The Yankee Widow

Author's Note:

Unlike my previous efforts, this one is quite long - 22,000+ words. It took me forever to write it (I can just hear the critics saying, "you didn't take long enough.") but I'm letting it go. Once again, it's a historical romance - not erotic at all. Hope you like it.

Note: people spoke differently in 1866 - conversation was much more mannered and formal than today. I've tried to capture a bit of that here. Also, the injuries inflicted upon our fictional character were indeed suffered by Union Brigadier Manning Forge Ferguson at Kennesaw Mountain during the Battle of Atlanta. Finally, the name "Sally" is a nickname or hypocorism (just learned that word) for "Sarah".

OHG

Chapter One

Palm Sunday - April 9, 1865 - Near New Hope Church, Appomattox County, Virginia

I could hear the crackling and booming to our rear as General Gordon's division attacked the Federals three miles to the west. On our front, the Union II Corps was advancing on us, trying to push us back upon Appomattox Station. Our only hope was to hold them back until Gordon broke through to Lynchburg. If he failed, we would be encircled.

We could clearly see their line approaching. With a calmness I did not feel, I alerted my men and called them to action. "Check your rifles. Get your cartridge boxes ready." I paused for a moment, as I scanned the blue line with my field glasses. "Fix bayonets." I called out. Immediately, the relative quiet was broken by the clattering of 70 blades being affixed to barrels. Along the line, the other companies were making the same preparations. Several of my men were fidgeting with the makeshift breastworks in front of them - adjusting brush, moving rocks, piling dirt. A couple of others gnawed off twists of tobacco - to my mind, poor compensation for our lack of coffee. In my almost three years with the 4th Alabama, I had become accustomed to the myriad and peculiar rituals observed before a skirmish, but I still found them amusing.

The clatter of hooves announced the arrival of instructions from Lt Colonel Scruggs, our regimental commander. An orderly stepped up, handing me a scrap of paper, which I didn't need to read, but did anyway. "Hold position until ordered otherwise." I nodded to the private: "no reply, my regards to the Colonel." I turned and looked back at the oncoming blue line with my glasses, which were really unnecessary, since the Yanks were now only 500 yards or so out. "Hold on, Men... they're about to open the ball... keep your heads down... it's fixing to rain iron." Sure enough, the Union batteries opened up and we started drawing fire from 10 or 12 guns. The Federal line held up while the guns lobbed shot and shell over their heads. The barrage caused us few casualties but did produce a lot of smoke and noise and made some mighty divots in our improvised fortifications. Finally, after fifteen minutes or so, it stopped, and we could hear a cheer come up from the Union line. I heard Ike Hilliard, one of my Limestone County boys, muttering "wish they'd stop lollygagging and get on with it." I gave our position a cursory inspection and strolled down the line, talking to my company: "Hold steady, Boys... let 'em get closer... mark your targets."

We only had half a battery - 3 guns - covering our position. At 250 yards, they started firing canister at the approaching enemy. We began to see gaps in the blue line, but they kept on coming. I pulled my revolver from its holster, checked the caps, switched it to my left hand, then drew my sword with my right. Our guns fired another volley, and then another. When the Yanks got within 150 yards, I ordered my men to open fire. Powder smoke filled the air as our entire line began firing. The boys in blue were now running at us. My boys were quickly reloading for their next volley. About 20 seconds later, they were firing again. Through the smoke, I could see that the Yank line, though thinner, was still coming. It crashed into us. On my right, rifles and bayonets clanked and clashed together. Just ahead of me, a boy squared up and before I heard the shot, I saw the muzzle flash and felt the ball go under my arm and through my coat. I raised my Colt and shot him in the chest. Turning to my right, I saw Ike grappling with two Yanks - one bluecoat was trying to wrest Ike's rifle away from him, while the other was trying to stick him from behind with a bayonet. I shot that one first, then turned and shot the other. Ike, of course, was offended. "What'd you do that fur? I had the sichation under control." I ignored him and went about the business of continuing the fight. Yelling encouragement to my North Alabamians, I emptied my pistol in the general direction of Federals still trying to break our line. The assault, however, was faltering and the Union boys began falling back. I directed the company to cease fire and began to assess our situation. We had taken just a few casualties in this first skirmish: three killed, five wounded.

I was checking on the wounded, when Sergeant Petty approached: "Captain, there's a wounded Yankee officer over here who wants to talk to you. You better hurry Sir. I don't think he's long for this world." I followed Petty down the line to find a tall, bearded man stretched out with his back against an oak tree. His blue coat bore the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel. The coat was open at the front and his white shirt was soaked with blood from a sucking chest wound. I stood at attention and snapped a salute.

"Captain Thomas Browning, I Company, 4th Alabama Infantry, at your service, Sir."

He struggled to speak - having difficulty breathing - obviously his lung was pierced, and blood foamed from his mouth. I bent down next to him on one knee and leaned closer to hear his words.

"Lieutenant Colonel Charles Calahan, 4th Ohio Infantry. I'd - I'd like to commend you and your men on the gallant defense of your position here today. I am aware that we have only now met, but..." And here he was racked by a coughing fit that sprayed blood across his legs. The coughing finally, mercifully subsided, and he continued with great difficulty:

"I know this is a great imposition, Captain, but I am at your mercy. I fear I am killed, and I would ask a favor of you. When, ah, when this terrible war is finished would you please convey my sentiments and my personal effects to my dear wife and daughter in Marion, Ohio?"

As he spoke, he raised his left arm to me, and I saw that he held in his hand a small tintype of a young woman and a little girl.

