Those who know great love can look back and marvel at the events which brought them together. Seemingly unrelated, tragically random events that set one’s footsteps on the path to their ultimate destiny. One might think these circumstances are coincidence, another may be convinced these moments were meant to be. Either way, both can agree…
Fate can sometimes have an odd sense of humor.
A Chance Meeting – New York 1848
“We want to go out and play, Father.” Kingston Ramsay brandished his toy sword, thrusting the blunt tip playfully toward his brother, Winfield.
“Not me.” Winfield grasped his stomach. “I ate too many prunes at breakfast.”
King made a face at the thought. “Prunes! No wonder you’re sick.”
John Howard Ramsay waved his hand at Kingston, his head bowed over a thick sheaf of papers. “Go, for God sakes, go. Stay in the courtyard of the hotel. When I go outside to call you in, you’d better be close enough to hear me or I’ll thrash you.”
“Yes, Father.” He gave one last look at Winfield. When his brother made a face at him, King shrugged and took off. His mother was at tea, his father was deep in business, and he had an entire morning of freedom. Checking in his pocket to make sure he had his lucky pieces, King ran from the room, grabbing a dark green cloth from a round side table as he went. Just before he reached the door, he threw it over his shoulders, knotting the cloth at his neck. “Now, I’m Robin Hood!”
Darting down the hall, he dashed around other hotel patrons as he sought to make his way outdoors. “Excuse me, excuse me, please.”
“Watch it, kid,” a uniformed hotel employee barked at him. “Why are you wearing a hotel tablecloth?”
“I take from the rich to give to the poor!” King called out as he dashed away. Dodging people on the sidewalk, he headed for the alleyway next to the Post Office. The Astor Hotel sat in the midst of New York City, a bustling metropolis as far removed from rural Tennessee as a place could be. To King, the city was magical. Full of new things – new sights, new smells, new people. Holding his sword close to his side, he bounded his way clear of merchants and patrons, all with one destination in mind.
When he was away from the crowd, King spun in a circle, one arm over his head and the other slicing the air with his sword. “On guard, King Richard. Give me all your gold!”
“Touche!”
The unexpected voice caused King to whirl around, his toy sword making contact with a wooden window prop stick. To his shock, the weapon was held by a girl, one no older than himself. Seeing the twinkle in her eye, he grinned, then they parried their strokes, jumping from one side to the other, their laughter ringing happily.
After the rowdy bout ended in a draw, he asked her with a voice full of mischief, “Do you have any gold?”
“Nary a penny, kind sir. Are you Robin of Locksley?”
King smiled. At eight, he didn’t normally play with girls, but this one spoke his language. “I am and who might you be?”
“Maid Marion, at your service!” She curtsied, holding out a worn, patched skirt, so faded, the material had no color. Bowing from the waist, the sunshine caught her hair, setting it aflame with light.
“Maid Marion, have you seen Little John on your journey?” He wondered if the freckle-faced little girl with the wide smile would fall into his play with ease.
“I have, Robin, he is deep in Sherwood Forest and asking for you.” She picked up a basket of apples. “Would you care for nourishment before we begin our quest?”
“I would!” He accepted a rosy red apple and bit into it with relish. His companion seemed happy at his willingness to share her bounty. “Thank you, Maid Marion.”
“You are most welcome, Robin.” She pointed to the end of the alley and to the street beyond. “Shall we be off to find your Merry Men?”
“Yes, I require their aid to protect the true King, Richard the Lion-hearted.” He thrust his sword up in the sky and scampered off after his new friend.
Over the next few hours, they laughed and played, their imagination running wild. They ran up and down the city streets, dodging an oyster stand, a root-beer seller, and a baker’s cart. “Wait, Robin, not so fast!” Marion called as she tried to dash across a busy street after him, only to be delayed while a horse drawn cab blocked her way.
“Catch me if you can!” he called as he raced down a sidewalk, knocking against a woman and earning a few choice words from a pipe-smoking businessman.
“Ruffian!” the irritated man yelled at King who called back an apology.
“So sorry!”
“Stop!” Marion called to Robin. “I’m out of breath and I’ve lost most of my apples.”
King slowed down so his playmate could catch up. “Why are you carrying a basket of fruit around with you anyway?”
“I sell it to make money. For food.”
“Don’t you eat at home?” He couldn’t help his curious question.
The little girl shrugged her bony shoulders. “I don’t have a home. I’m an orphan, but I ran away from the orphanage. They were mean to me there.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” King felt sorry for her. He had a good home, even if he did have to share it with Winfield.
“I don’t mind. I like being on my own.” As they sat down on a curb, she took an apple from her basket and bit into it with a crunch.
“Where do you get them?” he asked, nodding at the red fruit.
“There’s a tree in the commons about fifteen blocks from here. I go really early in the morning and take what’s fallen to the ground and sell them all over the city.”
“Sounds fun.” It didn’t really. King didn’t think he could sell things. He hated asking people for favors. “How old are you, Marion?”
