A Secret Refuge [02] Sisters of the Confederacy (17 page)

“Mornin’. Your boy is lookin’ some better. Hope you brought him some clean clothes for the trial. Judge said he’d commence with the proceedings at ten o’clock. The witness has already been notified.”

“What did he say about our substitution idea?”

“Said if he caught any such shenanigans in his court, he’d hang ’em both.”

The flat way he delivered his pronouncement made Jesselynn wonder which side the sheriff was on. Earlier he’d seemed sympathetic to Daniel. Now she wasn’t so sure. But did it matter? “Okay if I see him?”

“Suit yourself. Just leave that firearm here on my desk.”

Jesselynn removed the pistol from her waistband and, laying it on the desk corner, followed the sheriff through the door to the cells. While Daniel still occupied the cell away from the windows, two other men were snoring on the cots in the larger cell with an outside view.

“Hey, boy, you got company,” the sheriff called out.

Daniel dropped his hand from over his eyes and rolled to a sitting position. He shook his head as he stood and crossed to the bars. “Dey gonna hang me, Marse Jesse. I jist knows it.”

“Now, Daniel, don’t talk such a way. They have no proof you were even here.” She spoke low, for his ears alone as soon as she caught his horrified glance at the other cell. “Your face looks much better.”

“Yes, suh.” He rested his forehead against the cold bars.

“Did you have breakfast?”

He nodded. “Marse Jesse, I want to go home.”

She knew what he meant. Back to Twin Oaks, back to a time before the war when the family all lived and laughed and the slaves had been as much family as anyone. “I know. I’m going back to the camp for the others and will bring you clean clothes. You wash up good.”

“I bin prayin’.”

“So have we, Daniel. So have we. Surely God hears and will execute His justice.”
Surely He will. Father God, please don’t let us down, not at the cost of this child’s life
. She knew she sounded like the preacher from home, but did she really believe they worshiped a God of justice? At least justice in the here and now? Eternal justice was much easier to believe in, but the daily kind? The war and the resulting carnage caused faith to waver, especially newly recovered faith like hers.

“I’m going back to get the others.”

“Who take care of de horses?”

“Benjamin. Ophelia and Jane Ellen will stay in camp with the little ones.” She made that decision as she spoke. The courtroom was no place for children or for a keening black woman if the judgment went against them.

“You hurry back?” The stark fear in his eyes made her wrap her hands around his on the bars.

“Have faith, Daniel.” She knew she was saying the words as much for herself as for him. As she left the jailhouse, she glanced up the street to the town square. The gallows still stood, a mute testimony to man’s idea of justice. She swung atop the mule and cantered out of town, not daring to gallop or he would be too winded to hitch to the wagon. There was no way she’d harness up one of the stallions today, and the mares had to stay with their foals.

While it seemed like hours, they were on their way back to town within the hour, bearing a packet for Daniel and all wearing clean clothes. Ophelia waved them off, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Bring dat boy back here. We needs him.” Her words echoed on the breeze and reverberated in Jesselynn’s heart.

They stopped at the jail, and Jesselynn took the packet in for the sheriff, but the deputy sat at the desk instead.

“Sheriff’s gone over to the courthouse. Left me to bring your boy over.”

“I brought some clean clothes for Daniel.”

“That rope don’t care he got clean clothes.”

Jesselynn stepped up to the desk and slammed her palms down on the wood surface. She leaned slightly forward on rigid arms. “
Mister
Rudy! You will take these into him or I will. The sheriff told me to bring them, and I surely wouldn’t want to have to tell him you refused his orders.” The thought of her pistol hanging heavy at her side pulled at her stiff arms. But she kept her gaze locked on the deputy in the chair.

He dropped his gaze first. “Go on back.” He motioned over his shoulder with his thumb. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” His eyes glinted mean like those of a weasel she’d once caught raiding the henhouse. At least she’d been able to shoot it. Her trigger finger twitched. She didn’t want to kill him, just wound him a bit. Bullies like that deputy never could tolerate pain of their own, no matter how they tried to inflict it on those less fortunate.

Daniel slipped into the clean pants and shirt while Jesse turned her back, then handed his dirty things through the bars. His hands shook so badly he dropped his shirt and had to pick it up again.

“Don’t you go minding that cruel creature out there. Men like him’s the reason we need so many judges.” She rolled his things and tucked them under her arm. “You look right presentable now, so we’ll just go before the judge and tell him the truth, and we can be on our way west.” She forced every smidgen of confidence she could dredge up into her voice and tightened the smile that threatened to quiver to death at any moment. If she showed her anxiety, she knew Daniel would melt into a whimpering black puddle on the floor. “The truth will win out.” That phrase had been one of her mother’s favorites.

