Chapter 8

April 24^th – April 28, 1867

I had been up before the dawn. Years of living on a farm had taught me about the weather. With the wind from the west I could smell and feel the moisture in the air. It was going to rain today, and it was likely to be a serious spring storm. After a hasty breakfast of yesterday’s corn cakes, jerky, and a wizened apple, bolted down while I tended to the animals, I set out on the third day of my journey north and west from Richmond. The journey had been uneventful and the spring weather clement. I had settled on twenty miles per day and even though Gray seemed eager to continue, it was I who held us back as my muscles and joints adjusted to being so long in the saddle again.

The road was in good repair and well traveled and the countryside dotted with prosperous looking farms with little evidence of the late war. Occasionally, I’d come upon an abandoned farmstead, overgrown and in disrepair. I wondered about those families. Perhaps the former tenant was a farmer who had gone off to war and never returned, or perhaps he and his family joined those hardy pioneers heading west, although I couldn’t imagine a more idyllic locale than this part of Virginia.

Each day, I was met with numerous wagons loaded with construction materials and other necessities moving in the direction of Richmond. It appeared the whole countryside was being denuded to reinstate Richmond to the prominence it held before the war. Still the capital of Virginia, and a place of commerce, it had become a terminus for the growing railroads which now crisscrossed the land. We also passed a number of wagons going in our westerly direction, but not so heavily laden. Most seemed filled with finished materials, from farm implements to dry goods, and perhaps a few of the luxuries sent from the European countries.

As we traveled I was greeted with courtesy, or at least indifference, as the large wagons lumbered by, even by those who might have recognized the look of a former Union Cavalry officer on a cavalry mount. The war was two years past and commerce again ruled the land and the United States was on the move west. It seemed there was little time for recrimination and animosity when all were again free to seek the prosperity that drove us. Again, we sought what was enshrined in our Declaration of Independence from the British Crown ninety-one years ago. Unlike any other country in the world, Mr. Jefferson and the other founding fathers had included the words the pursuit of happiness, along with life and liberty, when they spoke of certain unalienable rights.

I wondered if I failed in my quest and was rebuffed by Mrs. Heth, should I join the westward migration. Or perhaps, once I had performed whatever penance was appropriate in that place near Savannah, I should travel to California. I had served with soldiers who had been garrisoned there before the war and it was described as a place that seemed to be some mythical land where the weather was always most agreeable and a man could become wealthy merely from digging holes in the ground.

I was never swayed by stories of easy riches, but knew I had skills which could be used in about any place across the land. That being said, then I should prefer a place which spared me the cold and snow that had been part of my life up to this moment. Of course, between eighteen sixty three and eighteen sixty five I had acquired a new set of skills which might be more in demand in parts of the West, than the bookkeeping and ledger skills of a banker. That thought saddened me, but if I, like others, was going to pursue happiness or at least contentment, those skills might be useful indeed.

As the dawn came up I consulted one of the fine maps I had purchased from a cartographer in Richmond, and decided I would try for Zion Crossroads. I had been told by a teamster I met the previous day that there was a reputable inn there. I came upon him as he struggled with a broken spoke on a wagon wheel and together we unloaded the freshly milled timbers so we were able to lift the wagon to replace the wheel. After reloading the wagon we paused by a gentle creek where he shared his meal with me.

“Kinda far from New York aren’t ya?”

I nodded as we sat in our shirtsleeves in the mid-day spring sunshine watching the slowly moving clear water while eating pieces of his wife’s delicious chicken, accompanied by biscuits baked just that morning.

“I have some unfinished business that will eventually take me south.”

He looked closely at me. He had seen the new Henry Rifle in its sleeve attached to my saddle and the Colt at my hip.

I added, “It’s not revenge I seek ... only forgiveness.”

He nodded, and then was silent as we enjoyed our meal. Finally he said, “How long do you reckon before all the memories fade?”

“Not until the last of us have gone to our reward or to damnation, I’m afraid.”

He thought for a few moments. “The ones who never heard a shot are putting up monuments now. We should tear them down and let the cemeteries speak for us.”

“And all the blind and the cripples and those driven mad.” I rejoined.

Thankfully, we passed another thirty minutes without another word about the war, exchanging scant information while concentrating on the vagaries of travel and commerce, and then we went on our way, he to Richmond to the south and east, and me following my horse’s nose in the opposite direction.