“I’m seven. You?”
“Eight.” They both nodded as if their age explained everything.
King was about to ask more questions when he was jerked to his feet roughly by someone from behind.
“Look what I found, Barry. A pretty boy. We like pretty boys, don’t we?”
The suddenness of the attack sent King into shock. “Put me down!”
“I don’t think so. You’re coming with us. There’s a man who’ll pay a pretty penny for the likes of you.”
King struggled against the cruel hands of the men trying to kidnap him. “Stop!” He didn’t get another word out before a dirty hand was clamped over his mouth.
“Leave him alone!” The pint size girl launched herself at the two men, biting, kicking, and scratching.
“Get her off me!” The burly one with the bowler hat tried to dodge Maid Marian’s teeth and sharp-toed shoes. “Little guttersnipe!”
Seeing his new friend fight so hard for him, King found new strength. The man was holding him off the ground, an arm so tight around his middle, it was like a steel band. Taking a deep breath, he slammed his head back hard, cracking his attacker right in the nose.
“Ow, fuck!”
When the other thug turned to see what was amiss with his partner in crime, King saw Maid Marion ball up her fist and hit her attacker as hard as she could between his legs.
“Goddamn!”
For just a split second, both children were free, and they took full advantage. “Run, Robin! Run!”
King took off after Maid Marion as she cut across streets, through buildings, and down alleyways. They put as much distance between themselves and the dangerous strangers as they could. Without even looking where they were going, King followed her without question. When they slowed down, he wasn’t surprised that she’d led him back to the Astor Hotel.
“What did they want?” he asked breathlessly.
“You.” She told him. “And not for a good reason, I’m sure.”
King was still shocked by what had transpired. “You saved me. Thank you. If I would’ve been by myself, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
Maid Marion blushed, which made her freckles stand out even more. “You’re welcome.”
They were standing near the ornate front of the Astor Hotel, the doorman was giving them the eye. “Hey, are you Mr. John Howards’ boy? He’s been looking for you!”
“Oh, fiddle,” King wiped his face. “I’m in so much trouble. I’d better go in.”
Maid Marion gave him a bow. “I enjoyed playing with you, Robin Hood.”
“What about you? Where will you go?” He remembered her telling him that she’d run away from the orphanage.
She shrugged her thin shoulders. “I’ll manage. There’s a bridge a few blocks away. Several of us kids sleep underneath it.”
“Son!” the doorman called King again. “Shall I escort you to your father’s hotel room myself? You shouldn’t be hanging around with that street urchin, you’ll probably catch a disease!”
King felt his anger rise. “Just a minute!” He felt embarrassed. “Don’t listen to him, you’re not an urchin.” Not that he knew what being an urchin meant.
Maid Marion giggled. “Actually, I think I am.” She backed away. “You take care. Will I see you tomorrow?”
Shaking his head, King was sorry. “No, I think we’re catching the train home tomorrow. My father’s business meeting was today.”
“Oh.”
Seeing her sad smile, King wanted to repay her in some way. Suddenly, he thought of the coins he called his lucky pieces. “Hold on.” Digging in his pocket, he drew out an old, old coin that his grandfather had given him before he died. “This is a coin issued by King Richard the Lion-hearted himself. It’s ancient, hundreds and hundreds of years old.”
Maid Marion took the coin, her eyes wide. “Oh, my goodness. Are you sure? This must be priceless!” She held her hand back out for him to retrieve his gift. “You should keep this.”
He covered her hand with his. “No, I want you to have it. You risked yourself for me. You could have run when that man grabbed me, but you stood and fought by me. Just like Maid Marion would have done for Robin Hood.”
Tears gathered in Maid Marion’s eyes. “I’ll never, ever part with it. Thank you so much. You are a true friend, Robin Hood.”
Footsteps from behind told King the doorman was coming to force him inside. “Take care, Maid Marion.”
She held up her hand and waved to him. “Goodbye. I hope to see you again, someday.”
At the doorman’s urging, King made his way to the door. Just before he stepped inside, he glanced back to wave at his friend one more time.
To his dismay, she was gone.
King was halfway up the stairs to the fourth floor when he realized he didn’t even know her name.
King – Tennessee, Late Summer of 1865
Study War No More
The sun rose behind a bank of fog on the last day before the men arrived home. Seven long weeks of journeying through a war-ravaged countryside were coming to an end.
And now they were walking home.
A mistaken sense of duty and a misguided yearning for adventure had lured them away from family and friends, sent them out of the mountains for the very first time, dropping them into a bloody war. For the most part, luck and their mother’s prayers ducked them under bullets and cannon fire, sheltered them from the enemy, and protected them from typhoid and small pox.
And now they were going home.
When Johnny comes marching home again
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We'll give him a hearty welcome then
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The men will cheer, and the boys will shout
The ladies they will all turn out
And we'll all give thanks
When Johnny comes marching home.