She turned at the sound of the opening door to see the sheriff enter the aisle between the cells. He started to say something, saw the gun in her waistband, and strode forward with his hand out stretched.

“Just give me the gun, nice and peaceable-like, and we won’t have any trouble.”

“That deputy didn’t ask for it, so I didn’t offer.” Jesselynn handed the gun over, butt first.

“Thank you.” The sheriff stuck it in his waistband and shook his head.

From the look in his eyes, Jesselynn felt right grateful she wasn’t walking in the deputy’s shoes. “How long until we head for the court house?”

“’Bout half an hour. If you want to go over and get a place to sit, I’ll be bringin’ your boy over after I shackle his hands.” He looked at Daniel. “You wouldn’t be tryin’ to run on me, would you, boy?”

Daniel shook his head. “No, suh.”

“You mind if Meshach comes in to stay with him until then?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Good. Then my aunt and I will go over and reserve our places.” Jesselynn touched the back of Daniel’s fingers, gripped so tightly around the bars that his knuckles grayed. “Not long now and we’ll be on our way back to camp, then on to Independence.” She took two steps toward the door, but his whimper, like a pup about dead, stopped her.
Lord, what can I say? What more can I do?

“Trust me.”
She turned to see who had spoken. Nothing looked different. No one had said a word. She stepped back to the bars so she and Daniel were about nose to nose. “The Lord says we got to trust Him.”

“I know. I do, but . . .” Daniel closed his eyes and shook his head. His sigh nearly ripped her heart out. “I’m tryin’, Marse Jesse, I’m tryin’.”

“I know. Soon now.” This time she hustled out the door as though alligators were snapping at her heels. Sending Meshach back inside with orders to stay with Daniel, she backed the team and drove the two blocks to the courthouse. Tying up in the shade, she helped Aunt Agatha down from the wagon. Agatha kept her own counsel after one look at her niece’s face on returning to the wagon. The older woman checked the adjustment of her hat, picked up her knitting bag, and let Jesselynn take her arm on their way into the building.

A line of townspeople barred the door until Jesselynn led Agatha forward and whispered to the man in charge. “I’m Master Jesse High wood, and it is my . . .” What could she call him? He was no longer a slave, but would being a freedman cause more trouble?

Aunt Agatha took a step forward. “The young man in question is my slave, and I am here to see that he is returned to me at the earliest convenience.” Her harrumph made her seem to grow a foot taller.

The man started to say something, then nodded and turned to point to a row of benches just this side of a wooden railing. “Right over there, ma’am. You can be seated at any time.”

“I will need room for one more.”

“You take as much space as you’d like. I’ll be lettin’ in these other folks in a few minutes.”

Jesselynn could feel the dagger stares slamming into the middle of her back. Ignoring the temptation to glare back at them, she followed her aunt down the aisle. Agatha left enough space on the bench for Jesselynn and Meshach and sat herself down, spreading her skirts and sitting board straight as she picked up her knitting needles and commenced the soft clicking of the ivory as the yarn became the arm of a sweater. She glanced once around the room, ignoring the whispers from all around them as if they were not even there. She could have been ensconced in front of a parlor fire for all the peace that seemed to flow out of her.

When a hiss of “nigger lovers” reached her ears, Jesselynn tried to imitate her aunt. If only she had knitting or mending along. She was wondering how men managed situations like this when more murmurs from behind made the hair tingle on the back of her neck. Couldn’t these people understand or at least entertain the notion that Daniel hadn’t been anywhere near Blytheville? Had no one told them the truth of the matter? If she’d had any hope they’d listen to her, she would have stood and demanded their attention.

Agatha put her hand on Jesselynn’s arm, apparently sensing her agitation, then continued with her knitting. Jesselynn got the point, the silent admonition.

The sheriff entered from a side door, one hand on Daniel’s upper arm, nearly dragging him forward. They took two chairs behind a table in front of the railing.

Jesselynn didn’t need to turn around to be sure the courtroom was full. The hate rolled against her back like surf against a rock, splashing up and dashing back down, sucking at her as if to pull her under. She wanted to turn and search out Meshach. She needed to. But after a comforting glance at Daniel, she kept her back straight and her eyes forward.

“All rise.” The sheriff stood as he spoke, pulling Daniel up with him. “Judge Stuart McCutcheon presiding.”

Dressed in black from beaver hat to shiny boots, the man compelled attention. Not that he was good-looking in a conventional way, but his face brought to mind granite, cut square and clean. His eyes, sheltered under wild black brows, seemed those of a man who had seen far and wide, both in country and into men’s souls.

