by Tara Johnson
Keziah stepped into the musty library and pushed the door shut with a loud click. Instead of ruminating over the strain of her family’s disappointment, she should concentrate all her efforts on helping Micah.
She studied the neat rows of tomes, running her fingers over the hard spines. She would need a relatively new book with stiff, thick pages. And she would need to work quickly.
While Mother stewed about the courting rituals of polite society, Micah was running out of time.
CHAPTER 26
THE PRISON WARDEN, clutching a pencil and a scrap of paper, caught Micah’s concerned glance as he stood beside him.
Micah studied the sickly prisoner, watching the slight rise and fall of his chest in sleep. Too shallow.
“Iodide of potassium every six to eight hours. And prayer.”
The warden scribbled softly in the crammed sick bay of the filthy prison. Half-starved men moaned on lice-ridden cots. The stench of sickness thickened the stale air. Upon hearing the prison housed a physician, the warden had quickly put Micah to work treating the ill. Despite the putrid odor, at least the work gave his mind a reprieve and allowed him to escape his cell for several hours. Even this early in the morning, he was grateful.
Moving to another fellow’s side, Micah considered the man’s sallow appearance. Slight yellowish cast to the skin. Deep shadows under the eyes and thin as a rail. But then again, who hadn’t grown thin in this place of misery?
Micah knelt beside him, but the man flinched and reared back, his face hostile when Micah reached for his wrist.
Smiling gently, Micah forced himself to speak calmly. “Don’t worry, friend. I’m a physician. I’m merely checking your pulse.”
The spindly man glared. “Don’t need no physician to tell me I’m sick. I’m here, ain’t I?”
He chuckled and rocked on his heels. “I suppose so.”
The warden leveled the ill man a glare. “You best watch your attitude, O’Keefe, or you’ll be hurting more than you do now.” He turned to Micah. “I especially need this one kept alive, Doc. He’s the key witness in a murder trial and a coconspirator with the murderer himself. After the trial, you’re most welcome to pour strychnine in his tea.”
Micah shook his head, playing along. “What a pity. And here I am, all out of my poisons.”
O’Keefe shot him a venomous look. “Don’t want no addle-brained doctor poking me.”
Micah lifted his brows. “Why? You have some other matter to attend to?”
Pressing his thin lips together, the man huffed.
“Can you describe what is causing you discomfort?”
The man reddened and looked away.
“As bad as all that, eh?”
The man’s knobby throat dipped as he swallowed.
“Tell me, have you visited any, uh, shall we say, less than desirable places in the past year? Perhaps spent time in female company there?”
He muttered, “It’s possible.”
Micah rose with a sigh. “His condition, if I presume to guess correctly, isn’t fatal. However, if you want him in optimal health for trial, he needs a compound of balsam of copaiba, powdered cubebs, and magnesia.” The warden scribbled furiously. “If those can’t be obtained, applications of black wash can be administered.”
“Black wash?”
“A mixture of calomel and lime water.”
The prisoner blanched. Micah patted his bony shoulder and moved away. The beefy warden tucked the paper in his shirt pocket and led Micah from the sick bay.
“I appreciate your help.”
Micah shrugged. “I have nothing else to occupy my time.”
The warden regarded him thoughtfully, rubbing his whiskered chin. “Sometimes the reverend of St. John’s comes by, asking if he can hand out Bibles to the inmates. I don’t let him give them out to everyone. Some of them don’t get such luxuries when they’ve been raising a ruckus, but perhaps I’ll let him hand one to you. A good turn deserves a mercy every now and then.”
Having something to read, especially a Bible to look up the chapters from yesterday’s note, would prove to be a great comfort. But as the warden returned him to his bleak cell and slammed the iron door behind him, he thought the greatest mercy would be something he’d risked his life to give to others.
Freedom.
“Where is Auntie Elsie?”
Keziah looked up from the breakfast table. Her cousin’s tone this morning was curt.
“She said she wasn’t feeling well and planned to rest in her room.”
“And Nathaniel?”