Jericho’s low, rumbling baritone voice set the hopeful mood as what remained of the Cumberland Guards, the Eastern Unit of the 9th Calvary, headed south along the Appalachian Trail toward home. None knew what their future held, but they all expected it to be better than the misery and destruction they’d abandoned on the battlefield.
Captain Kingston Ramsay, leader of the ragtag band, didn’t say much as they trudged along. He kept his chin up, a smile hidden just under the surface of his expression. Once he reached Knoxville, his life would officially begin anew. Love and happiness awaited him in the arms of his beautiful fiancée.
As he walked with his hand in his front pocket, King rubbed his lucky piece. He attributed this old coin with bringing him safely through the war. His gaze drifted from man to man, heroes all. They’d left Tennessee as boys and they were returning as men. Their number had been eleven in the beginning, only seven remained. The names of the four they’d lost were forever burned into his memory. Pat Jenkins. Roy Schneider. Frank Dole. Harry Meeks. King would’ve traded places with any one of them if he could have. He’d promised their mothers and fathers he would protect them, but when he made the vow, he’d had no idea of the horrors they’d be facing.
One by one, he surveyed them, his men, his responsibility.
To King’s left, two of his lieutenants, Jericho Wright and Boone Roberts, regaled one another with talk of the luxuries they hoped to enjoy once they reached their families’ homes in Sevier County. Their lighthearted words hid the atrocities the two men had witnessed.
Jericho was the best shot King had ever seen. He’d been recruited as a sniper almost from the beginning. He’d made a kill with a Whitworth rifle from thirteen hundred and ninety yards. The feat was lauded, but the young man’s death haunted Jericho. The Union soldier had been but a boy, barely sixteen years old.
Boone nodded. “I intend to take a long bath and make myself a decent cup of coffee. I’m tired of the weak-ass mess I’ve been drinking, I miss the chicory coffee I used to drink in New Orleans.” He raised his head and sniffed the air. “I can almost smell it now.”
King chuckled and hoisted his rifle to his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure that’s not coffee you smell, Boone. I think there’s a polecat in the bushes.”
King knew Boone was a tough son-of-a bitch, he’d had to be to survive. Raised in a New Orleans brothel, Boone had spent his childhood defending himself and his mother from the cruel jibes and worse, usually from the wives and children of the men who frequented the establishment. During his time in the war, he’d been captured and sent to Elmira, known as Hellmira to the inmates. The prison camp in southern New York state was one of the many blackspots on what King considered to be a useless war. He’d been horrified to learn how two observation towers were constructed for onlookers to gaze over the wall. Citizens paid fifteen cents to look at the inmates. Concession stands located by the towers sold cake, peanuts, and lemonade to the gawkers, while the prisoners inside the camp starved to death. Boone had been lucky, one of the few who successfully escaped by tunneling under the wall using a spoon.
“Well, I plan on sleeping a week in my feather bed,” Jericho said as he tossed a pine cone at a squirrel scampering up a sweetgum, then automatically picked up another cone to toss in the air like a ball. “The only reason my feet are gonna touch the floor is if I have to take a piss or fetch another jar of moonshine from the kitchen.”
“I hope you’re not planning on having company in that bed, Wright. If so, they won’t stay there very long.” Gentry Nelson reached over and snatched the tossed pine cone out of the air, from right in front of Jericho’s face.
“The one in the bushes isn’t the only polecat around these parts,” Jericho muttered as he jumped on Gentry back, placing him in a chokehold. “You take back what you just said, you lily-livered Englishman.” Gentry bent low and reached back to grasp big Jericho’s shoulder, applying just enough pressure in just the right place to cause him to let go and fall to the side, laughing and gasping. “You and your fancy-ass Oriental moves.”
“Kung-Fu, you cretin, and I only pointed out the obvious, Mr. Wright. You do snore when you sleep, you sound like a crosscut saw grinding through granite.”
He proceeded to demonstrate the racket, causing Boone to cover his ears and nod his agreement. “Gentry’s right Jericho, I don’t see how you’re ever going to find a woman willing to share your bed. They’ll be running for the hills before your wedding night’s over, hunting a quiet cave to escape the racket.”
“His snoring won’t be the only thing she’s trying to escape.” Gentry’s shoulder’s shook as he laughed aloud. “Have you seen his prick?”
This time Jericho didn’t take offense, he dusted off his hat and grinned. “Now, you’re just jealous.”
All the men joined in the laughter, glad to share in the lighthearted banter. For too long, they’d existed under a cloud of bleak melancholia, all were eager for things to get back to normal between them.
King kept a protective eye on Jericho as they moved on down the trail. He’d been watching over him his entire life. Most didn’t know it, and you couldn’t tell by looking, but Jericho was a mulatto. His mother was Mattie, the mammy who’d raised King from a baby. No one ever said who sired him, but King was highly suspicious that he and the young man shared a father. Only Mattie knew for sure, and he didn’t know if she’d ever confided the truth to her son or anyone else, for that matter.