So armed with the wagon-driver’s information I had set out in the cool and mist-shrouded early morning bound for the inn at Zion Crossroads to find shelter from the coming storm. I guessed I would be there more than a night. The air had that feel about it.

Perhaps an hour after I set out my stomach growled in reaction to the smell of frying bacon. Somewhere near the road someone was cooking breakfast. The day was still young and I promised myself an excellent supper once I reached my destination.

The early hour meant few others would be on the road. As I came to an area of low hills where the road was cut below the ground level, I looked up and watched the sun just touch the canopy of newly green leaves which stretched almost across the road overhead. It was a peaceful time and like each day before it was a time for contemplation.

Constant thoughts of Elizabeth bedeviled me despite a conscious effort to banish her from my mind and memories. She even inserted herself in my dreams interrupting my rest. I had to try most assiduously to keep my anger in check as I rode through this idyllic countryside. I had heard Mr. Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony performed in New York more than once. It never failed to move me, and as I gazed at the newly green fields of central Virginia and the cattle that grazed so placidly, strains of the symphony brought comfort.

That comfort could only be sustained by concentrating on the music in my head and banishing the memories of the two of us sitting in a concert hall with Elizabeth’s gloved hand resting lightly on my forearm. She had bewitched me and to my utter bewilderment the intense feelings I had for her had been destroyed by an act of cruelty and selfishness. Elizabeth was willful and spoiled, but I had never seen her treat anyone cruelly. Why had she destroyed our marriage and my career? Why did she hate me so much? These questions drove me to distraction. Why could I not stop thinking about her treachery?

As I came around a bend in the semi darkness of the tree-shaded dawn I observed a small figure on the side of the road some distance ahead. He seemed to pose no threat so I left my weapons at rest. As I got closer, I could see a black boy dressed in filthy rags. His dirt-covered shirt and trousers barely covered his emaciated frame. He was sitting against the red clay of the cut with his knees against his chest and his arms folded across. He appeared as miserable a creature as I had seen in years, perhaps since the war. With his head down against his knees his body shook as he appeared to be crying.

As I came abreast he did not look up but only acknowledged me by raising his arms as if in supplication or surrender. Each wrist was encircled by a binding that looked like strips of leather and his wrists were bloody from where they had chafed his almost skeletal arms.

I slowly dismounted, reached into my bag of ready provisions, and pulled from it a dried apple. I placed the apple into one of his upraised hands. He raised his head slowly, his arms still straight over his head, and I saw tears streaking his cheeks. I smiled, removed my hat and took a step back trying to reassure him I meant no harm. His eyes quickly went from fear to relief to sadness. He was perhaps ten, but it was difficult to tell. It was obvious from his condition that he had been mal-treated. As he looked at me I saw a large bruise on the side of his ebony face. The days of slavery were two years past but I was not so naive to think that the mistreatment of Negros in the south had vanished with the Emancipation Proclamation and the end of the war.

He looked at the apple in his small hand as if it had appeared by magic. Then his unblinking gaze turned back to me as he slowly lowered his arms. Without looking away he devoured the apple, core and all.

“How long since you’ve eaten, my young friend?”

He said nothing as I returned to my bag and brought out another apple and a piece of cloth-covered cornbread. These too he devoured. He was as hungry as some wild animal, but he made no sound, nor did he show any emotion except an acceptance of his fate. I handed him my canteen and he drank thirstily, the water running down his throat and soaking the front of the pitiful rag that passed for a shirt on his half-starved body.

As he ate and drank I had a better look at his bindings. There was a short length of hide hanging from each wrist that had been severed somehow. I surmised he had probably gnawed through it to free his hands.

“It’s going to storm and I think you should come with me. We’ll find you some better food and someplace to sleep out of the weather. Would you like that?”

He only looked at me.

“Do you understand?” I asked softly.

He slowly nodded.

“I do think it would be best if you came with me, don’t you?”

He sadly shook his head and pointed back down the road the way I had come.

“You need to go that way?”

He nodded, a little more vigorously.

I had a sick feeling that there were others who had suffered his fate. “Is there someone?”

He nodded again.

“Parents?”

A shake of his head.

“Brother, sister?”

He nodded.

I wondered if he could speak and looked closely at his neck where I spotted what looked like rope burns. Had his larynx been injured or had he been mute from birth? Who would do such a thing to a child? I could feel the anger rising within me.

