Kentucky Sky

by R. David Anderson

  “Someday we will have to get your farm back,” he said.

  I wondered if he were serious.

  I wrote down my address on a slip of paper. I was anxious to see him again.

  We stayed until the bar closed at half past midnight. There were no coaches at this hour, so Walter and another man that Pelina had met at the bar walked us home. We held hands as we walked up Fifth Street.

  Walter and I embraced when we got to the door of my rooming house. We set a date for the following Saturday for diner; I could not wait.

  Pelina left the next day. I lay in bed thinking about Walter with my eyes closed. I imagined him pulling me close, whispering words of love in my ear. His lips came close to mine, we kissed.

  I woke up with the sun streaming through the window. Time for work. I hated having to go to that horrible factory job, the mean male supervisor yelling at poor girls until they cried. He seemed to especially enjoy humiliating the female workers. Some girls were physically abused.

  Around mid-week he came into the work room and began yelling at me, spewing all sorts of insults. He was so close that I could smell the liquor on his breath. He claimed that my work was not acceptable. He yanked me from my seat by the hair, and he was about to lay his hands on me. I kicked him so hard below the belt that he immediately fell to the floor grimacing in pain. “You wicked winch!” he yelled. All the other workers clapped and cheered. I became an instant hero there.

  I was fired immediately. I went home and cried in my bed. I began to hate this city life, I yearned to be back on the farm. I missed my parents.

  Without work what little money I had would run out fast. I did not make very much money at the factory. I barely had enough to buy food once my room rent was paid. By Saturday I was eating the last of the crumbs from my bread drawer.

  On Saturday morning, I received a message from Walter stating that we were going to dine in a fancy restaurant. Formal dress would be required. I took the nicest clothing from my closet, a velvet maroon layered bustle dress.

  Walter arrived at seven o’clock with flowers in hand. He wore a vested suit and bow tie. We went to town in style in a luxury carriage that had an upholstered interior. I felt like the queen!

  There were many fine restaurants in downtown Louisville in 1867. Walter took me to the most expensive one. Fine woodwork, plush carpets, chandeliers; the place was stunning.

  We ordered the house specialty; roasted pheasant. We also had some of the house wine.

  I think that I drank a little too much wine. By the time we arrived at my rooming house in the plush carriage, I was in a very giddy mood. Walter carried me up the stairs and sat me down on a couch that was in the second-floor foyer.

  He sat next to me and told me funny stories from his riverboat adventures. We laughed, then he leaned over and kissed me on the lips passionately. He suddenly sprang to his feet and stripped down to his waist! I could see tattoos on his muscular arms, chest and back, mostly tattoos of birds with outstretched wings. He knelt in front of me, slowly lifting up my dress above my knees.

  There was a sudden noise. A door swung open on the other side of the foyer, and there stood my landlady, Mrs. Peacher. She looked extremely angry. “What do you think yore’ doing there, young man? I’ll have none of this in my house!”

  I quickly lowered my dress. My face was now crimson red.

  “Get yore’ clothes on, boy! This is a God fearin’ house and this kind of conduct will not be tolerated here!”

  Walter dressed hurriedly, looking anxious to get away from the old bitty. She continued to give us the tongue lashing.

  “I am just appalled, especially at you, Ginny. I thought that you were a fine upstanding young lady with virtue. Was I ever wrong about that! I want you out of my house! You get out by tomorrow morning!”

  “No, no, Mrs. Peacher!” I pleaded, then started to cry. “I have no place to go!”

  Walter came over and held my hands firmly.

  “Ginny”, he said calmly. “It’s okay. I will find a place for you to stay. I will take care of you now.”

  Walter came through with his promise. The next day I was living in one of Louisville’s finest hotels near Main Street. Walter paid all my room and board.