Ironically, on the battlefield, Jericho had protected him, pushing King to the ground when one of their own, Jubal Pierce, put a bead on him. Jubal escaped to live another day, but so did King. None of the Cumberland Guard knew why someone they considered a friend had become a turncoat for the enemy.
“Jealous?” Gentry scoffed. “Me? I’ll have you know I’ve pleasured some of the most beautiful courtesans and paramours in Europe.”
“I don’t know what those big words mean, Gentry,” Jericho muttered as he sauntered, shading his eyes against the afternoon sun, “but if you pleasured some woman, it wasn’t with that grub worm between your legs.”
“I’ll have you know my masculine appendage is above average in length and quite adequate for my needs.”
King shook his head, amused at the differences between the two men who were such fast friends. They shared a bond of trust that rose above wealth, status, or rank. Gentry might be English nobility and his home a castle on a faraway heath, but his heart had always belonged to the American West. From the time he was a schoolboy, learning how to brandish a sword, his aim was to come to America and be a cowboy. Much to the Duke and Duchess’s dismay, Gentry made his dream come true. Unfortunately, he hadn’t made it west, yet. Like the rest of them, he’d gotten caught up in the web of war.
King, for one, was glad he did. He’d never fought by so brave a man.
Gonna lay down my sword and shield,
down by the river side, down by the river side
Gonna lay down my sword and shield, down by the river side,
ain’t gonna study war no more.
Jericho kept singing and the soldiers kept marching.
Serving as the rear guard was Clay Bennett and Reno Black, each pretending they couldn’t see one another as they marched along. Even though they’d been neighbors before the war and fought alongside one another, they hadn’t been able to agree on the outcome. Reno had lost a brother who’d fought for the north and his allegiance was divided, more out of worry and remorse than a strong opinion on any issue.
“Hey, Reno, what’s the first thing you gonna do when you get home?” Jericho asked, having finished his song. He sidled up next to Clay, hoping to be a buffer between the once best friends.
Reno’s face broke out in a smile and he pushed his hat back over his dark hair. “Well, I’m gonna hunt me a willing woman. A clean one. Those camp whores weren’t to my taste. After I met that poor wretch who was ate up with syphilis, I decided my right hand was all the companionship I needed.”
“Lord, ain’t that the truth,” Clay spoke up, then kicked a clod of dirt ahead of him, realizing he’d sided with his opposition.
“We can’t all be as lucky as King, he’ll be married in a few days. Miss Caroline is certainly a fine woman.” Jericho stepped up and patted Kingston on the shoulder. “I sure hope we’re all invited to the wedding.”
“You will be. I know Caroline is anxious to wed and so am I. You’re all welcome to stay at Magnolia Hall for a couple of days. I sent Father a telegram telling him we’re on our way home. I’m sure he and my brother, Winfield, are already planning a celebration. Mattie can throw a party together in no time, soon you’ll be waltzing with the prettiest bells in Dixie.” Kingston gazed off into the distance. “We should be there by nightfall.” The promise of a party wasn’t the only reason he wanted his men to linger and rest a day or two. He’d heard rumors of the war’s devastation on their familiar soil and he wanted to make sure he was with them if they didn’t find things at home to be the way they were expecting.
“Do you think Mattie will still be there?” Moving up to walk in step with King was their court jester, Domino O’Neill, a Black Irishman. Of all the jobs in the war, Domino had the worst as far as King was concerned, for he was the division’s surgeon. He often thought the man joked so much to hide the horror of the day-to-day task of hacking off limbs and giving dying soldiers false hope. Despite his usual positive demeanor, Domino frowned at his commanding officer. “I know she raised you, King, but the North won the war.”
Kingston considered the thought for a moment, then dismissed it. “Mattie wouldn’t leave, we’ve always treated her like family. She runs the whole household, nobody tells Mattie no about anything.”
“I hope you’re right, I’m just grateful that feller from Appomattox showed up when he did, or we woulda continued to rip through them Yanks like Jericho tears through a pone of cornbread.” Domino clapped Jericho on the shoulder when his friend gave him the stink eye. “Don’t worry, you lost most of your gut marching across Virginia.”
“I don’t have a gut,” Jericho grumbled as he patted his mostly flat belly.
The hot August sun burned down on his men as they bickered and bantered. King just let them talk. He knew they were anxious for this nightmarish time to be over. They all ached to remove the scratchy uniforms they wore and replace the hot garments with regular clothes and shoes. It wouldn’t be long now. They’d just passed Gatlinburg and were heading west. The path they walked was already looking more and more familiar. Towering mountains, rich verdant valleys, and roaring streams. King closed his eyes, imagining what it would be like to be home again.
“Look, King, up ahead,” Boone said, pointing. He did so and saw a man resting against a tree alongside the road.
“Ho there, soldier! Heading toward Knoxville?” Reno called out. “Do you want to walk with us?”