"Colonel Calahan, thank you for your kind words. In turn, I'd like to commend you and your men for your valiant assault. It takes great courage to run into canister fire. It's apparent that you lead from the front. As for your request, I would be honored to carry your message to your family. But first, Sir, let us carry you to our regimental surgeon. He can stanch the bleeding and - "

Shaking his head and raising his hand, he stopped me, "No, Captain - it's too late for that. Even now I am hovering between two worlds... Oh, Dear God, "he jerked and cried out in a paroxysm of agony. "In my coat, you will find my wallet, in my waistcoat - my watch and chain. I am sure my compatriots will see to the return of my horse and saddle. In the wallet, there are twenty dollars in greenbacks to defray travel expenses you may incur fulfilling my request. You will also find a last letter to my wife written in anticipation of this event. I'm sure many of your officers have done the same." He paused, tried to breathe deeply, but coughed violently once again.

"What message would you send your wife, Sir?" I said after directing Sergeant Petty to find pencil and paper.

After a minute or two, he looked at me - his eyes glassy and wet, and spoke haltingly, having to stop every few words to catch his breath, "Captain, tell my wife... "- I looked at Sgt Petty and mimicked writing in my palm - "tell my wife that I died a soldier and a Christian, with my face to the enemy and my faith in God. My only regret is leaving her and our precious girl, but... I leave with the promise of our reunion with our Lord in paradise."

"Colonel, you have my word of honor that I will convey your message truthfully and faithfully. Is there anything else that I can do?"

Quietly and agonizingly, he muttered, "No, Captain, I'm beyond the cares of this world. May this cruel war soon be over. Thank you and godspeed." His eyes glazed over; his lips moved once more, and I thought I heard him whisper "Sally..."

With that, he slowly expelled his last breath, and his head slumped to his chest. Sgt Petty and I removed our hats, as did Ike Hilliard and the other boys standing around us in the shade of the tree. "A brave man and a gallant soldier," I said. "God, I hate this war, Captain," Sgt Petty replied. He handed me his scrap of paper, which I folded and placed in my coat pocket.

I dried the tears forming in my eyes and called out, "Everyone back to your positions - check your weapons and cartridge boxes. The Yanks won't quit - this Grant likes to fight - they'll be back."

I turned to Sgt Petty, "Lucius, send word to graves detail that we have a dead Union officer here. Make it clear that there will be no souvenirs of this man's body."

Saying this, I again knelt by the colonel. I slipped the priceless tintype from his fingers, and, reaching inside his coat, I removed a leather pocketbook. I opened this and saw the aforementioned greenbacks and letter. I also found the colonel's folded commissioning paper. Closing the pocketbook, I examined his waistcoat pocket and removed a gold-plated watch, fob and chain. Placing these items in my various coat pockets, I rose, removed the colonel's greatcoat, and placed his body flat on the ground. I closed his eyelids, placed his arms across his chest, and covered him with his coat.

Chapter Two

April 9-13, 1865 - Appomattox Court House, Virginia

Since waking, I had shot three men, taken a bullet through my coat, and heard the dying words of a brave soldier. Yet, it was still only 8:30 in the morning. With no coffee and no breakfast, I silently cursed my empty but sour stomach and turned to ensure my company was prepared for the next assault. Sometime later - about 10 or 10:30, I heard approaching hoofbeats - this time from the bay mare of LTC Scruggs himself, who dismounted and returned my quick salute. He took my arm and led me a few steps out of earshot.

"I bring momentous news, Captain. I have just left an officers' meeting with General Longstreet - General Gordon's attempt to clear the Lynchburg Road has failed and we are compassed about." He paused as if to emphasize the gravity of his next words: "Tom, General Lee has ridden to meet Grant to discuss terms of surrender. We are now under a truce. So, no attack is imminent but keep your company alert. Do not stand down yet. This situation is volatile. But Old Pete says if Grant's terms are not onerous, General Lee intends to surrender the Army of Northern Virginia. And we all know that if General Lee surrenders, all our other armies will follow suit. So be careful, Tom - it would be a damn shame to make it this far and get killed in the last hour of this war."

"Sir, your news is both devastating and encouraging. I don't know whether to cry or jump with joy. I'll advise my company of developments, but we will remain alert, as you command."

With that, LTC Scruggs mounted and rode off to visit his other company commanders, while I ordered Sgt Petty to gather I Company quickly. When our ragtag group was assembled, I began to give them the lay of the land.

"Men, I feel it my duty to inform you of serious events affecting our current situation - Colonel Scruggs has brought word that General Gordon's effort this morning to seize the Lynchburg Road has failed. We are now surrounded by far superior numbers of Union troops. General Lee has gone to discuss surrender terms with General Grant. We are under a truce. However, as circumstances are liable to change, we will not stand down. You will return to your post and remain vigilant. And a personal word of caution to you, my faithful friends - do not do anything foolish or foolhardy! There is a good chance that this war will soon be over - 'twould be a shame to falter now. Sgt Petty dismiss the company."

The men quietly returned to their positions. When a soldier is not bellyaching, it is because he is too tired or too hungry, or both. I feared that we had reached the limit of our endurance, and I guiltily prayed for the success of General Lee's entreaty.

My prayer was answered: late in the afternoon, word came that the two generals had met in a home at Appomattox Court House and had come to terms on our surrender. We did not yet know the details of those terms, so we were somewhat subdued in our reaction to the news. In my wondering, I think I was like most of my men - would we be paroled, or treated as prisoners of war? Shot or hanged as traitors? These issues crossed my mind, but my greatest consideration was for the current welfare of my company. They were frail, near starvation. Union cavalry had burnt our supply trains at Appomattox Station and with us encircled, foraging was impossible. I couldn't feed them.