  The Hotel

  I had fallen in love with Walter. However, I was not too secure with the arrangements we had. Don’t get me wrong, it was wonderful to be his “one and only true love”, as he called me. He treated me like a lady, gave me exquisite gold and diamond jewelry, wined and dined me out on the town, and we made love. But he would not marry me; at least not yet. He was a riverman, and his duties kept him away for long periods of time, so he was not ready for a long-term commitment.

  I was now living the life of luxury in a downtown Louisville hotel. The hotel was very nice, wedged between other commercial buildings near Main Street. The front lobby was elegantly furnished, with a long clerk’s desk on the left side when you entered from the street. Mr. Weaver, the desk clerk, would always look up and smile at me when I walked by. “Well, hello, Miss Ginny!” He would say, peering at me through his wire rimmed glasses. I would smile at him and walk to the balustraded stairs, holding up the hem of my long dress as I climbed several steps to the second floor. From the stairs, I entered a large foyer area, complete with couches and reading chairs, side tables, and a big fireplace. There were ornate brass gas lamps mounted along the walls, always lit at night.

  Two hallways opened from the left and right side of the foyer. My room was the second door down the corridor to the right. The room faced the street.

  I had a good-sized room with two queen sized poster beds, desk, chairs, and a table. On a countertop, next to a large mirror, there was a large matching ceramic pitcher and sink. There was also a small ice box where I could store meat and milk. Two windows faced street side, and I usually opened the long drapes so that I could view the activity on the street.

  Walter would be away for extended periods of time working on the riverboats. I missed him dearly when he was gone, every time he left on that huge behemoth steamboat, belching its black smoke from two tall stacks, tears would fill my eyes.

  Oftentimes when Walter was away, my friends would stay with me. Pelina came and Sara, one of the girls from the garment factory, and Katherine. Sometimes we would stand in front of the hotel on the sidewalk in our fine Victorian dresses. We’d chat, giggle, and sometimes go for a stroll through the city, shopping in the many fine specialty shops downtown.

  When Sara and Pelina left, I usually stayed in my room, leaving only for my evening meal at the restaurant. I occasionally ate meals in my room.

  When I was alone I would write in my journal. It had a tanned leather cover, and inside the front cover, I had written my name in scrawled cursive letters in blue ink from a fountain pen. I had recorded all of the important events of my life therein, from my earliest memories. Now I was writing down my most personal thoughts, my dreams of a happy life with Walter. He would marry me someday and never be away from me again.

  Sometimes I got lost in my thoughts, sitting at the desk in my room writing in my journal. The pen and paper were my constant companions, to write was a release from my solitude.

  June 25, 1867

  I met a lady last night at dinner. I told her about Walter, all about his position on the steam boat, and how he was providing for me. Then she said something that puzzled me. She said that she wondered if he (Walter) was doing “something else”. Indeed, she questioned if he were making a sufficient income on a riverboat to support me and to give me the lavish gifts that he showered on me when he returned from his long excursions.

  What did she mean by “something else?” What else could he be doing? I should have prodded her to tell me more of her suspicions, but I really did not give her comments much consideration at the time, she was probably just envious of me.

  July 5, 1867 Stage Coach Driver

  I was still sitting at the desk in my hotel room, with my journal in front of me
, thinking about the woman I had met at dinner

  She was probably simply jealous of my expensive jewelry, and for her to put such thoughts in my head was certainly unkind. But then again, I did not know everything when it came to riverboats. I had never been on one yet, although I wanted to join Walter sometime on his boat. What other things could Walter be doing on board? Was he hiding something from me?

  My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by some loud commotion out on the street. The windows were open, and I could hear what sounded like a mad man shouting below. I walked over to the window. I was shocked at what I saw.

  A stagecoach driver was beating his horses with a whip! I was so angry that I ran from my room and down the stairs so fast that I tore the hem of my dress. I ran out into the street just as the coach driver was on the back lash. I grabbed the end of the whip and wrapped it around a hitching post. As he drew his arm forwards, the whip handle fell from his hand. He turned around and glared at me, his face contorted with rage.