The man didn’t answer. The group slowed to a stop and King approached him. His grey confederate coat was wet and red at the right sleeve where it had been cut when the arm was amputated. His head was reclined against the bark, eyes closed, his left hand clasping the sleeve where his right forearm used to be. King imagined it would take a while to get used to a change so drastic.
“Mister?” King spoke, but no answer came. Kneeling next to him, he could see there was no color in his cheeks, nor any heave in his chest. Just to be certain, he pushed gently above his stomach but felt no movement of the diaphragm.
“Careful, I’m sure the fever made its way down here too,” Domino implored his captain.
“Yeah, I know.” King stood up and wiped his hands on his pants. “I needed to be sure.”
The boys stood silently for a moment, taking in the sight.
“I wonder if he was almost home,” Jericho muttered aloud.
“No telling,” Boone answered. “Looks like he won’t ever make it either.”
Kingston searched inside the jacket of their fallen comrade to find a scrap of paper pinned at the breast with the name ‘John Lucas’ written on it. “He probably couldn’t afford the sutler tag,” King remarked about the makeshift identification soldiers with enough coin could purchase from itinerant merchants on the battlefields, as he replaced the piece of paper where he found it. “When we get to Magnolia Hall, I’ll send someone back for him. If no one knows his people, we’ll have him buried in the local cemetery.”
The men stood around the body for a few moments, each feeling grief for one who was so close, yet so far from where he surely wanted to be. “Clay, why don’t you say something?” King requested. “You’re the nearest to a man of the cloth that we have.”
Clay, who’d served as Chaplain for their unit, pulled out his pocket Bible to read a few scriptures. When he was through reciting a familiar Psalm, he bowed his head. “We’re sorry you didn’t make it home, friend. But we thank you for your service and we pray you’re reunited with loved ones gone on before.”
King put his hand on Clay’s shoulders, acknowledging the choke in his voice. “That was nice, he would’ve appreciated the kind words.” After covering John Lucas’s head with his own coat, he urged his men to continue their journey. “Not long now, just another mile or two.”
…The closer they drew to Magnolia Hall; the more excited King became. “Just think,” he told his men, “this time tomorrow, we’ll be able to pick up our lives where we left off.”
“I hope so,” Boone nodded. “I’ve heard rumors the area was hit hard by marauders.”
King understood what his lieutenant was saying. Not only had Tennessee been the site of thirty-eight major battles, plus three thousand other skirmishes and raids, it had also fallen victim to renegades from both sides, taking what they wanted from farms and villages, and burning what was left. They’d seen evidence of this along the way, but none wanted to think they’d be personally affected. “Yea, me too. Let’s pray things are as we remember them to be.”
As the sun began to go down in the west, the rag-tag group of men traversed the last mile of the way. “Listen, King, I hear music,” Boone murmured. “Do you think they started the party without us?”
King smiled. “I’d say we’ve made it just in time.” He couldn’t help but strike up a trot. They’d sold their horses early on to have money to buy food along the way. Even though he was weary from weeks of walking, the thought of seeing Caroline and his family again gave him new strength. With shouts and laughter, his men followed suit. They darted among the trees until they could see the lights of Magnolia House. “My home is still standing, boys. I take that as a damn good sign.” The closer King came, the lighter his heart grew. Now, he could hear happy voices along with the strains of a dance number.
“I wonder how they knew we’d get here today?” Reno asked with elation. “I wonder if they’re watching for us?”
King wouldn’t say. His hopes were as high as the clouds.
“I call first on a bath,” Jericho yelled. He knew right where the old clawfoot tub was located, he’d filled it for King’s mother many a time.
“Make yourself at home.” King laughed. “Every man for himself. All I want to do is find Caroline. She’s here, she has to be here.” He ran the last few steps, coming close enough to see the guests were all dressed in finery. A group of them were standing on the verandah applauding. For a split second, he thought they were out there to welcome them home…but they were facing the wrong way. They were looking at the double French doors leading from the ball room. King slowed down as the doors opened, his six companions surrounding him. They stood, breathless, the smiles on their faces as big as the smile on King’s.
“Hail to the bride and groom!” Several people chanted in unison.
“Bride and groom?” Boone asked. “This is a wedding!”
King stared at the happy couple as they appeared in the doorway. The lights of countless candles and lanterns lit up their smiling faces. As his brain processed the unbelievable image in front of his eyes, his heart sank.
“Do you know them, King?” Domino asked.
“Yea, I know them,” King admitted with a bitter taste in his mouth. “Too well.”
“Who are they?” This question came from Reno.
King faced his men, turning his back on Magnolia House and its happy partygoers. “The groom is my brother, and his bride is Caroline, my fiancée.”
* * *
“You hold still and let me doctor your hand, Kingston. Your knuckles are plum raw.” Mattie fussed over King the way she’d done when he was a baby. “Jericho, hand me that salve.”