“Be seated.” His words precise, his voice rang with authority.

Jesselynn felt she should stand and salute. Instead, she sat.

The sheriff read from a paper he held open with both hands. “The state of Missouri accuses Daniel Highwood, here seated, to be the accomplice of James Gardner, already convicted of the murder of Avery Dunbar and hanged.”

The judge, now seated, leaned forward. “How do you plead?”

Daniel tried to speak, but the words refused to come.

“He says he is not guilty, Your Honor.” The sheriff laid his paper on the table and took his chair.

“They all say that!” The growl from the back of the room snapped the judge’s head up.

“Quiet! If you cannot be quiet in my courtroom, you will leave.” He stared around the room, nailing everyone to their seats. Someone coughed, then silence reigned. “That’s better.” He looked at the sheriff. “Tell us, Sheriff, how he came to be in your custody.”

The sheriff stood and cleared his throat. As if reciting a grocery list, he told of the accusation, the chase, the capture, and the jailing. “And so, Your Honor, this court has been called to determine the guilt of this man.” He gestured to Daniel, who stared at his hands.

“What’s this I hear about a near riot at your jail?”

“Just a few of the hotheads attempting their own form of justice.”

“I see. Who is it that accused this man?”

“Jason Stillwater. Said he’d seen this young man trail James Gardner into the store when he shot ol’ Avery. But he disappeared before we caught the killer.”

The judge looked around the room. “Stillwater, you here?”

“Yes, sir.” A man who appeared to have seen better days stood with his hat in his hand, his fingers crippling the brim.

“Get on up here where I can talk with you.” The judge pointed to a chair off to his right.

The sheriff crossed the room and held out a black Bible. “Lay your hand on it. Now, do you swear to tell the truth?”

“I do.”

“Then sit.”

The judge waited a moment for the air to settle. “Now, Stillwater, tell me what you saw. Not what you thought you saw and with no addin’ to it, you hear?”

“Yes, sir. The night ol’ Avery was kilt, I was comin’ down the street. I saw a man walk into the store, and this here nigger.” He pointed at Daniel.

“Enough! I said to tell only what you saw!”

The bench Jesse sat on shuddered with the thunder.

“Ah, yes, sir. I saw a skinny black man follow Gardner into the store.”

“How do you know they were together?”

“He was followin’, sneakylike. Both was strangers to Blytheville. Leastways, I din’t know them.”

“How do you know this young man is the one you thought you saw?”

“Same kinky hair, same kinda clothes, same height. I knows he the same ni—ah—boy.”

Where is Meshach?
Surely this wasn’t evidence enough to hang Daniel.

“I see.” The judge glanced around the room. “Anyone else see a stranger in town that night?”

Jesselynn started to rise, but Aunt Agatha put a hand on her arm. Jesselynn settled back in her seat. Daniel glanced her way, his eyes rolling in terror.

God, help us, please. For mercy’s sake, help us
.

Washington

“Bored, that’s what I am.” Louisa paced to the window again.

Three days Zachary had been going to his mysterious meetings. Three days she’d been stuck in a hotel room, and now she was out of yarn. Three days and they hadn’t heard from Cousin Arlington. She’d written three letters, requested three stamps that her dear brother had yet to provide, and thought of at least thirteen ways she could do away with him.

She’d memorized the newspaper, had found it amazing the different views this paper had, compared to the Richmond
Gazette
. Why, according to this paper, the North had already won the war, no matter how many battles it lost. But reading between the lines, she discovered the same illness on this side also—leaders who were afraid to lead. Men who would rather talk and let others do the fighting. “Daddy, it’s probably a good thing you died when you did. Succumbing to a broken heart might be even worse.”

There, now she was talking out loud to herself on a consistent basis. “Zachary Highwood, where in heaven’s name are you?” Her stomach complained at the length of time since she’d fed it, but she was under strict orders not to leave the room until he returned.

She crossed back to the window again and peered down at the street two stories below. Rain and incessant traffic had turned the dirt street into a quagmire. While some streets were brick or cobblestone, the lesser ones weren’t, hence the mudhole.

Louisa fetched her bag from the nightstand drawer and counted her meager cash. Enough for yarn, if she could locate a store, and for coffee and a biscuit or something light in the dining room downstairs. Calling her brother every name she could think of, she donned her traveling jacket, pinned her hat firmly in place, arranged the net over her face and threw a cape around her shoulders. Sometimes it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

Refreshed by her tea and coffee cake in the dining room, she stopped under the portico that extended beyond the front doors. Rain had turned from sprinkles to sheets. Not even for yarn would she brave that downpour. Sighing, she turned back. Perhaps they had a library, or at least a shelf of books, where she could borrow one.