  “What cha’ hell ya’ doin’!” He shouted.

  I pulled on the whip strap until the handle was in my hand.

  “Gimme back my whip ya’ stupid girl! I’ve a mind to use it on ya’!”

  “How dare you beat these horses!” I yelled in a fury. “How about if I use the whip on you!”

  “Ya’ wouldn’t dare!”

  I glared at him, and for a moment I saw in his face the evil soldier who killed my parents.

  I swung the whip in a wide arc in front of me. The coach driver backed up as I approached him swinging the whip.

  “Whoa, girl, what cha’ matter with ya’?”

  A crowd began to gather around the stagecoach. Everyone began to cheer me on. I guess they also had enough of the mean driver. I struck the whip across his arms as he tried to cover his face. He winced in pain as a long red streak appeared on his flesh. Some of the onlookers began to laugh. Apparently, this was providing their entertainment for the afternoon. But I was dead serious as I raised the whip to strike him again. This time I knocked off his hat.

  “What the hell!” He yelped.

  Someone grabbed me by the wrist and stopped my next swing.

  “Stop! Now!” It was a police officer. “Put down the whip!” he demanded.

  I handed the whip to him.

  “Lock her up, officer!” The driver said, holding on to his arm in pain. “She be a crazed girl, the likes of her needs to be put away!”

  “You were beating these poor horses to death. You’re the one that needs to be locked up!” I shot back with fire. “These horses look like the ones that my father bred before he was murdered by those thieves. Yes, they look just like them! If he were here would have taken you out!”

  There was a murmur in the crowd. I heard a man talking close by: “Say, isn’t she that Chamberlain girl? Why, I knew her father, had a horse ranch out near Harrods Creek.”

  The man looked at me. “Ginny? Are you Ginny?”

  I returned his gaze. “Yes.” I replied. “I am Ginny Chamberlain.”

  July 6, 1867

  The next day was Saturday, and I was on my way to buy fresh vegetables at the Market Street stand when I saw the stage coach driver again. He was walking down Main with four Union soldiers. They stopped and chatted in front of the Garmin Hotel. I stopped and stared at them, hiding behind my pink parasol.

  They were talking loudly as though they were in an argument. Then there were loud bursts of laughter. These soldiers seemed familiar to me. I was sure that they were the same men who had killed my parents. I would never forget the faces of those men. The memory was etched in my mind forever. Were these the same men? I had to make sure. I had to learn more about them and how they knew the stage coach driver.

  They walked into the hotel. I followed them at a distance. From the lobby I saw them going up to the second landing on the stairs. I kept my eye on them. They talked loudly the whole time, so it was easy to keep track of their movements. Not only did they talk loudly, they stomped their feet wherever they went. Once up on the second floor, I saw them walking down a corridor to their room. They went inside and slammed the door. I quickly walked up the corridor and read the room number on the door. Room 24.

  I stood at the door for a long time, listening to their conversation. I heard a lot of bragging about looting southern plantation houses in Georgia. Then there was some heated discussion on how to split the spoils.

  I felt sick to my stomach knowing that these corrupt men had plundered in the war and committed all sorts of atrocities.

  One of the men said, “Hey, Sarge, how did you get that red mark on your arm?”

  I heard more laughter. Sarge answered “Some crazed girl got ahold of my horse whip and hit me with it the other day when I was keepin’ my horses in line. I still got a festering sore here that won’t go away, and it’s been a hurtin’ real bad.”

  “You were knocked around by some girl out on the street?”

  All the men roared in laughter again.

  So, sarge was the stage coach driver. I felt a sense of satisfaction in learning that the whip mark that I had inflicted on his arm was now a festering sore.

  “Did you know this girl, sarge?” Another man asked. There was more hysterical laughter.

  “No, but they said that her name is Ginny Chamberlain, and her father owned a horse ranch near here.”