Jericho gave his mother the jar with one hand while holding a biscuit stuffed with ham with the other. “I can’t believe you broke Winfield’s jaw.”
“He deserved it,” Clay interjected. “I don’t believe in hitting women, but Miss Caroline isn’t blameless in this affair.”
“Clay…” Reno said, his voice taking on a warning tone. “King doesn’t want to hear all this.”
“No, it’s fine.” King stared around the table at his men. At least they were comfortable and clean. Their bellies were full. “He’s right. My brother and my fiancée betrayed me. Even my father was complicit, he allowed Winfield to court the woman promised to me.” Once Mattie was finished, he stood and stared out the window onto the grounds of Magnolia Hall. “I don’t want to stay here. This isn’t my home any longer.”
“At least you…” Boone started, then stopped, clearing his throat before continuing, “have a home. Some of us weren’t so lucky.”
King felt contrite. “You’re right.” He surveyed his men. “What we’ve lost isn’t comparable. I’m lucky.” Seeing Domino start to protest, he held up his hand. “No, I am. I’ve always known my brother is an ass, but now I know how fickle a woman’s love can be. You,” he pointed to Boone, “lost everything.”
Once the initial excitement of King’s confrontation with the newlywed couple was over, the wedding guests had embraced the soldiers’ homecoming and welcomed them with open arms. During the reunion, some had learned sad news as tales of death and destruction were relayed. Boone learned his small farm had been gutted when Champ Ferguson and his raiders came through.
Mattie crossed her arms over her ample breast. “I say this is your home, Mister King. I wouldn’t let Win and that woman run you off it. Your daddy is getting up in years. He let that younger brother of yours walk all over him. If your sweet mother was alive, she would never have let this happen. Your daddy needs you here to set things right.”
King shook his head. “I can’t, Mattie. I can’t stay here and watch them every day.”
“Well, run them off,” Gentry barked. “That’s what I say, just run the betraying traitors the hell off.”
King had to laugh. “No, I’m not going to run them off.” He walked to the window and gazed toward the setting sun. He’d been home only twenty-four hours and he was itching to leave again. “I’m heading west. I talked with a man last night, after the fiasco. His name is Daniel Taylor and he has a brother who’s interested in selling some land right smack dab in the heart of Texas. The brother wants to move home to Tennessee; he found the frontier to be a little too untamed for his blood. Wide open spaces. Land rich enough to grow cotton or cattle. Not a cannon or a battlefield in sight. I think I’ll make him an offer.”
“Sounds good to me, if you want some company,” Boone admitted. “I dread trying to start over here. Everything is depressed, from the economy to the people.”
“Count me in.” Gentry slapped his hand on the table. “You know I’ve always wanted to go west.”
“Excellent!” King whirled around, the first smile of his homecoming on his face. “I say we head out. Start over. Who else is with me? Who wants to tame the Wild West?” A cheer resounded in the room. “Tell the others. Send word to the whole company. Any of the Cumberland Guard who wants to come with us is welcome. And if anyone has anything to say about it, they can go to hell, because we’re going to Texas!”
The war between the states had stripped them of family, friends, and property. Now, they were leaving the war behind them, turning their backs on both the north and the south. Appomattox seemed a lifetime ago and Devil’s Den just a bad dream. All the King’s men were ready to follow their fierce leader into the unknown. Different backgrounds, different strengths, different dreams for their future. Yet, they all shared one common belief - since they’d followed their Captain to hell and back, striking out on an adventure to find their fortunes out West would be a Sunday picnic.
* * *
Fancy
St. Louis, Missouri - 1866
“I’m nothing special,” Fancy protested. “Anyone would’ve done the same thing.” She pushed her singed hair from her face and folded her soot covered hands to hide the painful burns on her palms.
“I think I could argue with that notion, considering no one ran into the fire to save those two little girls but you.” The reporter from the Missouri Democrat, whose office was on the same busy street, was clearly enjoying himself. “To what do you attribute your heroic tendencies?”
Fancy thought the question was stupid, but she was too polite to say so. “I could hear them crying. I didn’t want the girls to burn to death.”
“Yet you ran into the raging fire with no thought to your own safety.”
The man leaned nearer, his pencil moving rapidly over the paper. His last sentence wasn’t a question, but she couldn’t let the implication go unanswered. “I did think of my safety, but those children have their whole lives ahead of them.”
“You’re young, so do you. Don’t you?”
Fancy smiled at the reporter’s round-about way of asking her age. “Some would say I’m a spinster at twenty-six.” She soothed her face, unknowingly spreading soot on her cheek. “I look older, I know. I’ve…worked hard.” Fancy was embarrassed, she knew she was pale and thin. If only Standish would allow her to eat more, she might be able to put a little meat on her bones. The man kept her on starvation rations, even though she could work harder if he gave her more to eat. “Is that all, can I go now?” She really needed to get some salve on her hands.