But when she made her request at the desk, the clerk shook her head. “Sorry, ma’am, but books we ain’t got.”

“Yarn, then? I’ve run out.”

“I’ll ask cook. She always has her needles going for our soldiers who be needing wool stockings all the time.”

That too is the same as for the South. But did their yarn come in blue?

The young woman returned in a few minutes with a ball of undyed yarn, the same as Louisa used. “Here you go, ma’am. Good way to spend such a rainy afternoon.”

Louisa thanked her and turned to head back up the stairs.

“Oh, ma’am,” the clerk called, “I have a message delivered for your husband. Might you take it up with you?”

“Of course.” Her curiosity running rampant, Louisa took the envelope and returned to her room. It was good quality paper, no return address or stamp, so someone had dropped it off. Zachary’s name stood out in bold script, most likely masculine. She tapped the edge of the sealed envelope on the side of her finger. If it hadn’t been sealed with wax, she could have steamed it open. But there was no way to redo wax, at least without having wax at her disposal. A candle might have worked, but all the lights were gas.

With a sigh, she set the envelope on the mantel, took her chair, and resumed her knitting. And here she’d thought the trip would be exciting. Dusk parted the rain curtain and eased onto the stage, welcomed by gas streetlights and people hurrying home so quickly that the streets cleared in a short time.

Still no Zachary. When she dropped two stitches turning the heel, she had to admit it. Fear had become a real presence in the room and in her mind. Something could have happened to him. After all, he was seeking contraband to take back to the South. While he’d warned her more times than she cared to count that there was danger here, she’d put aside his admonitions with a light heart. After all, they were doing the will of the Lord in seeking to care for His hurting children. She had prayed for guidance, and the ease with which they’d traveled seemed to be a confirmation of divine intervention.

But where was Zachary?

If Zachary didn’t return, what could she do? Best throw herself on the mercy of Cousin Arlington, she decided.

Her hands fell idle, and she closed her eyes.
Dear Lord, please help us. Bring Zachary back safe and sound and provide the morphine that we came for
. Her prayer degenerated into a succession of pleadings, and throughout she felt as though her petitions went no further than the ceiling.
Oh, Lord, have you forsaken us?
The thought made her stomach flutter and her hands shake. Surely not. Surely Zachary was just busy and forgot the time.

What if I can’t get home again until after the war is over?

“You goose! Now stop that.” She picked up her knitting again and made a choice. “ ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul. . . . ‘” By the time she’d recited the Twenty-third Psalm, the Ninety-first Psalm, and the Sermon on the Mount, she knew where her help lay. God said He would never leave her but would be her protector, and so He would.

Whether proper or not, she descended the stairs to the dining room again, this time for supper, smiling at the man who showed her to a small table in the corner. “Thank you.”

“You were almost too late,” the waiter said with a smile. “The beef is gone, but cook made a good chicken pie. And the bread is fresh, as always.”

“That sounds delicious.”

“Will your husband be joining you?”

“I think not. He must be caught up in business. Could I have a cup of tea now, please?”

“Of course.”

Sitting there sipping her tea, she caught the eye of a woman, also alone, at a nearby table. Louisa nodded and smiled politely. At least she wasn’t the only one eating by herself. She glanced around the rest of the room, then coming back to the other woman realized she had tears running down her cheeks, in spite of an apparent effort to stem the flow.

Louisa beckoned to the waiter. “Could you please bring my supper to that table?” At his nod, she picked up her cup and crossed the short distance. When the woman nodded, Louisa took the other chair and leaned forward.

“Sometimes telling total strangers is easier than talking with our loved ones. I’m Louisa Highwood.” She waited for another sniff.

“Mrs. John Hinklen, Joanna.” The woman dabbed at her eyes again. “Forgive me for such blubbering, but you see, I received notice two days ago that my husband, Major Hinklen, died of his wounds while trying to cross the Rappahannock. No matter how prepared I tried to be, I cannot quit crying. I thought perhaps some supper might help.”

“How long since you’ve eaten anything?”

Joanna shrugged.

“Have you family?”

A shake of the head. “Not here. We’re from New York, and we have no children.”

When the waiter set her supper in front of her, Louisa turned to him. “Have you any soup for Mrs. Hinklen? That might sit better than the chicken pie.”

“Yes, surely.”

“Oh, and a pot of tea, please. A large pot.”

An hour later, Louisa knew all about the Hinklens and hated the war even more—if that were possible.

But Zachary had yet to make an appearance.