“Visiting with Dr. Kelsie.”
Jennie sipped her tea. “Anything of import in today’s paper?”
Smoothing the Daily Morning News flat on the table, Keziah glanced at Jennie with curiosity. Her cousin had recently stopped referring to her as “Keziah dear,” a nickname she’d used since childhood. Additionally, Keziah now felt Jennie’s stares on her at all times, so much so that she’d had to suspend her conducting activities altogether. The lantern had been cold and the padlock secure for nearly a week.
Keziah took a bite of her steaming grits, scanning the headlines. “The same. Fortifications. Battles. Soldiers either dead, wounded, or missing. Desperate letters from loved ones trying to find their lost. And, oh—” her lips curved into a smile—“it appears General Jackson is in a quandary on whether to move his contingent of troops closer to the battle lines or withdraw and enforce his holdings.”
Jennie sniffed and wrinkled her nose as she spooned in another mouthful of the bland fare. “I assume he prayed about this. He’s the finest Christian man the South has ever produced.”
“If he prayed, he must have felt Providence would deem it wise for him to retreat to higher ground, which was what he was planning all along.” Under her breath, she murmured, “It seems General Jackson often finds that the Almighty’s will lines up with his own. How convenient.”
Jennie stared hard. “Treasonous talk, if you ask me.”
Keziah felt heat creep up her neck. She’d said too much. Sighing, she lifted her spoon. “Forgive me if it sounded that way. It’s really not. It does, however, still seem perplexing to me that both sides claim Providence is fighting for them.”
“Let those cowardly Yankees think whatever they like. We know the truth.”
Keziah skimmed the back page, refusing to be baited further, and startled when her focus landed on Micah’s name. Amid the list of thieves, traitors, and murderers being held at Chatham County Jail, the paper seemed to shout Micah Joel Greyson.
She studied the report, hoping against hope for good news.
It is rumored the renowned Judge Harrison Wilbanks will be arriving in less than a fortnight to commence hearings on the latest prisoners incarcerated in Chatham County. Among the mass of usual reprobates and vile sinners, the esteemed Sheriff Cole has arrested several dozen men on grounds of crimes related to aiding and abetting the Union, spying, and abolition, some of which involve physically transporting escaped property past the lines of our beloved Confederacy.
Judge Wilbanks, a loyal and renowned supporter of Jefferson Davis, is a harsh taskmaster and has been reported to brook no nonsense when it comes to trying traitors. His judgments are swift and severe. We can only pray for his speedy arrival in relieving our fair city of these heinous criminals.
Keziah swallowed the dry lump in her throat and lowered the paper.
“Anything else?” Jennie asked.
Shaking her head, she folded the bad tidings and tried to force normalcy. Her thoughts spun like a cyclone.
The urgency to free Micah had risen considerably. They must move and move quickly.
“Bread!”
Hungry voices called out for sustenance, their thin hands reaching through the bars.
Just like the last time he’d come, Brothers showed no sign he recognized Micah, only handed him the soft bread. But this time, Brothers also plunged his hand into his knapsack and pulled out a volume with stiff binding
.
“A gift from the Sisters of Mercy.”
Grasping both offerings, Micah murmured, “Thank you.”
The blacksmith moved away, leaving Micah alone with his bread, though the book was what intrigued him most.
The tome crackled as he opened it. When he witnessed the ink-dotted inscription inside, his chest warmed.
Look toward the Light.
Ever prayerful,
KM
He ran his fingers over her curving script and allowed himself the luxury of thinking of Kizzie—her smile, the way her eyes sparkled whenever he challenged her to do something new, her soft laughter . . . all of it a tonic to his parched soul.
Look toward the Light. Interesting inscription. Did she mean to continue to hold fast to Christ or something altogether different?
With a frown, he thumbed through the almost-new edition of Gulliver’s Travels. As he flipped the pages, he noticed in the middle of the book there were odd bumps on several pages, nearly imperceptible by sight. But brushing his fingers over the pages revealed something was indeed different.