“No. No. Hold on. I want a photograph and the father of the little girls you saved has arrived and he has something for you.” The reporter moved his palm downward to emphasize his order for her to remain seated.
“A photograph?” Fancy almost panicked. “I don’t think so. I look horrible.” She tried to pat her hair, then winced when the burned place on her palm was irritated by the action.
“You’re supposed to look horrible, lady. You almost died.” The photographer set up his tripod, then threw the black cloth over his head. “Just look at the camera and smile.”
Fancy tried to smile, but she was so sure she looked a fright, the effort was more of a grimace.
“There you go. All done.”
“Miss Grace? Miss Grace?”
Not used to hearing herself addressed so properly, Fancy almost didn’t turn to see who was speaking. She was still in a daze, sitting in front of the rubble that used to be the two-story Victorian where she’d raced through a curtain of flames to get to two precious little girls whose Nanny had left them unattended while she flirted with the blacksmith on the corner. “Yes? I’m Fancy.”
As soon as she said those two words, she winced. Normally, she tried not to introduce herself in that manner.
Because she wasn’t fancy. Not in any way, shape, or form.
Fancy was plain. Painfully plain. And she knew it.
Nevertheless, this time, the acknowledgment of her identity didn’t illicit a full-blown laugh or even a titter. Instead, this man hugged her and began to cry.
“You saved them! You saved my little girls.”
Fancy held the man while he trembled. “I am so glad I was able to do this for them, sir.”
He stood back and pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe his face and blow his nose. “My name is Laurence O’Malley. My little girl’s names are Susie and Margie. I lost my wife last year, she died trying to give birth to our third child. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I lost my babies too. How can I ever repay you?”
Fancy held up her hands. “My existence so far has been nothing special. Saving your children has given my life meaning. I don’t need any further thanks.”
Her words made him cry anew. “You don’t understand.” He reached inside his jacket and took out a small leather pouch. “I have money, but what good would it be without my family?” With shaking fingers, he handed the pouch to her. “Take this please, it would be an honor if you’ll allow me to express a tiny fraction of my gratitude. You have no what value I place on my children, what they mean to me.”
“I can only imagine. I wish I knew from personal experience.” She’d love to have children, but that would never be. Ignoring the pain in her palms, she curled her hands into fists, not wanting to accept money for such a thing.
“My heart is so full, please let me share.”
“Take it, Miss.” The reporter urged her.
Fancy accepted the small pouch and held it to her breast. She didn’t look into it; the contents seemed unimportant in comparison to what it represented. “Thank you.”
As Mr. O’Malley moved away to rejoin his tearful children, the reporter and photographer moved with him, leaving Fancy alone. A crowd had gathered, but the fire brigade and the city lawmen kept the gawkers at bay. When no one else approached her, she stood up on shaky legs and made her way down the sidewalk to pass easily through the crowd. She was grateful no one stopped her. One woman patted her on the arm, but most gave her a wide berth. Fancy knew most of the reason for their avoidance was where she worked. In fact, she was amazed the reporter hadn’t asked her about it in the interview.
Perhaps, he didn’t know. After all, Fancy didn’t look like a saloon girl.
Truth be told, she wasn’t. Not really. She worked in a make-shift kitchen behind the saloon where she prepared meals for the adjoining hotel dining room. In addition to the meals she prepared, she was also responsible for cleaning the hotel and the saloon. Her hours were long, her pay almost nonexistent. Standish didn’t even allow Fancy to eat her own cooking.
As she moved down the plank sidewalk, she kept her gaze down, clutching the pouch in an injured hand. Her muscles were still so shaky, Fancy grew fearful she’d drop the gift from Mr. O’Malley, so she stuffed it in the pocket of her apron, right next to her lucky coin. Fancy laughed to herself. So far, the coin hadn’t brought her much luck. But that was okay. The coin’s value didn’t lie in any good fortune it might bring. No, the worth of the coin lay in the memories it brought to mind. For a few shining hours, she’d had a friend. Sometimes when she lay in her lonely bed, Fancy would wonder and dream about the man her Robin Hood must be today. He’d be a hero, she was sure of it, there was no way he could be anything else.
As she dwelt on the past, Fancy hurried on to her unfortunate present. Most of the shops she passed were boarded up, a sign of the sad times. Since the war, countless businesses had failed. Many men never returned from the battlefield and the families they left behind had moved back east. The cities shrank, the southern economy was in tatters. Fortunately, some enterprises seemed recession proof and the saloon happened to be one of those lucky establishments. Standish Gillespie intended to take full advantage of that fact, as he’d always taken full advantage of her. Fancy Grace rued the day he’d bought her from the Galloways.
“Out of my way! Out of my way!” A surly man came barreling down the sidewalk toward her, pushing people out of the way left and right. “I’m in a hurry!”