We received no further word that day. I put out several pickets on rotating watch, then bedded down to an uneasy sleep.

Bright and early next morning, LTC Scruggs and his orderly again paid me a visit:

"Captain, the Lord is merciful today, and his instrument is General Grant. His terms of surrender are more generous than anything we could have hoped for. Every officer and soldier will be paroled until properly exchanged. Officers will sign pledges for their companies, but each man will be issued a parole pass and may go unmolested. Officers may keep sidearms and swords. And officers on horseback may keep their personal mounts. Most importantly, all will be fed! General Grant has magnanimously agreed to supply us with food and provender. Those supply trains will begin arriving sometime this morning on Court House Road. Tom, tell I Company to stand down - the war is over for them."

"Yessir. This doesn't seem real, Sir. After almost four years... General Lee really surrendered?"

"Yes, he and his staff officers have already signed their paroles."

"What are we to do Colonel? Go back to Alabama? Will we officially be mustered out? With Richmond gone and Lee defeated, is there even a Confederacy anymore?"

"I don't know at this point. Let us take this one step at a time. First, look out for that supply train, help unload those wagons, and get your men fed. I am told that we will surrender our colors and arms day after tomorrow, on Wednesday. Until then, concentrate your efforts on maintaining discipline and keeping order. I don't think you'll have too many deserters today - they are too hungry. Once you tell them provisions are coming, they'll stay to get fed. And perhaps they'll be less inclined to fight with the Yanks. Watch out for the hotheads! You know who those are... keep them away from the bluecoats, if you can."

With that, Colonel Scruggs mounted and rode off to pass the word to the other companies. Once again, Sergeant Petty assembled the North Alabamians, and I gave them the earth-shattering news. Their faces grew somber at word of General Lee's surrender; not a few shed tears. But they were cheered somewhat to find they would be paroled and not imprisoned, and were indeed ecstatic to learn that they would be fed. Near midday, the wagons arrived, as promised, and Sgt Petty directed a team from our company in unloading and distributing the provisions, which even included sides of beef and bacon. Our cooks scurried to get their fires going and meals prepared. Soon, the air would be filled with the glorious odor of frying meat.

Mid-afternoon, LTC Scruggs arrived to present General Lee's last order to us - his farewell address in which he thanked us for our loyalty to him and the cause. Upon hearing this, some of these hardened veterans cried like babies, others quietly sobbed, but there was not a dry eye in the company.

For the first time in weeks, we went to sleep with full bellies. And, for the first time in years, with the notion that we might see our homes again.

Next day, we received additional supply wagons from the Federals, and we filled our pockets and sacks with as many provisions as we could carry. After the formal surrender tomorrow, we would be on our own. Colonel Scruggs' aide arrived to explain our role in the surrender ceremony. I passed his instructions on to the men and added the admonition to make themselves as presentable as possible. Ike Hilliard said something about a silk purse and a sow's ear, but I paid him no mind. We cleaned and polished ourselves and our equipment and for the second night in a row, went to bed without a gnawing stomach.

LTC Scruggs and his staff arrived early next morning. They brought the Union parole letter for I Company, which I duly signed. We formed up, along with the other companies of the 4th Alabama, on the grounds of the New Hope Church. There we waited by the Court House Road for the rest of Perry's Brigade to arrive. It seemed like hours before we finally fell into line and marched toward Appomattox Court House. We were grouped with the rest of Fields' Division and followed Pickett's Division down the road on the almost three-mile march to the crossroads. These brave men went along quietly, some gripped with heavy emotion - tears streaming down their cheeks.

As we approached the crossroads, we could see Union troops lining both sides of the road. There was no celebration of their victory - no cheering, no catcalls or whistling. We heard later that General Grant, in a gesture of reconciliation and respect had forbidden such displays. We marched on to the appointed place where the men stacked their rifles, and the color bearers surrendered the unit colors. After doing this, we passed through a gauntlet of tables where each man received a printed parole form. We then formed up once again and marched back to our camp at New Hope. By the time we arrived, it was mid-afternoon, and I wanted to speak to my men one last time before they began to drift away. I asked Sergeant Petty to form the company.

"Men, as we marched to lay down our arms today, it struck me that today marks exactly four years since the South took up arms at Fort Sumter. Captain Jones formed this regiment less than one month after that event. Some of you have been with us since that day. Today, we are no longer comrades in arms; we are just comrades.... and will always remain so. I thank you for your steadfast devotion to duty through all the horrors and privations you have endured. To lead you in this fight has been the greatest honor of my life."

With tears flowing and voice cracking, I ended my goodbye: "You are now free to go as you like, but I would advise you to exercise great caution. We dare not travel in large groups lest we be considered marauders or guerillas by both sides; and we should not travel alone for obvious reasons of safety. I suggest we travel in groups of no more than five and we set out tomorrow two or three groups at a time at intervals. If possible, we should not all travel the same route. Sergeant Petty and I will study the maps tonight and devise a few different paths home."

Ike Hilliard's brother Phil, as always worried about his stomach, raised a question: "What are we going to eat?"

"We will start out with as much of these gifted provisions as we can carry. After we've exhausted that, we will have to forage or rely on the generosity of people we meet. At least, we will be traveling through sympathetic country."

