Many of my co-workers know I'm an American Civil War enthusiast (aka, "nut"). One, a fellow follower of Jesus, came to me the other day and showed me an 1886 newspaper clipping about his great, great, great, great, uncle, Marcellus E. Jones, from Illinois. His distant relative was the Federal Cavalry Captain who fired the first shot at Confederates northeast of Gettysburg, drawing the Rebels into that decisive, tide-turning battle. I always consider it an honor and a blessing when people share their personal stories regarding their family's history with me. In my co-workers case, I was able to give him context to why the decision to fire that shot mattered to the nation's survival. If any of my readers have similar stories, I'd love to hear them.
Destination Hope – Book 5 – Reconciliation
A Novel By:
Charles J. Patricoff
Copyright © 2014 by Charles J. Patricoff. All rights reserved.
Chapter 24
Partners
The construction reached the framing phase. Handy volunteers seemed to come from every corner of Williamson County. The staccato pounding of hammers on nails filled the air above the donated ground, southwest of town near the Sharp Branch Creek. Other happy contributors provided building materials, some offered their architecture design talents, and many applied their artisanship. Negroes and Whites worked together. Most community members recognized that this project was the first of many that would rise following the war’s conclusion.
As spring became summer, the joy-filled workers applied their varied skills and the little country church on the edge of town neared completion. Nothing elaborate, the modest, rectangular shaped chapel offered a welcomed addition to the Franklin community.
Some objected. Most kept their opinions to themselves. Some offered sarcastic remarks like, “It’s about time they had a place of their own.” But a cold, calculating few used the local newspaper to challenge the credibility of adding a new house of worship. One editorial comment stated something about the fired pastor’s extreme, radical views about God creating all people equal, and another asserted that the pastor had some “Questionable, personal character flaws that should be investigated further.”
Sitting with his legs crossed in a plush, burgundy leather wingback chair with brass fasteners, Mayor Jason Merritt signaled for his personal courier. He commanded with a snap of his fingers and a wave of his hand. “Boyd,” he said.
Merritt’s communications manager, Richard Boyd, former Confederate Army officer, left the hotel room’s well-stocked bar. He carried his refreshed whiskey across the makeshift office to report to his boss. “Yes, sir, Mr. Mayor, what can I do for you this evening?”
Jason took a long, satisfying draw on his cigar. After placing it in the ashtray on the end table next to his chair, he reached into his inside suit jacket. Retrieving a parcel from his coat’s pocket, he held it as he instructed. “I have a special assignment for you, Richard, assuming you will accept it.”
“I’m at your service, sir.”
“I need you to take the southbound train in the morning to Pulaski, Tennessee. Find a Mr. Hodge and hand deliver a letter in this package to him. You’ll have roundtrip, first-class accommodations, and if you accomplish this task in less than two days, there may be a little extra bonus for you.”
A slight grin surfaced. “I’ll see to it, sir.”
Jason understood Boyd’s desire to improve his station in life and that incentives motivated him. He asked, “Do you have any questions?”
“Yes sir. Where will I find this Hodge fellow?”
Jason patted the stuffed envelope. “I’d check the local watering holes, but all of your detailed instructions are in here, including a sealed parcel for Mr. Hodge.” He offered it to Boyd. “Do you have any other questions or concerns?”
Boyd accepted the package and said, “No, sir.”
“Then I suggest you turn in for the night. You don’t want to miss the train.”
“I’ll be there, sir.” Boyd gave his boss a half-bow of respect and started for the office’s exit. “Good night, Mr. Mayor and thank you for this opportunity. I won’t let you down, sir.”
Smiling, Jason said, “I know I can count on you, Richard.”
Seconds after Boyd shut the main entrance, the door to the adjoining bedroom opened. Jason asked, “What do you think, Miss Guthrie?”
Marah sashayed over to the chair beside Jason’s, fluffed her dress, and sat. “Are you sure you can trust him?”
“All he has to do is deliver the letter.” Jason took a sip of his brandy. “On second thought; how would you like to take a little trip tomorrow?”
“You want me to keep an eye on him?”
Jason reached for his confidante’s and now trusted companion’s hand. “I think it’s time that we find out where Mr. Boyd’s loyalties lie.”
With a suspicious wink, she asked, “You want me to befriend him?”
Jason gave Marah a slight grin.
“How close?”
“Use your own discretion.”
The following evening, Richard Boyd entered the Pulaski Hotel’s restaurant. The maître d’ escorted him deep into the dining area near a corner window to a table for two with a sparkling white table cloth, hand painted, glossy-blue trimmed, delicate, thin-white china, and polished silver set for at least a five-course meal. Boyd replied to the maître d’s inquiry, “This will be perfect, and no I’m not expecting anyone this evening.”
After deciding on dinner, he set the two-foot tall menu aside and scanned the dining room, wondering how this Southern hotel managed to retain so much wealth or regain it so soon after the war’s conclusion. He picked up his place setting’s butter knife and examined it. Appears to be good silver. I wonder if they’d miss one of these.
He caught a glimpse of a lone woman, in black attire, at a table near his. Through her black lace veil, he watched her eyes avert. Was she staring at me? He put the knife down. Get a hold of yourself, man. Have you looked in the mirror? If anything, she may have been wondering why I was examining the knife. But when he glanced her direction a second time, their eyes met and both looked away just as fast. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the knife. Maybe…
Boyd took a chance. Lifting his eyes toward the ceiling, he closed them, pretending to have a stiff neck needing to stretch for relief. Okay, here goes nothing. He opened his eyes and let his head fall in line with the woman. Again, their eyes connected. She dropped her chin just a bit, let a broad smile surface, and raised her face so that their stares could lock.
