?”

  “I have improved much beneath the gentle hands of our daughter.” Her mother looked around. “How are Little Irene and Will Jr. doing?”

  Her father patted her slender fingers. “Very well, you need not worry. Ida is always by their sides.”

  How handsome her father looked, wearing his white shirt and cravat. His black pants hugged his solid hips, quite the contrast to the sheriff who
had allowed his wife’s good southern cooking to go to his belly.

  Her mother, always the hostess first, said, “Matron Burns, Miss Peabody, how nice of you to drop by. Did either of you have supper? Maggie go and tell Cook to start the fires. Tell her there will be three more for supper this evening.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  The sheriff sucked in his stomach, then laughed and patted the bulge that refused to disappear with any prompting from him. “Well, as you can see, I never refuse a meal.”

  Supper went well. The candelabras flickered their light against the thickening darkness, casting shadows on the papered walls. Then a commotion on the front lawn, the hound dogs barking and growling, drew the happy dinner party toward the full-length windows. Gun shots rang out.

  “Oh my!” Matron Burns jumped away from the window. Five hooded men on horseback rode up. “We want your wife,” one man yelled.

  Father opened a drawer and pulled out his revolver.

  Sheriff Pundy shoved him back. “I don’t want bloodshed.” He opened the door. “Now, you men get out of here if you know what’s good for you.” He patted his chest where his badge shone in the moonlight.

  “We want Mrs. Gatlan,” one man yelled.

  “You have done enough to her.” Her father shoved the sheriff aside and thumped his thumb to his chest. “You speak to me, you cowards, hiding your faces underneath a pillowcase. Might as well hide under your bed because you know your deeds are foul.”

  Will ran around the corner armed with a rifle. Eli and a dozen slaves stood behind him. “Get off this land before I shoot you down like the cowardly dogs you are.”

  One of the hooded men fired at Will. Will dropped him with one shot.