Sgt Petty and I did indeed survey our maps and identified at least seven different routes to Huntsville, Alabama. I listed these on paper as a series of waypoints to follow and made a copy of each route. With 70 men in I Company, we would have 14 groups of five men, with two groups taking the same route at a one-hour interval. Satisfied with our plan, we retired for the night.

Chapter Three

April 13-24, 1865 - Appomattox County, Virginia to Salem, Virginia

So, on a bright spring morning, we arranged ourselves in groups of five and prepared to go home. Many of the men were related, thus most groups were comprised of cousins and close friends. Sergeant Petty led one group; each of our corporals led another. I took the Hilliard brothers, Ike and Phil, and cousins Clint and James Curtis. Our first two groups set out at seven o'clock; two more followed at eight, and so on until at one in the afternoon, Sergeant Petty and I said our goodbyes and turned away.

As he and his sheep walked on, I called out, "Take care, Lucius. God willing, we'll meet again back home."

Turning to my four little lambs, I directed them to strap their packs behind the saddle of my horse Sandy. I did not intend to ride to Alabama, while my men walked all the way. We would use Sandy as a pack animal and emergency mount. Most of us had picked up some sort of foot ailment in the Petersburg trenches; Phil Hilliard's had been worse than most and had yet to heal properly. I anticipated that he would need Sandy's services soon and often.

We set out. By my reckoning, we were roughly 550 miles from home. In the best of fettle, we might have made 20 miles a day, but in our current state, we would be lucky to do 10 or 12. With luck, we would reach Huntsville in 60 days.

Our first day's travel took us roughly five miles to Spout Spring. For safety's sake, we forwent a campfire that night and slept fitfully in the chilly night air. My old wounds grieved me fiercely - my head and cheekbones hurt like the dickens. But the pain eventually subsided to a dull ache, and I was able to sleep briefly until daylight.

We proceeded on our journey. At the end of the first full day, I figured we had walked about 12 more miles. I was pleased with this pace, but I could also see that Phil Hilliard's foot was beginning to slow him down. I decided that tomorrow he would ride Sandy.

But next morning, Phil was having none of that. He groaned mightily when I told him to get up on the horse: "Cap'n, I ain't no child nor woman that needs coddlin'...'sides, 'twouldn't be fair."

"Philemon, I'm not doing this for you... I'm doing it for all of us - you're slowing us down. I'd like to get home sometime this century. Now, get on that horse." He grumbled unintelligibly the whole time, but he did it. We resumed our travels, and over the next few days, established a familiar routine: wake at daylight, walk until mid-morning, when we would rest briefly and eat some of our rations, then push on until dusk. Then we would find a good campsite, build a fire, and cook up our supper.

On our third day, we had reached Lynchburg, where we came upon the Southern Railroad line, which we would follow along through Salem, Wytheville, Abingdon, into Tennessee near Elizabethton, then on to Knoxville, down to Chattanooga, into Alabama at Bridgeport. From there, we would continue along the rails for 70 miles or so to Huntsville. Following the rail line accorded us some advantages over regular roads: it was a fairly direct route, and it allowed us to avoid contact with Federal troops. Also, with the fall of Richmond and the disruption of internal lines of transportation and commerce, railroad activity in the South had all but ceased. We would not be bothered by too many trains.

Over the next few days, we made steady progress traipsing along the rails. Only one train passed us the whole time and except for the fact that we were malnourished and exhausted, our little group was walking in high cotton. But I was growing more and more concerned about two things: one, even though we were rationing our food, we were close to depleting our supplies; and two, Phil's trench foot was worsening. Foraging or the charity of others could fix the former problem; I was beginning to think only a surgeon could fix the latter. On the 7th day of our march, when Ike called me to look at his brother's foot, I was shocked and sickened by its appearance and smell. The entirety of the four smaller toes and the last joint of the big toe were black. The adjoining areas of the foot were covered in suppurating blisters emitting a foul-smelling discharge. This was gangrene. I had seen it in the hospital in Marietta while convalescing from my wounds. Only amputation could stave off the inevitable blood poisoning that would kill him.

"Phil, we must get you help with that foot. We'll be in Salem tomorrow. It's a sizeable town and should have a doctor. Now, I don't want any arguments, you're going even if I have to get the Curtis boys to tie you up and drag you."

Clint and James smiled at this, but their worried eyes showed their concern for their friend.

About noon the next day - our 8th day from Appomattox - we strolled into Salem, Virginia. There was little activity on the street, but even though few, if any trains were running, we found the station agent at his post. He eyed us warily as we approached the station pulling Phil on old Sandy.

"You boys come from the surrender?", he stated more than asked, "we've had quite a few of you through here the last few days."

"Yessir, I expect so," I replied. "Our comrade Phil here has a bad case of trench foot. Can you direct us to a doctor?"

"You'll want to see Dr. Gibson on Regis Street - he has his office at his home... just a quarter mile away."

The agent gave us detailed directions to the doctor's home. Clint and James got Phil down off Sandy and, making a seat with their arms, carried him into the house. The doctor proved to be a man of about 50 with copious hair on his face and none on his head. He appeared to be competent, meaning he didn't look like a vagrant, and he was not drunk. And he could not disguise the look of horror when he unwrapped Hilliard's foot. He gently probed the flesh on the top and bottom of the foot and felt for blood flow in his ankle. The doctor then checked his left foot for damage as well but pronounced it relatively healthy.

"The right foot must come off - soon. Necrosis from gangrene has already claimed the toes and is working its way up the foot. But if the infection is not cut out, it will reach the blood stream and sepsis will invade the rest of the body, resulting in death. Unfortunately, Mr. Hilliard, you must lose your foot or lose your life."

