Destination Hope - Book 5 - Reconciliation - Chapter 27

New Year's Eve is often celebrated with a fireworks display. This next chapter has some fireworks of its own.

For new readers to this story, I linked Chapter 1. Chapters 2 - 4 are linked under September, 5 - 10 under October, 11 - 18 under November, and 19 - 26 under December.

Destination Hope – Book 5 – Reconciliation

A Novel By:

Charles J. Patricoff

Copyright © 2014 by Charles J. Patricoff. All rights reserved.

Chapter 27

Raid

Richard Boyd arrived after dark as pre-arranged. Straining his eyes, he managed to see Mrs. Parker’s two horses and wagon standing near the church’s rear entrance. But he failed to locate Mrs. Parker. Vapor escaped from his nostrils as he assumed the woman who had captured his affection waited inside. Boyd tied his horse to the railing to the left of the front entrance. He packed most of what he owned into his port and starboard saddle bags. The cloudy, new moon’s darkness caused a wintry chill to race his spine. He shuddered.

“She planned this well,” he muttered. “No one in their right mind would be out on a cold, pitch-black night like this.” He climbed the stairs, pivoted on the landing near the church entrance, and tried to see to his left and right. Satisfied no one else roamed the countryside or road nearby, he spoke to the starless sky. “She must be inside.”

He lifted the door latch and gave the entry a nudge. It swung open. “I never thought I’d be caught dead in a place like this.” He leaned his body forward, tried to peer through the deep blackness, and took a soft step into the frigid foyer. After passing two offices, he entered the main sanctuary. He spoke a little louder than a whisper. “Mrs. Parker, Denise, are you in here?”

“I’m right above you in the balcony, dear. Meet me at the stairs behind you. You’ll find them in the office on the right as you head back to the main doors.”

Happy to hear her use a warm term of endearment, Boyd struggled to see her. “What are you doing up there?”

“Oh, I didn’t know when you would arrive, and I wondered what might be up the stairs. So…”

“So, you decided to stumble around in the dark, eh? I guess you’re more adventurous than me.”

“Speaking of adventure, let’s get going. I’ll be right down.”

“Can’t wait.” Boyd heard her moving with guarded steps down the stairs. He felt his way, found the open office door, and with his hands waving before him, he found the stairs. “I’m right here,” he said with an excited tone.

“I’m so glad.”

The blast lit the staircase, and the bullet slammed into Boyd’s chest, exploding out his back. His body followed the path of the slug and he fell against the wall. His legs crumpled beneath the dying weight of the gushing, mortal wound. He remained conscious long enough to watch the woman, whose company he had enjoyed, strike a match, holster a smoking revolver, and light a lamp on a nearby desk.

As he slipped away, he watched this ambusher pour a can of lamp oil all over his body. He never heard her speak a word as she walked away.

 

Six mounted, former members of Bedford Forrest’s Confederate cavalry approached their target from the thick surrounding woods. To resemble ghosts, they clothed themselves and their horses in white sheets and wore white hoods with eyelets. Near the clearing surrounding their target, they lit torches. The apparent leader issued hand signals to his men and rode forward, leaving the protective covering of the woods. Three pealed to the left while the others curled to the right.

The leader urged his horse to walk forward. Then he kicked his mount into a trot. As he closed the distance, he shouted one command, and in an instant that frightening banshee wail known as “the Rebel yell” broke the night’s silence. In seconds, the troopers had pressed their steeds into a full gallop. The leader pulled alongside the target and slowed his horse to a controlled, steady gait. He pulled his revolver and fired one shot through the window to his left. The others did likewise. With the glass broken, he tossed his torch inside, fired another shot into the air, shouted, “Let’s go boys,” and wheeled his stallion. They raced for the road. With their mission accomplished, the raiders galloped from the scene. A yellow-orange glow grew and lit the moonless night. A swirling wind whipped the blaze into an all-consuming fire.

Bailey rushed to the front door. He sniffed with rapid breaths at the thin space at the base of the entrance. Then, he growled, which turned into a bark. His voice became loud enough to wake the dead. The sound of pounding hoofs echoed throughout the night’s stillness.

Nathaniel shot out of bed, grabbed his army .44 caliber Colt revolver, and with unsteady sea legs, stumbled out of the bedroom.