He went back to the inside cover, letting the inscription soak deep. Look toward the Light.
A gut instinct had him turn to the middle of the book and examine it carefully. Tiny holes dotted the page. A message? Excitement tripped through his veins as he ripped the first marked page from the book and held it up to the lone window overhead, allowing the light to illuminate the paper.
He gasped when the pinprick holes took the shape of words. Two days.
Sucking in another breath, he ripped the next page out and held it up. Freedom.
His hands shook as he removed the next two pages and held them up as well. Be in the dead house. Midnight.
Suddenly the bread-baked message of the week before made sense. Sometimes a soul must die to live.
Kizzie and Mr. Brothers had found a way to free him . . . if only he could get himself to the prison’s dead house.
CHAPTER 27
“IT’S HIM!”
Mrs. Ward burst into the Montgomery parlor in a state of flummox. The matron flapped her ample arms like a chicken preparing to fly the coop.
Startled, Mother looked up from her needlepoint and stood. “Nannette! Whatever is the matter?”
“Haven’t you read the day’s paper?”
“Honestly, no. It seems to upset Nathaniel so.”
“Here.” Mrs. Ward thrust the paper into Mother’s hands.
Keziah winced, fearing what was coming. Moving to the women’s sides, she interjected, “Perhaps we shouldn’t upset Mother with dire news.”
“Nonsense.” Mother scanned the paper and gasped.
Mrs. Ward smirked triumphantly. “Exactly. Widow Simmons was quite correct. The man she saw being dragged into the jail was that physician. The very physician who came to the house to give me some prattle about illness among the Negroes.”
Mother frowned. “Yes, he appears to be one and the same. But why the hysterics?”
Easing her girth into a chair, the older woman scowled. “Don’t you see? Just after he visited, Polly disappeared.”
Keziah’s gaze flickered between the two women as she held her breath, needlepoint suspended above her lap.
“So you think this Dr. Greyson had something to do with her disappearance?”
Keziah spoke up. “Were they even alone together? If I remember correctly, they weren’t in the same room except in passing.”
Mrs. Ward sniffed. “The timing is highly suspicious.” She jabbed her pudgy finger into the middle of the paper. “It says right here that some of the new inmates have been accused of crimes against the Confederacy, spying and aiding runaway property to Union states.” With a sound of disgust, she began fanning her flushed face.
Keziah lowered herself to the settee and forced back the hysteria threatening to bubble up. “Still, we have no idea what actual crime the man has committed.”
“Time will tell. Mark my words: that man bears watching.”
Mother’s lips tipped into a dry smile. “Likely the very reason he’s in prison.”
Keziah breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. Ward had nothing more concrete than suspicion.
The sound of Nathaniel’s uneven step, followed by the soft scrape of his crutch, echoed from down the hall. At his appearance, Mother stood and escorted him into the parlor. “I was so hoping you would be feeling better this afternoon.”
With a wan smile, he smoothed a wayward lock of his blond hair away from his forehead. His hands shook. “I can’t seem to rest any longer.” Hobbling toward an overstuffed chair, he sank into its cushions and laid the crutch on the floor. “And what are you conversing about today?”
Mrs. Ward leaned forward, her blue eyes wide. “Didn’t you hear? Not long ago my house slave ran away, and I just found out today that the very man who visited our home before she left has been imprisoned. Possibly for property theft and transportation of slaves.”
Nathaniel ground his teeth. “Abolitionist dog.”
Keziah tried not to wince at his dark snarl.
The matron leaned back, tut-tutting. “Well, we all know what the Good Book says. Man’s heart will wax colder and more wicked as the Day of the Lord approaches. These base, criminal sorts are only proof the Almighty’s Word remains true.”
Heat flushed Keziah’s cheeks and she lowered her head toward her needlepoint. She longed to flee, to run from the self-righteous talk, but she knew she must endure it if for nothing more than appearance’s sake.