Judging from their faces, the doctor's verdict hit Ike harder than it did Phil. Phil started to argue that he'd rather be dead than be a cripple, but Ike angrily stopped further discussion of such nonsense, as he called it. "Phil, we'll fix up something - there's many a man's lost an arm or a leg in this war - you'll just be another. I'll help you get around until you can do it yourself, so forget this talk about dying."

The doctor set about preparing for surgery. He had no ether or chloroform, but Ike took some of our remaining provisions and traded for a quart of local whiskey. We proceeded to get Phil completely drunk. Then began perhaps the worst hour of my life. Following the doctor's directions, we placed Phil on the operating table and cut his trousers to the knee. Ike placed a narrow strip of leather in Phil's mouth. Then Ike and I held Phil's upper body while the Curtis boys held the legs. With scalpel and bone saw, Dr. Gibson removed Phil's right foot just above the ankle. The whiskey dulled the pain but did not eliminate it. Phil struggled and sweated mightily until mercifully passing out. The doctor completed the procedure by tying off the affected blood vessels and sewing a flap of skin over the stump. We then moved Phil to a bedroom adjoining the surgery. Ike was determined to sit with his brother, so Dr. Gibson provided a chair and a blanket. The good doctor also permitted the Curtis boys and me to camp on his lawn for the night.

Right before daylight, I went in to check on the Hilliard boys. Apparently, they had been through a restless night. As the effects of the alcohol wore off, Phil moaned and moved about considerably. He had also sweated profusely, and Ike kept busy wiping his brother's brow with a wet cloth. I ordered Ike to head outside and bed down for a bit, while I spelled him looking after Phil. About mid-morning, Clint came in to relieve me. Of course, Dr. Gibson checked on him frequently; he seemed pleased with Phil's condition, especially the absence of a high fever, which would indicate infection. All in all, the doctor said Phil was lucky. I questioned how he could be lucky losing his foot.

"If you have to lose a limb, it's better to be rid of the toes or feet. The further the amputation from the chest and torso the less blood you lose. Blood loss weakens the body and lowers the chance of recovering from the surgery. Your friend didn't lose a lot of blood, so I'd say he has a good chance of making it. If he survives a couple more days without infection, I think he'll likely see another birthday. Of course, he won't be up and around for weeks. And it will probably be months before he's well enough to use crutches. But we'll see."

"Doctor, I am eternally grateful for your help. And I am embarrassed to say that we have no money to pay you for your services. Perhaps Clint, James, and I can perform some work around here as payment."

"Captain do not fret about that. I am honored to help. Our son is in a Union prison camp in Illinois. Lord willing, soon he will be on his way home. I hope that if he needs help along the way, some Northern doctor might extend a hand to him. Your friend is welcome to stay here until he is recovered."

I shared the doctor's news with Ike and the others. Ike bowed his head in thought, almost like he was praying, and finally spoke out,

"Cap'n, it ain't right for me and Phil to hold you fellers up. I can't tell you what to do, but I wish you'd consider hightailin' it home, while I stay here and nurse my brother."

Ike's words astounded me - largely because I had not myself thought of this course of action. My first inclination was to issue a blanket rejection of his suggestion, but I could see in the faces of the Curtis boys that they were receptive to the idea. And to be honest, the more I thought about it, the more amenable I became. Dr. Gibson had already said it would be weeks, if not months, before Ike could get about with ease. None of us wanted to wait that long in Salem.

"Ike, your suggestion is practical and thoughtful. We thank you for your consideration of us. Clint, James, and I will do as you suggest. We will stay here two more days to ensure the worst is over and your brother's recovering. Today is Tuesday. If all goes well, Friday we will move on, but we will leave you Sandy to help get Phil home. No arguments on that, Ike."

"Nosir, thank you, Cap'n."

Over the next two days, Phil slowly improved. He showed no signs of infection and was courageously enduring the pain. Dr. Gibson checked on him regularly and the doctor's wife kept him full of broth. By Friday morning, I was confident enough to move along. We said our goodbyes to the Hilliard brothers and Dr and Mrs. Gibson.

"Take good care of Sandy, Ike. God willing, we'll see you back home in four or five months."

So, on the 12th day from Appomattox, we resumed our southward journey along the Southern Railroad line.

Chapter Four

April 25-June 15, 1865 - Salem, Virginia to Harvest, Alabama

It didn't take us long to establish our travel routine again. None of us had any foot or leg problems worth mentioning and we had eaten and rested well at the Doctor's house. So, we were able to make good time for the next week or so - averaging about 10 to 12 miles per day. We encountered few people but when rations ran low, we sought out a farmstead or two and were supplied several meals by generous locals. We even had fresh meat for several days, after I managed to kill a young deer with my pistol - the unfortunate creature had emerged from a thicket and stumbled upon us standing on the railbed. We were equally shocked to see each other, and I was astounded when I actually hit him with my pistol shot.

After six days walking, we reached Wytheville, where we foraged and rested for a day. Eight days later we made Goodson, Virginia which perched right on the border line with Tennessee. We continued southwest along the rail line toward our waypoints: Knoxville in 12 days, then 12 more to Chattanooga. This trek across eastern Tennessee with its mountains interspersed with streams was particularly treacherous and exhausting; we anxiously crossed many a trestle. At Chattanooga, we halted again for a couple of days to ready ourselves for the last legs of our journey. Setting out again, we reached Bridgeport in four days - we were now back in our home state, roughly 70 miles from Huntsville. Like horses smelling the barn, we increased our pace and six days later, we stood on Chapman Mountain looking over the town of Huntsville.