“Your sister?”

He had a look of dreadful sorrow as he nodded.

I wondered if the culprits were associated with that smell of bacon that I had detected perhaps a mile back down the road. “Is she tied like you?”

A nod.

“Any others?”

He shook his head.

“How many men are with her?”

He held up two fingers.

“Will they be looking for you?”

He shrugged.

“Will you show me where they are?”

He nodded and got to his feet. Next to me he was very small. He was barefoot and the remnants of trousers came only to his knees, but he had a very determined look. He then pointed to my holstered pistol.

“Oh, I understand. They’re armed.”

Another nod.

“I think it’s time to go see about your sister.”

I lifted him onto the saddle. He was so light that it pained me to think of what kind of conditions he had been made to suffer. And what of his sister? Had she helped him escape and would she suffer for his disappearance? I took the other Colt from the saddle bag, checked the chambers, and tucked it into my belt. This would be close work and nothing the Henry Rifle could help with. I would approach these men with a Colt in each hand.

I didn’t remount but walked the road, leading Gray, a pistol in my hand. Tulip obediently followed behind. The breeze was blowing away from us so there would be no smell to guide on. It didn’t seem we had traveled more than half a mile when I heard an exclamation from the woods near the side of the road.

“Damnation!”

I pulled the other Colt from my belt and stood watching the trees and underbrush as my pulse quickened. It had been two years since I’d felt the dreadful anticipation of going into battle. I had hoped to never repeat that experience.

“No sign of him this way!” yelled the unseen voice. It was now farther away. The boy slipped from the saddle and together we stepped into the forest in the direction of the voice, following a string of curses.

The newly formed cloud cover made the forest dim and the wind had freshened, masking our footsteps. Soon I spotted their camp. It was in a small clearing, probably not more than fifty paces from the road.

There were two large very rough looking bearded men dressed in patched dark trousers, battered boots, and long black coats which looked threadbare. Each had a pistol strapped to his hip and neither wore a hat. I could see beyond the fire, a wagon, and behind the wagon a horse and a mule tethered to a line strung between two trees.

The larger of the two said, “Mister Fletcher’s not going to like this - just coming back with one. We agreed to bring him ten.”

“No need to worry, as long as we have that girl.”

He gestured over his shoulder to a young black girl sitting tied to a tree next to the horses. She was so still I had missed her in my quick scan of the camp. “Mister Fletcher will pay in gold dollars for her. She’ll be one of his little black whores in the blink of an eye!” He laughed.

“And don’t worry none about the boy. I figure he’s on the road not far. We’ll each ride about a mile in either direction and we’ll find him. He’ll be too hungry to go far. We’ll teach him a lesson that’s for sure. And I know full well we’ll pick up a few more as we go along. These darkies don’t have enough sense to stay off the roads!”

He laughed again. His laugh was how I imagined the devil greeted new arrivals.

I stepped into the clearing, revolvers at the ready.

My antagonists stood about ten paces from me about ten feet apart on either side of the fire. I had been blessed with keen eyesight from birth and during the war had become proficient firing my weapons from either hand.

They didn’t notice me until I said, “Good morning gentlemen. Stand very still and I’ll let you live.”

I hardly had the words out of my mouth when they both went for their weapons. The bigger one was on my left and probably thought he had an advantage, but before he could do more than touch the butt of his pistol the heavy bullet from the Colt in my left hand caught him in the middle of the chest, knocking him back. Knowing I had hit him I didn’t watch him go down, but immediately turned my attention to the man on my right. I could see it in his eyes as he realized he could not bring his pistol to bear before I fired, but he persisted with his draw, perhaps trusting I would have a misfire. Perhaps I was out of practice but my bullet went slightly high and caught him in the forehead. He looked surprised as he died twitching on the ground, his blood soaking the leaf- covered soil.

I felt no pity for these two. I hoped that someday I would meet this ‘Mr. Fletcher’ and assist him in joining his henchmen in hell.

I looked around, slightly trembling as I often did at the close of an action and then tucked my pistols away. The man I shot in the chest had his hands grasping the front of his blood splashed coat as if he could draw the bullet from his chest. He looked at me with a look of pure malevolence as he drew his last labored breaths and then he was still. I could hear the blood surging in my ears and the ringing caused by the reports of my pistols.