“What’s happening?” Eleanor shouted.

Disturbed, the little prince William started wailing at the top of his annoyed lungs.

Through the near panic, Nathaniel prayed, “Jesus, keep us safe. Grant me courage to face whatever or whoever this is. Amen.” Taking a few seconds to appeal for help allowed Nathaniel to gather his wits. He listened to the sound of the approaching potential threat.

Jostling the fussing William, Eleanor called from the bedroom’s doorway, “Who is it?”

Nathaniel held up his free hand. “Shush. Quiet the baby. Stay back.”

Nathaniel heard the horse and rider come to a hard-breaking halt near the front door. A second later, someone jumped onto the front porch and rapped on the door yelling, “Pastor Graham. Pastor Graham. Something awful is happening, Pastor.”

Nathaniel yanked the front door open, gun in hand. Bailey shot out the entry and began smelling the disturber of the family’s peace.

“What?” Nathaniel demanded, ignoring Bailey’s behavior. Hampered by the two-a.m. darkness, he searched the messenger’s face, trying to recall his name. Eleanor lit the oil lamp sitting on the pedestal table next to Nathaniel’s father’s reading chair. Enough light glowed to help Nathaniel see the wide-eyed Negro youth.

The maybe-eighteen-year-old said, “It’s me, Zebulon Jefferson, Pastor. I’m Reuben Jefferson’s oldest.” Despite the temperature, beads of sweat gathered and dripped from the sides of his panic-stricken face. “My father sent me to tell you about the church, Pastor. It’s an awful bad fire, sir.”

Eleanor gasped from behind him.

“What fire?” Nathaniel barked.

The boy took a step back. Eleanor, still carrying William, came to the young boy’s defense. “Honey, give him a chance. Can’t you see he’s scared?”

“I’m sorry, son,” he said swiftly. “Please tell me everything that has happened.”

Bailey seemed satisfied that the intruder posed no danger. He jumped off the porch and ran to the woods west of the house.

The boy gulped. “My father told me to tell you the whole church is on fire and to come right away. We can take my horse.” He jammed a thumb toward the heavy breathing, mouth-frothing, draft horse. “We need to go, now, sir.”

Nathaniel laid his pistol on the multi-purpose table behind him and looked at Eleanor. She swayed side-to-side, then commanded, “Go.”

Nathaniel grabbed his hat and coat hanging on one of the hooks set just inside the front door. He plopped his tan, floppy hat on his head and began donning his coat. “Let’s go.”

The boy jumped down the steps and hurried to untie his horse.

Nathaniel crossed the threshold when he heard, “STOP.”

It took more than two steps to come to a complete halt. He focused on the ground just in front of the first step.

The anxious youth finished releasing the animal, and a second later he hoisted his spry frame into the saddle. He backed the gentle giant from the hitching rail and called, “Ready―” His jaw dropped.

Eleanor rushed to the doorway and shouted, “Hurry.”

Nathaniel held up his right hand—a half-hearted sign of surrender. He stared at Zebulon. “Can you deliver a message to your father for me?”

The boy nodded as he reined the majestic animal closer to Nathaniel. He protested, “Yes, but my pa told me to fetch you, Pastor.”

In a calm tone, Nathaniel said, “I understand, Zebulon. You tell your pa this is from me. Tell everyone there to go home, and I’ll gather with the church leaders there after sunrise.”

“But, Pastor, the church is burning to the ground.”

Eleanor asked, “Don’t you think you should see if you can save it?”

Nathaniel swiveled to face his bride, “There’s nothing anyone can do, now. We can pray and seek God for what we should do next when we have a clearer perspective in the morning light.” He turned to young Zebulon and said, “Tell everyone to go home.”

Long after sunrise, the day of the midterm elections, the entire congregation, men and women, young and old, gathered. One-by-one, or in small groups, they arrived at different times by different conveyances. Some came by wagon load, others on horseback, most walked. Many wagged their heads at the smoldering destruction. Some wept while a few tried to provide a comforting embrace or a gentle word of encouragement. All looked to their pastor for guidance.

Nathaniel gazed at the piled ash heap, the smoldering beams, and the charred foundation stones. What can I say to them? What sense can be made of this?

“Speak. I’ll give you what you should say.”