Boyd pushed his chair away from his table and tapped the table with his right hand. Do I dare? Too late now. She’s still staring at me. He took a step in her direction…then another…and soon stood at her table. “Excuse me, Miss, I couldn’t help but notice you this evening. I apologize for being forward, but may I ask, are you expecting anyone else to join you for dinner tonight?”
The mysterious woman’s chin dropped so her broad-rimmed, veiled black hat concealed her facial expression. She sniffled and appeared to wipe away tears with her black kerchief. She replied softly, “No sir.”
Boyd failed to recall the last time he heard the reference “Sir” applied to himself. It must be more than three years. The term of respect from a woman, felt like a cup of cold, fresh spring water nourishing his manhood. Courage flowed. “Miss, my name is Richard Boyd, former captain in the Confederate Army. I would consider it an honor if you would allow me to join you for dinner.”
The woman did not respond. She appeared to be in a state of controlled mourning. She dabbed at her eyes again and seemed to nod her agreement.
Boyd requested clarification. “Is that a yes?”
Her eyes met his. “Please.”
As Boyd prepared to take the chair opposite the woman, he said, “I assume you lost a loved one recently. It’s probably best you have some company.”
Again, she nodded. She wiped her eyes, with gentleness blew her nose, and then coughed. She seemed to keep her captivating, deep brown eyes fixed on his. Boyd felt a tug inside—something different, something new, and something alive. He noticed other attractive qualities. As he adjusted his sitting posture, he asked, “Do you mind letting me know your name?”
The woman reached for her glass of water and took a delicate sip. Pursing her moistened lips, she said, “Mrs. Denise Parker.”
Emboldened, Boyd asked, “Your husband…did he pass recently?”
The mysterious creature across the table heaved what seemed like a deep forlorn sigh and nodded.
“Do you mind me asking how he died?”
She waged her head, as if she wanted to be relieved of some great weigh hanging around her neck. “I’d say the fool drank himself to death. He came down here to meet some of his friends from the war—some kind of hunting excursion.” Her tone grew angry. “I never got a straight answer from any of them. They did admit, though, to maybe drinking a bit too much whiskey that night.” She gestured toward the street in front of the hotel. “The sheriff…he’s no better and doesn’t seem to care. His, ‘friends,’ all say they were crossing the bridge outside of town.”
“The one over the river by the railroad tracks?”
She nodded. She dried her eyes again and blew her nose. “They claim he fell off his horse—one said he jumped. I don’t know who or what to believe.”
“So what happened?”
“I don’t know. The sheriff said he and his men looked for his body, but nothing washed up downstream.” She cried, “I don’t know if he’s dead, or if he decided to run away.” Sniffling, she said angrily, “Those scoundrels all believe he’s dead by the way he splashed into the shallow water.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Ma’am.”
The woman appeared to gain some composure. “So, I’ve come to collect his horse and take it home.” She looked at Boyd. “You said you were in the war?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t you think it’s odd? My husband fought through the entire war and never received a scratch. Then he comes down here to do God only knows what, gets drunk, and dies in a strange accident. It doesn’t seem right, does it?”
“No, ma’am, it doesn’t.”
She sniffled again. “What did you do? In the war, I mean?”
“I joined up in the summer of ’61, when it turned into a real shooting war. The Yankees captured me at Gettysburg, and I spent over two years in a Federal prison camp. Now I am an employee of the town of Franklin, Tennessee, and I work for its mayor. I’m here conducting official business on his behalf.”
“We…I guess it’s just me, now…I, too, am from Franklin.” She smiled.
Boyd drank in her smile and offered a gentle one in kind. “Maybe when I return, do you think it proper if I called on you?”
She simply said, “Yes.”
Boyd leaned back in his chair filled with new confidence. He let a long breath escape. “I’ll look forward to that day with great anticipation.”
Mayor Jason Merritt sat at his desk and appeared to be reading legal documents. “So, what did you learn?”
“I’d say he’s harmless to our objectives but I would agree with your suspicions regarding loyalty to your administration.”
Jason, with a poker-face expression, lowered the papers. “How so?”
“You’d be surprised how much a woman can learn from a man with just a smile.”
“I’m aware of your talents, Miss Guthrie.”
“As soon as he has the means, he plans to return to Georgia. As close as we were in Pulaski, I’m surprised he didn’t leave you then.”
“I see.” Jason retrieved a cigar from the box on top of his desk, bit off an end, spit out the excess into a trashcan, and lit it. Once it glowed, he said, “So, you’re saying he has his own agenda?”
“I feel that’s safe to say.” The drifting cigar smoke triggered a cough. Marah opened her purse, retrieved her white, lace-trimmed handkerchief, and covered her mouth.
Jason stared at the office’s corner ceiling. “Did he deliver the package?”
“Yes, he met Mr. Hodge the next day in a bar not far from our hotel. Because I wore a flowery dress with a frilly bonnet, and carried a parasol, he never showed any signs that he knew I, or anyone else, followed him.” Marah wheezed. “When we met again that evening for dinner, I changed into my mourning clothes. That’s when I learned of his plans to leave your service as soon as he is able.”
“Since the thirteenth amendment is now part of the Constitution, I can’t hold him forever, even if he is a parolee.” Jason chuckled. “At least he delivered the package. I suspect we’ll have to see to Mr. Boyd’s future.”
Marah pressed her handkerchief to her mouth and expelled a violent cough. “Do you want me to keep seeing him?”
“At least for the time being.”
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