She plastered herself against the side of the blacksmith shop, allowing the old gentleman to push past. As she did, Fancy made eye contact with the woman who’d left the O’Malley children unsupervised. She was crying frantic tears, clinging to the arm of the burly giant of a blacksmith who looked annoyed at her nearness. The nanny’s display wasn’t surprising, considering she’d almost been responsible for the death of two children. Fancy didn’t know what caused the blaze, but the children weren’t old enough to know how to do anything other than hide from the danger beneath the bed. Laurence O’Malley would undoubtedly buy a new home and hire a new nanny. This woman should count herself lucky the children were alive, and she wouldn’t be held accountable for their deaths.
Fancy hurried on, she was a mere half block from the saloon when it hit her she’d never completed the errand Gillespie had ordered her to perform. Stopping in her tracks, she wheeled around to run to the market for his tobacco. How could she have forgotten?
Foolish question, considering the house fire that had drawn her attention away from the task she’d been assigned. If she returned to the saloon without his tobacco, Standish would beat her. His anger required little provocation. She was already miserably late, and he wouldn’t care one whit about what had kept her.
“Fancy! Fancy!”
Too late, she’d been spotted. Knowing there was no choice, she halted her steps, hearing Gillespie’s heavy tread coming behind her. She closed her eyes and winced, steeling herself for what was to come. Turning around before he reached her would result in a slap to the face. Presenting her back wouldn’t save her, but a blow to her shoulder would be easier to absorb and less likely to break a bone.
“Where are you going? Have you been slacking off?”
She braced herself, knowing he wouldn’t wait for an answer. The impact of his fist on her collarbone sent Fancy to her knees as surely as if someone had jerked her feet out from under her. Going down hard, she instinctively put out her hands to catch her fall, then screamed when her full weight landed on her raw, burned palms as they scraped across the rough wood.
“Get up, you ugly bitch!” Standish grabbed her hair and jerked Fancy to her feet. “Where’s my tobacco? Did you steal my money?”
“No, no, no.” She reached into a side pocket in her dress and held out the silver dollar. “I forgot to go after I stopped to help…”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses.” He shoved her toward the saloon. “Get to work. You’re late getting dinner on the table!”
She let him manhandle her. After all, she had no choice. When did she ever have a choice? Her life was a series of unfortunate events. After her parents died of yellow fever, she and her beloved brother were placed in an orphanage. When she grew old enough to crawl over the fence, they had run, deciding to live on the streets of New York City. Unfortunately, she’d lost her brother and her days became even more difficult and cruel. The one bright spot in her memory was when she’d run into the young boy who was never far from her thoughts. Her Robin Hood. Sadly, not too many days after their meeting, the authorities rounded up the street kids and returned them to the home. This influx of unwanted children caused the orphanage to be overrun, so Fancy had been one of many sent on orphan trains to cities in the South and Midwest. The idea had been admirable, the intent being to place the children up for adoption. As with other things, the end result didn’t pan out as planned. Many of the unfortunates ended up being sold to factories and farms as indentured servants. This had been Fancy’s fate. She’d been sold and resold, passed from family to family. She might never be a mother, but she knew plenty about raising children. Some of the circumstances had been worse than others. In some homes she’d been treated decently and in others, no better than a dog.
But even those places, where she’d been ignored and abused, were better than working for Standish Gillespie. He took great pleasure in afflicting pain on top of humiliation. She tried so hard to save the small wage he paid her, so she could one day buy her freedom, but he made her pay for the meager amount of food she ate and the rags he called clothing.
“Since you wasted half a day milling around, I’m only paying you half a day’s wages,” he barked as they neared the entrance to the saloon. “Go down the alley, don’t walk through the front door, the customers will see you. Don’t want you turning their stomachs.”
“Yes, Mr. Gillespie,” she meekly answered, anxious to get to the little hovel she called home so could clean her ravaged hands before going to work. “I just need a moment to prepare.”
He pushed her along until they came to the back door, where he placed the toe of his boot to her backside and pushed. This time, she caught herself on the door to save herself from falling.
“Hurry up, or I’ll withhold the second half day’s wage.”
At this point, she was too whipped down to argue. “Yes, sir.” She didn’t have the energy or the wherewithal to disagree.
Once she was blessedly alone, Fancy poured water from a pitcher into the wash bowl. The light was dim in the tiny room, but she found a clean rag to dab at her ruined palms. Tears ran down her cheeks as she did her best to apply some healing salve. Work would be very difficult tonight. As she swayed, the pouch Mr. O’Malley had given her bumped against her thigh. For the first time, her curiosity was piqued. She’d wanted nothing for saving the children, but he’d insisted. Using the tips of her fingers, she extracted the pouch and pulled at the drawstring. What she saw inside made her jaw drop.
Gold.
Twenty-dollar gold pieces.
Ten twenty-dollar gold pieces.
Fancy gasped, she’d never seen so much money in her life.
All she could think about, all that seemed important…was that she was free. This would pay the price of her indentured servitude.
“Oh, thank the Lord. Thank the Lord.”
Her knees too weak to support her, Fancy sank down to the bed and cried for joy.