With the promise received, Nathaniel chose to obey. He noticed a tree stump and sauntered to it, taking as much time as he could. Congregants followed and, as if instructed, formed a semi-circle around the tree’s remains.

Nathaniel attempted to take the giant step to scale the stump, but his crippled right knee failed him. He didn’t ask for help, but Zebulon Jefferson rushed to give him a supporting boost. Once up, Nathaniel adjusted his stance and said to the muscle-toned teenager, “Much obliged, Zebulon.” He found Reuben and Mrs. Jefferson in the crowd. “You and Sophia have raised a righteous son. You should be proud.”

“Thank you, Pastor Graham.” Reuben said. “Now, what are we going to do about this mess and to the evil men who burned down our church?”

In near unison, the crowd’s pent up anger released. Nathaniel had difficulty grasping all of the comments, but he recognized, “We should find them and hang them.”

Nathaniel raised both hands signaling for quiet. It took a full minute, but the roar subsided when Zebulon, standing next to Nathaniel, shouted, “You all hush up, now—you hear?”

“Thanks again, Zebulon.” Nathaniel smiled at his new ministry mate. He searched the crowd for Eleanor. Once their eyes met, she nodded. He lifted his eyes to the hills beyond and sighed. “Today is a sad one for us all. Many of you put your blood, sweat, and now tears into this place so we could have a place to worship God.”

One of the more vocal men shouted, “Why didn’t God protect it?”

“That’s a good question, Samuel. I would be lying if I didn’t think that same thing myself. But I’m reminded of one simple truth.” Nathaniel gestured toward the smoldering mass. “The building is not the Church of Jesus Christ.” He extended both hands toward the people and said, “You are.”

Another man in the crowd shouted, “That’s right.”

Someone else said, “Uh-huh,” and still another shouted, “Preach it Pastor.”

Encouraged, Nathaniel said, “Now, regarding those who did this, we are not going to do anything. The Lord teaches that vengeance belongs to Him. He saw who did this. They cannot hide from His sight and He will exact just punishment upon them—how, where, and when He chooses. For us, we need to pray and seek Him for knowledge for what to do, tempered by His wisdom, grace, mercy, forgiveness, and holiness. Then, whatever course we choose, we will be blameless in His sight.”

“Why should we forgive them, Pastor?”

Nathaniel scanned the assembly and decided he could not identify who asked the question, but he sent his answer in the general direction from where the voice came. “Those who did this are no better or no worse than me. If Jesus had not saved my soul, I might commit worse acts. As the scripture teaches, ‘For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God’—His perfection. They, like all of us, are lost souls in desperate need of a Savior. We should pray that God will reveal Himself to them, help them realize how separated they are from Him, convince them to confess their sin to God, repent, and believe that He can and will save their immortal souls, because He is faithful to do so.”

Reuben spoke. “Pastor, I talked to several folks before you and Mrs. Graham arrived. Many of us think this was done to scare us—to keep us from voting today.” Several men grunted their agreement. Reuben asked, “What do you think, Pastor?”

Nathaniel wagged his head for a few seconds. “On Sunday, I told most of you here this morning that you need to know what I believe.” Again, he motioned toward the church’s remains. “Buried in those ashes, we lost copies of great speeches. Gone are writings from our nation’s founders and our government’s founding documents. In time, these things can be replaced.” He fought against making the tragedy personal. I won’t mention my favorite study Bible with all my notes.  “But even if those papers are consumed, the life principles they contained are etched deep into many of our hearts and minds. Nothing nations or mankind can do to us can take His truth from us, and God willing, we will teach these things to each other and our children.”

Zebulon asked, “So what do you believe about this mess, Pastor?”

“I understand that many do not consider what I’m about to say is consistent with our modern, scientific-centered thinking…” He stared at the graying sky. “But I’m convinced our founders understood the biblical concept of original sin. As George Washington wrote in his farewell address, our nation, yes even our community, can only survive so long as its two pillars of religion and morality keep the sinful appetite of corruptible men checked. Regarding today, I cannot order you to go into town and vote. However, I commend to you a psalm, which I think applies. I can testify that I have lived these verses. I will do my best to recite the ninety-first psalm, and I believe David’s words will bring you encouragement.” He swept his hand across the crowd as he quoted:

“He that dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the LORD, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust. Surely he shall deliver thee, from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.”