  There was a long pause in the conversation. I was shocked to learn that this “sarge” knew my name. I remembered from the stagecoach incident that one of the men bystanders said my name and recognized me from my father’s farm.

  “If memory serves me right,” another man said, “that was the Chamberlain farm where we stole those horses at the beginning of the war, wasn’t it Flynt?”

  “Yeah, after sarge killed the man and his wife we ransacked the house. Chamberlain was the name on the documents we found in a desk drawer.”

  I was not sure who Flynt was, but now I knew for sure that these were the same men who had killed my parents.

  I was feeling weak and my knees were shaking. I ran back to the stairs and quickly went down to the hotel lobby. I stepped into the ladies’ powder room and splashed some water on my face. I looked in the mirror. My face was red, and tears streamed down my cheeks. Suddenly everything was spinning around. I held onto the side of the countertop. I almost fainted. I took some deep breaths in order to regain my composure.

  I ran out of the hotel and walked briskly to the central police station. It was very busy and crowded there. I sat on a bench for a long time waiting to talk to a sergeant Bowers.

  It was almost one o’clock when the police sergeant finally called me into his cluttered office. I sat on a chair in front of his small desk. He placed a blank police report form on the desk and looked at me.

  “Please state your name for the record.”

  “Ginny Chamberlain.”

  The sergeant wrote my name at the top of the report. He cleared his throat.

  “Okay, Ginny, you are reporting a crime?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what is the nature of this crime?”

  “My parents were murdered. The men who murdered them are staying at the Garmin Hotel in room 24.”

  The sergeant had a puzzled look.

  “Why do you suspect these men of the murder of your parents? What evidence do you have to support such a claim?”

  “I overheard them talking, and they said that they did it.”

  “And when and where did this murder happen?”

  “Five years ago, on our farm near Harrods Creek. Soldiers came and murdered my Pa and Ma. Then they stole our horses and were never caught.”

  The sergeant raised his eyebrows and put down his pen.

  “Well, first of all, this happened out of our jurisdiction. That far out of the city would fall under the Jefferson County Sheriff’s office. But let me just say that you are going to have difficulty getting an investigation going from any law enforcement agency. Six years ago, all of ou
r area was under martial law, hence local law enforcement became a side show.”

  “But these murderers are here in Louisville, and I know where they are staying! I heard them talking in their room about my parent’s murder! They said that they did it! Why can’t you arrest them?”

  “Ginny, we have no evidence that they committed any crime. Do you have any witnesses or sworn testimony?”

  “I was the only witness!” I cried.

  The sergeant leaned forward in his chair and examined my face.

  “Ginny, I have a deputy here on duty who’s told me that you were attacking a stage coach driver with a horse whip the other day. This certainly does raise suspicion about your intentions here, if not to your own sanity.”

  “What!” I shouted. “Are you saying that I am out of my mind? My parents were brutally murdered by these evil soldiers! How dare you question my sanity!”

  The police sergeant fidgeted in his chair and appeared to be uncomfortable. He heaved a long deep sigh.

  “Well, Ginny. Since soldiers were involved, it is a military affair at this point, and it always was. You need to take this to the provost officer at Newport.”

  I knew then and there that I would get no help from law enforcement. It was useless to expect any justice against the soldiers who murdered my parents. I got up and was ready to leave.

  “Wait a minute,” the sergeant said. “Tell me again the hotel and room where these men are staying.”

  “They are at the Garmin Hotel in room 24.”

  He wrote down the information. Then he looked up at me with a weak smile.

  “I will tell my deputies to keep an eye on these characters. They seem like a bunch of troublemakers. Thank you for the information.”

  After Sergeant Bowers said that, I felt a little better as I left the police headquarters and walked slowly back to my hotel room.

  I could see the Garmin Hotel from my second-floor window. It was a small hotel on the opposite side of the street. Not directly across, but towards the left as I peered out my window.