Nathaniel glowered. “If I ever see Yankee traitors lurking around this house, I vow they’ll never come back again. After what I saw them do . . .” His mouth trembled and he swiped it with the back of his fist. “They captured one of our scouts and then bayoneted him to death. Do you know what they did to the town when they discovered the people there had given him shelter? They burned the whole thing to the ground. Innocent women and children . . .” He choked.
Mother shot Keziah an anxious look but kept silent. Nathaniel seemed so volatile since his return. Dark. Consumed with bitterness.
Mrs. Ward cleared her throat. “Isn’t Miss Jennie involved with an antiabolition committee of some sort? I hear they are turning Savannah inside out, unearthing a slew of spies and vermin, all loyal to that devil Lincoln.”
A muscle twitched near Nathaniel’s eye. “If I were ever to discover one of my friends—or, God forbid, a family member—was a turncoat or one of those dreadful abolitionists, I would toss them out on their ear.” He clenched his jaw. “Unless I had the privilege of killing them first.”
Mother rebuked him softly. “You shouldn’t say such things.”
His eyes snapped fire. “Anyone who aligns himself with those cursed devils is dead to me. A Yankee bullet took my leg. A person who consorts with them might as well have ripped off my leg with their own two hands.”
With a growl, he stood quickly and slunk from the room, his crutch thumping softly as it trailed away.
Shaken, Keziah watched his departure. Thick cords of sorrow twisted her heart. Poor Nathaniel teetered on sanity’s perch.
He was not well. Not well at all.
APRIL 10, 1862
Elizabeth slid a steaming plate of fried potatoes in front of Keziah with a sigh. Mother grimaced at the scant breakfast fare. Jennie, as she often did, turned up her nose at the food she deemed “fit sustenance for the poor.”
With a thin smile, Mother picked up her fork. “I take it shopping at the market yielded no results?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Not a crumb to be had in the whole town. The Yankee blockade has made food scarce.”
Jennie groaned. “I feel faint with hunger.”
Keziah’s patience with her cousin’s pampered complaints was lessening by the day. “You are blessed, then, since God provided you food.”
Jennie pushed away from the table with a sneer. “I’m not hungry enough to eat what those pitiful Irish immigrants on the bay front consume. They might f
ind it sufficient, but my tastes are much too refined for such measly fare.” With a huff, she flounced from the room.
Keziah smiled timidly, anxious to relieve the tense moment. “Personally, I’m thankful for it and have found myself looking forward to these simpler meals. I find them quite enjoyable.”
Elizabeth dipped her head and excused herself.
“That was kind of you to say, dear.”
“I meant it. I have found this simple food is much easier on my stomach. I don’t feel deprived or missing our old fare overly much.”
Mother arched a brow. “Not even lemon tarts? Or chocolate cake?”
She giggled. “Well, perhaps on occasion.”
They ate quietly. The gentle ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall seemed to beat an insistent drum. Keziah felt antsy, though she was loath to consider why.
A distant boom of thunder sounded and Mother glanced out the window. “Odd. It doesn’t look like rain.”
Another boom. And another.
Jennie threw open the door, her chest heaving. Both women jumped as she managed to choke out her message.
“The word is spreading like wildfire through the streets. The Yankees are firing from Tybee Island. We’re under attack.”
Keziah walked the length of the prison hallway, the guard on her heels, his stiff movements betraying his annoyance at her presence. She didn’t care. Time was running out.
As she approached Micah’s cell, she stalled and wove unsteadily on her feet, rubbing her fingers against her temple.
“Miss, are you well?”
“I’m fine. Just a little light-headed.”
The lanky guard grunted. “Small wonder. This place isn’t fit for a lady. Why you insisted on doing your charity work now, when the city is on the verge of attack, is beyond me. The smell alone is enough to turn most men away.”
Keziah gathered her courage and took another step forward. “Doing the Lord’s work is not always pleasant, but obedience is always rewarded.” She glanced down the grim row of cells to see Micah’s bearded face peering out from behind the bars. She nearly sucked in a breath. He looked so pale, so filthy and thin.
