This is a short chapter. 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 under December.
Destination Hope – Book 5 – Reconciliation
A Novel By:
Charles J. Patricoff
Copyright © 2014 by Charles J. Patricoff. All rights reserved.
Chapter 20
Passenger
She traversed another hill along the rutted, much in need of repair, turnpike connecting Knoxville, Tennessee and the state’s capital city, Nashville. With each blistering step, a seething hatred for all things Yankee rooted deeper into her embittered heart. She had suffered unspeakable abuse at the hands of Union prison guards. She came within the width of a horse’s course tail hair of swinging from the end of a rope. The soldiers who captured her had charged her with spying for the Confederacy. However, the Federal Government had its fill of female executions. Jailers had told her that she was lucky because the Federal Government seemed satiated with executing women after they accused Mary Surratt of conspiring to assassinate President Lincoln and conducted a sham of a trial resulting in the taking of Mrs. Mary Surratt’s life.
The Federals had released her over a month earlier. Many of her captors remained convinced of her guilt. These less-than-honorable government officials refused to provide her with the transportation vouchers afforded soldiers captured on the field of combat. Another exhausted step brought her closer to her former hometown but no closer to any sense of peace or resolution. She blamed the northern abolitionists for starting the war. She accused the Yankees for invading and occupying her peaceful home. She resented the Negroes who became a military protected special class who took full advantage of their “sacred” freedom.
She also charged God, if He existed, for all she had suffered. How could a loving Creator allow Yankee officers the opportunity to pleasure themselves with her? Then, after she gave birth to the inevitable child, they ignored her protests and denied her the knowledge of whether her baby was a boy or girl, preventing her from holding her carried burden in her longing arms for even one second. Regardless, no one deserved more of her fury than the man who chose duty to the lost Confederate cause over a future with her.
Oh, she remembered the lovely letters he wrote, expressing his gratitude for her kindness and pleasant companionship. If he only knew she would have done anything, and did, to protect their mutual interests. Now, she walked alone. But if she lived to see his face again, he would pay for all the horrible things that had happened to her. She coughed.
She heard the sound of a horse-drawn wagon or carriage approaching from the rise she had topped moments before. She steadied her hardened constitution and prepared for the worst—a woman on the road traveling without an escort made for an easy target. But she had become well practiced in using all of her available assets, again no thanks to the one who earned her scorn. She stood by the side of the road and prepared to meet another clash with fate, or take her next step toward a self-made destiny.
Disguised as a young man carrying a pack upon his back, she resembled so many former fighting men making their way home. She picked out a tree off the side of the road, hurried to it, let down her backpack, sat and braced her back against the tree’s sturdy trunk, pretending to sleep. Her left hand rested inside her pack, just in case. Coughing, she settled every tense muscle as the horse appeared above the hill’s crest. Attempting to steady nerves and calm her throaty spasms, she took a slow, controlled, deep breath. I’m ready.
A few seconds later, she heard a man’s voice. “Whoa.” After a few steps, the horse and wagon came to a halt. Next, she heard, “Hey, you, mister, you okay?”
She raised her head, twisting her neck to let a kink pop. She stretched and yawned. With her deepest male-vocal impression, she asked, “You talking to me?”
“Fella, there ain’t a soul ’round for miles. Who else would I be talking to?”
“Do you mind giving a stranger a ride?”
“Where you headed?” The driver asked.
“Nashville,” she said.
“Nashville, eh?” The driver elbowed his passenger.
“Well, that’s more than a day’s walk from here.” The passenger said. He locked his gaze on the young lad. “We ain’t going that far. We can take you as far as Lebanon.”
She got to her feet, and slapped dust off her trousers just like a man would. I suspect they’re sizing me up. Well, I’m doing the same. She shouldered her pack with her left hand and picked up her walking stick with her right. Sauntering toward the rear of the wagon, she said, “Much obliged, fellas.” Standing in the settling-residual dust cloud, she started to cough.
As she reached the back of the wagon, the passenger said, “Sounds like you got yourself a nasty cold, mister.” He asked, “Where you from?”
She offered a practiced, short-male response: “Franklin.” Climbing aboard she said, “That cough ain’t nothing. Throat’s dry is all.”
The two men glanced at each other. She noticed.
The driver said, “I heard Franklin is in pretty bad shape.”
“Uh-huh.”
The passenger introduced himself. “Name’s Robert. This poor excuse for a farmer is my older brother, John.” He paused. “Were you in the war?”
She nodded as she crouched in the right rear corner.
The driver, John, shook the reins and the horse pulled forward. He twisted his head in his new passenger’s direction. “What outfit were you with?”
She pulled her floppy hat low to shade her eyes. “Twentieth Tennessee.”
Robert kept his head forward, and his right hand clasped to a short barrel shotgun. “We served under General Thomas.”
John asked, “What’s your name, friend.”
You ain’t my friend. “Well, my name is Thomas, too, but it’s my given name.” A plan formed. “My family name is Graham. Folks call me, Tommy.”
John snapped the reins. “Well Tommy, you shouldn’t be traveling alone. It’s not safe.” He tilted his head toward Robert. “We hear bandits roam these woods.”
Robert turned bringing his shotgun around between him and his brother.
A blast caused the horse to whinny. Robert’s forehead exploded. The next shot took John. The horse darted forward as the bullet whizzed past the draft-animal’s left ear. At the same instant, two bodies fell from the wagon’s bench seat, sprawled in unnatural positions on each side of the road.
Marah Guthrie jumped onto the empty seat, gathered the reins, pulled and shouted, “Whoa, boy, whoa.”
Once the wagon came to a stop, she set the brake. Marah rushed to check on the two would-be assailants by first kicking at their blood-leaking bodies. As she bent over the dead men, she began coughing in uncontrollable spasms. Rifling through their pockets, she took all their coins. Then she gathered any other valuables, including their weapons. Marah returned to the wagon, securing her revolver and pack on the seat next to her. She swiveled in the seat and gave them one last look. A black bird was pecking at the one who had lost his head. She released the brake, snapped the reins, and called over her shoulder, “I can’t thank you boys enough for warning me about them there highway bandits.” She grinned as the horse reached a steady trot. “And, oh yeah, thanks for the ride.”
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