To be precise, none of us hailed from Huntsville proper. Clint, James, and I all came from Harvest - a farming community just a few miles northwest of the town, towards Athens. Also, Huntsville was now occupied by Federal troops - it had been intermittently since '62 - Clint got that news from a farmer in Paint Rock Valley 20 miles back. So, we decided to skirt Huntsville and walk northwest across the Meridianville Road and Pulaski Pike to Harvest. We had about ten miles further to go.

By two in the afternoon of the next day, we were walking up Ford's Chapel Road to our homes. Clint and James were neighbors; their families lived side by side in small holdings behind the Methodist Church. My home and store were located near the junction of Harvest Road and the Triana Road. As we walked along, the signs of destruction were evident - several houses, including Clint's, were burnt-out husks. Three hundred yards away we could see James's house standing unmolested. The rock church building in front of them was also undisturbed. Clint's cheeks were wet with tears and James was red-faced as he ran towards the rubble of his cousin's home. As he ran, a voice rang out, "Hey, James, hold on there!" We looked to the church and saw an old gray-headed fellow on the steps. He walked slowly towards us, and as he approached, I recognized him.

"Mr. Sanderson! It's certainly good to see a familiar face... I see you're still caretaking the church."

"Yep, graveyard too, and I'm sorry to say this war has added considerably to its numbers. I'm glad to see you boys made it through. Praise God from whom all blessings flow."

"Mr. Will, what's happened here? Why all the destruction? Seems like all the occupying troops would have made this a quiet area."

"For the most part, it has been... until last fall, those no 'count Pikes robbed and killed a couple of Union soldiers. The Yankees thought it was guerillas, so the cavalry showed up and made a demonstration by burning several buildings. They burnt Clint's house but left James's alone. Clint, your Mama's all right - she took your baby sister Clareese over to Athens to stay with your sister Louisa. James, you'll find your family 's doing well, all things considered. Like the rest of us, they don't have much, but they're alive and can't wait to see you. Tom, I hate to tell you, but they burned your store and house, too. Nothing left but rubble and ashes, sorry to say. But I've been taking care of the Browning Cemetery, too, and your folks' resting place has not been desecrated."

I wasn't really surprised to hear I'd been burnt out - I'd have been amazed to find it undisturbed. But still it was depressing news. My mom and dad had built that store and watched it grow into a solid business and a gathering place for our community. Dad had even run the Harvest Post Office from the store. And I had inherited the business after mom and dad died of yellow fever in the summer of 1860. At 19, I became a storekeeper. When the war started, I closed the store to enlist in Captain Jones's regiment, with the firm intention to reopen in a few months, after we had whipped the Yanks. Now, four years later, I felt foolish remembering that.

"Will, thank you for taking care of Mom and Dad. But forgive me, I haven't asked about you. What about your family?"

"Our daughter Ruth is doing well; you know before the war she was attending the Teachers' College in Florence. She still teaches school there. But we lost both of our boys - George at Sharpsburg and Timothy at Gettysburg. I'm afraid their mother has never fully recovered from that loss. Please remember her in your prayers."

"Of course, Will. Please give her my regards. Now, I suppose I'll walk on to see what's left with my own eyes."

I said goodbye to Clint and James before they walked up the path to James's house and the welcoming arms of family. I marched along to the Harvest Road and turned right to view the sorry symbol of my life in ruins.

Chapter Five

June 16-July 7, 1865 - Harvest, Alabama

A few blackened poles and a wrought iron hitching post were all that was left of my store and adjoining rooms I once called home. I sifted through the remains briefly but found nothing of value. What was I going to do now? When I went off to war, I had amassed 350 dollars in cash, which I had used to outfit myself to join the 4th Alabama. I suppose I still owned the ten acres the store had stood on, but who could afford to buy me out? Besides, the parcel was no good for farming, so who'd want to buy it anyway? I had lots of questions, but no answers. By now, it was getting dark, so I walked back down to the Fords Chapel Church, turned right onto the cemetery road, and found Will Sanderson's place. I asked him if I could sleep in his barn, and he offered me a bed in his house. But I didn't want to upset his grieving wife, and when he heard my reasons, he nodded and showed me where to bed down in his barn. It was mid-June in Alabama, and it was warm, but the nights were still tolerable, so I slept well on my first night home.

I spent the next few weeks visiting old friends in the Harvest area. I also spent a while at the Browning Cemetery, remembering my mother and father, my grandparents, and other family buried there. The cemetery was also a good place for reflecting on my future and trying to decide what I was going to do with myself. I had not forgotten my promise to the dying Yankee colonel; I would keep my word and carry his message to his widow. But after that? Would I come back here? Was there anything to return to? I had just traveled over 500 miles on foot. In every town I passed there was destruction; in every face there was hunger and fear. There was little food, no horses, few cattle, and no money. The South was dead, killed by its own folly. And I was one of the foolish.

I decided to sell my acreage, if I could, and prepare myself for a trip to Ohio. I told Will Sanderson of my intentions - he immediately set out to help me get ready. He started by furnishing a horse trough with hot water for a bath. He found some shears and gave me a passable haircut. I kept my whiskers to hide my disfigurement. Then he brought out several sets of clothing and boots and a hat that had belonged to George and Timothy. George's boots and Tim's duds were good fits, and I felt like a new man. While he was improving my appearance, Will also talked to me about selling my land.