Nathaniel pointed to the scarred and charred building.

“Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flies by day; nor for the pestilence that stalks in darkness; nor for the destruction that lays waste at noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee. Only with your eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the wicked. Because thou hast made the LORD, which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation; there shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling. For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.”

Nathaniel explained, “We can all be grateful to the Almighty that not one of us fell because of this fire.”

Many in the crowd shouted, “Amen.”

All of a sudden several of the young boys came running from the road and raced through the clearing, shouting, “The army is coming.”

With this interruption, the assembled turned their attention on the approaching, potential threat.

“Help me down, Zebulon.” Once on the ground, Nathaniel limped to Eleanor.

“Now what?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but we are about to find out.”

The sound of thundering hooves filled the air, and in seconds Federal horse soldiers, led by Captain Sean O’Brien, passed the wood’s edge and trotted into the clearing. O’Brien issued hand signal commands, and the columns split surrounding the church grounds, encircling its massed members. Those closest to the smoking remains dismounted and began examining the destroyed building.

Captain O’Brien let his horse disperse the crowd. It became evident to all he sought someone in particular. Nathaniel made an assumption and stepped forward, waving at his former prison guard. O’Brien reined his slow-walking horse in Nathaniel’s direction.

“What do you need, Captain?” Nathaniel called.

“Don’t make him mad.” Eleanor whispered.

Nathaniel cocked his head in her direction. “I’m afraid it’s too late.” He recalled one of the verses he didn’t recite: “I will be with him in trouble.”

Captain O’Brien pulled the reins on his horse and commanded, “Whoa.” The horse stopped but continued to stomp at the ground. O’Brien leaned to his left as if he needed to adjust his weight. Then he said, “Well, Graham, somehow I knew you’d be in the middle of this.”

Nathaniel ignored the rub. “What can we do for you, Captain O’Brien?”

“It’s just you I want to talk to, Graham.” He tipped his wide brimmed, twilight-blue hat. “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Graham.”

A whistle came from one of the troopers sifting through the smoldering ashes. He reached down and then lifted a charred object that appeared to be a bone of some kind. Both mounted and dismounted soldiers leveled their respective weapons at the crowd.

“What’s this all about, Captain?” Nathaniel challenged. “These people haven’t done anything wrong.”

“It’s not them we’re after, Graham. It’s you. You’re under arrest.”

As soldiers moved forward and grabbed Nathaniel’s arms, the church members stepped aside. “Why did you burn down our church, Preacher?” Samuel Nelson yelled.

Corralled, Nathaniel knew his Constitutional rights and straightened his back. “What am I charged with, Captain?”

“You are under arrest for the arson of this property and the murder of the mayor’s assistant, Richard Boyd. And here all this time I thought you were friends.”

Captain O’Brien led his troopers and their accused captive through town heading for the sheriff’s office and jail. Observing the procession from his fifth and top floor of the one-month old executive building and suite, Mayor Jason Merritt said, “Between the destroyed church and their discredited minister, those people will have too much to worry about on this day to bother to vote.”

“How can you be so sure, Mr. Mayor?”

Jason took a pull on his cigar, then swiveled away from his overseer’s window. “My dear Miss Guthrie, without their shepherd they have no one to lead them to the promised land of enfranchisement. I used his holy book against him.”

Marah coughed. “What do you mean?”

Jason grinned. “If you strike the shepherd, the sheep will scatter.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Come over here and search the street.”

Marah’s nagging respiratory distress never seemed to offer her a moment of peace. The cigar smoke didn’t help. She sauntered to the window occupied by her co-conspirator. She stared at the commotion below. “So, what am I supposed to see?”

“Do you see any of his faithful followers?”

Marah took a minute to examine the people. “Just his wife.”

“I rest my case.” Jason walked to his new cherry wood desk and tapped its hand-polished surface. “I’d say you’re one step closer to taking possession of their farm.”

Marah watched soldiers shove Nathaniel into the sheriff’s office. He stumbled and fell. One soldier raised his musket to slam its butt into Nathaniel’s back. She pivoted, fast, to avoid seeing the inevitable.

“I see you still care for him,” Jason said. “Pity. I think he’ll hang for this. No one can save him, now.” 

 Thanks for reading and Happy New Year!