I saw the boy was now next to his sister frantically clawing at her bindings. I walked to them. She went wide-eyed and fearful as I stood near her and pulled a Bowie knife from my boot. I didn’t want to alarm her so I said quietly, “Boy, use this knife.”

He stood, and without hesitation, took the large knife from me and cut her loose from the tree and then cut the bonds that held her legs and arms. The leather strips still encircled her wrists and ankles so she took the knife from him and worked at them, drawing blood as she worked the sharp blade against her skin and the tightness of the restraints.

Blood dripped from her wounds as she stood and I noticed she made no attempt to return the knife, holding it close to her body. She, like her brother was dressed in dirty rags. Her dress was nothing more than a crude shift made from material that looked like coarse sacking. She was perhaps twelve or thirteen and her skin seemed several shades lighter than her brother’s. Like him, she was barefoot. Her bare arms and legs showed bruises where she had been restrained. What kind of demon was this Mr. Fletcher who would send his minions in search of young girls and boys?

It was impossible to tell if she was pretty or not under the grime that enveloped her as she stood defiant. She looked me in the eye and said, “He’s called Joshua, not boy.”

Joshua stood next to her almost touching her, now shivering with cold and the after effects of watching two men die by violence.

“I’m Jonathan Carter. And you are?”

“Tamar.” She said proudly, standing erect despite her painful wounds.

I smiled at her. “Do you know your Bible?”

“Mamma said Tamar was the daughter of a mighty king.”

“That’s right, a king named David.”

She smiled for a moment, but then I watched her withdraw from me and I saw her grip my knife firmly once again.

“Can I help you find your mother?”

Tamar looked as if she would cry, revealing the frightened young girl she was, but then she caught herself and replied. “Joshua’s all I got now. Mamma said I’m to take care of him.”

She turned away.

I walked to the fire and looked at the big cast iron skillet which had been moved to the side. Inside was what remained of breakfast, cornbread fried in bacon grease. The grease was congealing so I slide the pan onto the coals.

I went to the road and led Gray and Tulip to the clearing. Tulip was a little skittish with all the noise and the smell of blood, but Gray simply took to grazing some of the new forest grass. He was a veteran after all.

When I returned, I saw Tamar had used my knife to slice the pockets of the big man. She calmly searched the blood covered body and soon found his leather purse and I heard the clink of coins as she handed it to Joshua. She held his silver watch to her ear and laid it to the side next to the pistol which he had dropped when I shot him. She had Joshua help her pull off the man’s boots. Joshua clearly did not care for this grisly inventory, but did his sister’s biding. Soon she laid a boot knife on her pile of treasures. It was a smaller version of the knife she was using.

Finding nothing else of interest, she moved to the other man and did the same thing. She sent Joshua to look in the wagon for some cloth and he returned with a well-worn carpet bag, and took from it what appeared to be an old soiled shirt. She wrapped the pistols and the watches and the brass buttons she cut from one of the coats in a bundle which she secured with some of the leather which had bound her to the tree. They then inventoried the contents of the bag as I looked on. The remaining clothing was filthy and the stench of body odor was overpowering. Tamar kicked those articles away and deposited their booty in the bag including the two purses.

Task complete, Tamar cautiously approached me and quietly returned my knife, all the while holding the knife she took from her kidnapper’s boot. She had been born into slavery, treated abominably, and had almost been made a slave again. She and her brother were without parents and she had been charged with keeping her brother safe, so she was determined to protect herself and him from further misfortune. I could not blame her for her suspicions of all whites, especially men.

The wind had picked up as the children wolfed down the remnants of the dead men’s breakfast and I watched them shiver. I went to Tulip and took out my last two clean white cotton shirts from the cloth bag I had tied there, and walked to them and gave them each a shirt. Tamar helped Joshua before she put on her own.

By the time I finished harnessing our new mule to the wagon Tamar had them both fitted into the shirts. They weren’t cloaks but they were decidedly better than what they were wearing. I gathered anything of use from the campsite leaving behind the stinking bedding that had been on the ground. I considered leaving the bodies where they lay, but decided to drag them some distance into the woods. I knew it would only be a very short time before the animals of the forest and the insects would reduce them to skeletons. These men might not be missed, but I wanted to avoid questions that might come with premature discovery.

Without success I looked through their clothing trying to discover something about this Mr. Fletcher. Tamar had been thorough.

“Tamar, you should come with me. I can protect you and perhaps we can find a safe place for you and your brother.”