"Tom, you know Josh Kelly, the man who owns the cotton gin and store over at Jeff? Well, he's lost a lot in land value like everybody else, but he's still ginning and selling cotton - some of it to smugglers, so he's about the only one around here with any money. And he's got Federal greenbacks. Rumor has it that he once thought of building a second gin at Harvest. He might be interested in buying your land. It won't bring much, but... you know the saying."

Will was right. He loaned me his one remaining mule, and I rode it over to Jeff and sold my ten acres to Josh Kelly for three dollars an acre - $30 in greenbacks. Even with the colonel's twenty, it wasn't enough to buy a horse, but it would keep me fed. That night I laid out my belongings -1 Colt Navy revolver, 2 officers' swords, 1 extra shirt and pair of pants, the colonel's effects, and my parole certificate. I packed it all in my sack and bedroll and dozed off to a fitful sleep.

Will saw me off the next morning with a poke full of hard biscuits. I was touched again by his generosity despite the hardships he faced himself.

"Will, I can't thank you enough for your kindness. I don't know if I'll pass this way again, but I will always remember you with great affection. God be with you and Mrs. Sanderson."

With that, I turned and took the first step on another 500-mile journey.

Chapter Six

July 8-9, Harvest, Alabama to Nashville, Tennessee

I was on my own this time, so I expected to make better time, although I had no illusions that this would be an easy trip. I was heading into hostile country and expected no sympathy or help along the way. But, to my surprise I found just that in the form of a farmer transporting melons up the Meridianville Pike to Fayetteville, Tennessee. A day's walk became a three-hour wagon ride. And I enjoyed a fresh watermelon for the first time in ages. From Fayetteville, I continued north through Petersburg, Lewisburg, Chapel Hill, Triune, and then Nolensville just outside of Nashville - about 80 miles in four and a half days. I rested for the remainder of that day, then on the 6th day after leaving Harvest, I set out for Nashville on the Nolensville Pike. I pushed hard that day covering the 22 miles and camping right where the Pike ran into Nashville's Summer Street.

Next morning, I rolled up my belongings and walked west along the street towards the center of Nashville. The further I went the more people, horses, and wagons I met. None paid me any attention, for which I was grateful. I was amazed at the bustle - such a contrast to the despair and destruction along the other roads I'd walked since April. Hammers and saws were going nonstop - buildings in various stages of construction were rising on both sides of the street. Many businesses were already open; Nashville appeared to have a healthy market for dry goods. I passed one busy intersection of streets, then another. On the north side of this crossing, I saw a group of 15 or 20 men gathered around the steps of a large brick building. I fought off my natural curiosity and turned away to cross opposite the gathering. As I did, I stumbled into a gentleman who seemed to be crossing to join that group. I knew he was a gentleman by his dress - he was wearing a quality suit of clothes and necktie and a fine derby hat. I noticed that the right sleeve of his suitcoat was folded and pinned to the side of the coat.

"I beg your pardon, Sir," I said. "I'm afraid I let myself be distracted by that gathering and wasn't watching where I was going."

"That's quite all right, Sir. I've been known to take a misstep now and then. Now, I've got to get over here to this sale. Come along and see what these horses are bringing."

With that, he took my right arm with his left and guided me across the street to the crowd. As we got closer, I could hear the speaker announcing the rules and procedures of the sale. My unfamiliar companion whispered to me,

"They're selling 1,500 surplus government horses to the highest bidder with no reserve. But lest you think you can find a cheap mount; they're selling them in lots of 25 and the most recent prices have been near $200 a horse."

We listened silently to the proceedings, which were surprisingly short-lived. And the horses did indeed sell for $200 each. As the crowd dispersed, the gentleman turned and offered me his left hand.

"I'm so sorry I waylaid you there - Charles Douglass, Attorney-at-law, late of Macon County, Tennessee and the 30th Tennessee Infantry."

I shook his hand and introduced myself.

"Thomas Browning, erstwhile storekeeper, late of the 4th Alabama Infantry."

"Yes, and an officer too, if my powers of observation are any good. I knew you didn't get those scars shaving."

"Yes, captain, I Company. No, I got the scars at Chickamauga."

"What a coincidence! I left my right arm at Chickamauga. Where were you in that inferno?"

"We were attached to Law's Brigade in Hood's Division down on the left."

"Incredible! I was with Gregg's Brigade in Ol' Bushrod's division. We were there with you on your left. Who knows? We might have been carried in the same ambulance or worked on by the same sawbones." Grabbing my arm again, he added, "Come on, we'll continue this conversation over breakfast."

Without argument, I accompanied this force of nature further west along Summer Street until we stopped at the restaurant of a small hotel. For the next two hours, we ate breakfast, drank coffee, and shared our war stories. Captain Douglass had closed his law practice in Lafayette, Tennessee, to help form the 30th Tennessee Infantry. He briefly commanded the regiment at Chickamauga after the death of LTC Turner, until being critically wounded himself. After losing his arm, he returned home, but the war precluded the reopening of his small-town law practice. So, he made his way to Nashville, where he joined the firm of E. A. Otis, Esquire.

"What is happening here in Nashville? I expected to see devastation and destitution," I said.

"Captain Browning, Nashville has been occupied, for the most part, since the fall of Forts Donelson and Henry in '62. During that time, Nashville has been an important hub for Union forces in the South. They've kept the Louisville and Nashville running. In fact, the railroad has made out like bandits... in the early days, they moved troops and supplies for the Confederacy, since occupation, they've done the same for the Union. Sure, there were some strong secessionists here, but the bluecoats rode herd on them. Some left to go further south; most ended up doing business with the Federals. Now, this place is booming with postwar activity. Most of my firm's legal work is for Claims Agents. So, I'm no longer trying to take their blood; I'm after their money."

With that, he laughed heartily and slapped my shoulder. I was astonished at his attitude - his youthful insouciance at his missing arm. It had taken me some time to lose the despair caused by my own wounds; I marveled at the recuperative power of this man's spirit.

When I told him of my mission to visit the Yankee widow, he nodded gravely.

"I understand. You swore an oath. It's something you must do. A man's dying words are a precious thing... his wife should hear them... and from you - you were there, you heard them, and you saw his face as he spoke them. You've got to go, but not now."

"Why not now?", I asked.

"Because the wounds are too fresh and the anger too deep. You're traveling into the heart of the north. I don't believe the good citizens of Ohio will welcome you with open arms. The passage of time will allow the hornets to return to the nest. Why not spend the fall and winter here in Nashville? You were a storekeeper - you see all the hubbub - half those buildings going up are dry goods or sundries stores. You'll have no trouble finding work. Wait at least until spring before you venture north."

"That sounds like good advice - it would also allow me to rest up after my journey."

"Good, then after we leave here, we will see my friend James Simmons about a job at his grocery and dry goods shop; then we will visit another friend Edward Stacy about renting one of his furnished rooms."

Both ventures were successful: Mr. Simmons was in fact settling into a new building at the corner of High and Church Streets and with Charles's kind referral, he hired me on the spot. Mr. Stacy's rooms were located on Cherry Street near the law offices of E. A. Otis, and again because of my acquaintance with Mr. Douglass, I was immediately ensconced in my new abode.

"Captain Douglass, I cannot thank you enough for your kind assistance. Since bumping into you this morning, I have felt like a man caught up in a tornado... but everything has turned out happily, and again, I am in your debt."

"Think nothing of it. If you would like, after you've had a few days to get settled, we will do supper together some evening."

With that, we shook hands, and he took his leave.

Chapter Seven

July 10, 1865 - April 15, 1866, Nashville, TN

I quickly adjusted to life in Nashville. Mr. Simmons was an exemplary employer - a good-natured man whose direction was firm but kind, and best of all, infrequent. The business was divided into three sections: groceries, dry goods, and a bakery and confectionery. There were four of us working in addition to Mr. Simmons - one in groceries, one in dry goods, and two in the bakery. I spent most of my time in groceries, but each of us was expected to help in the other areas when needed. Oddly, I found that I liked baking bread - it amazed me that so little work and so few ingredients could produce something so wonderful and essential. Who could ever imagine that I would trade the deadly excitement of battle for the calm of the kitchen?

In truth, after four years of national and personal upheaval, the routine of Nashville life had a calming, soothing effect on me. Once again it was becoming good to be alive. Also, I could always count on my friend Charles to provide some excitement with his occasional junkets to horse races, beer halls, or gaming parlors. And he insisted on dining at every new restaurant or cafe in town.

On one particular evening in early December, I answered my door to find a red-faced Charles standing there with a well-dressed pretty young lady at his side. "Alice, I'd like to introduce my dear friend Tom Browning; Tom, this is Mrs. Alice Hargis of Granville." Before I could raise my eyebrows, he added "Alice is a widow - her husband was killed at Shiloh. She has come to Nashville to visit her sister, who happens to be a client of our firm."

Alice offered her hand and spoke right up, "I'm so glad to meet you, Mr. Browning. Charles talks about you constantly. He regularly sings your praises, so I'm so glad to find out if you're as perfect as he says you are."

While she spoke, her eyes sparkled, and her voice twittered. I noticed Charles looking at her and smiling. This was the first time I'd seen him with a female companion, but I knew he was smitten.

"Please call me Tom, and with your permission, I shall call you Alice. Please come in."

Charles now entered the conversation, "Actually Tom, we were thinking of dining at the Erwin House, and wondered if you would like to join us."

"I'd be delighted. Let me get my hat and coat."

And like that, we were off to the Erwin House on College Street, where we ate, talked, then ate some more. After several courses, Charles signaled the waiter, who brought a bottle of wine and three glasses. The waiter poured the wine and Charles raised his glass.

"Tom, tonight is a celebration. I have asked Alice to be my wife, and she has accepted. When I said, 'but what about my arm?' She said, 'I will be your right arm'. And she will... we wanted you to be the first to know. To us..."

We all toasted the happy couple.

They were married Christmas Eve at a small wooden church on the grounds of the Hermitage - Andrew Jackson's old home. The weather cooperated; it was a mild, sunny day and a pleasant coach ride from Nashville. I stood up for Charles and Alice's sister for the bride. I had never seen a happier couple and it did my heart good to see my friends, who had suffered such calamity in the war, now find such happiness.

Naturally, I didn't see as much of Charles the family man, but I was very happy for him and Alice. We occasionally dined together - Alice proved to be a very good cook and often invited me for supper. I even attended church services with them on quite a few Sundays. In fact, while attending on Palm Sunday, I was jolted to realize that a year had passed since the surrender. And I still had not visited the Yankee widow.

At lunch that day, I brought the matter up to Charles and Alice.

"Yes, it's about time to go, though we shall miss your pretty face. Now, how do you plan to get there?"

"I have the $50 in greenbacks I came to Nashville with. I've managed to save $30 more. I know that still won't buy a horse, so I plan to walk."

"Pardon me, Tom, but that is a terrible plan. First, you won't make 20 miles outside of Nashville before some marauder robs you of your greenbacks; Second, why walk when you can ride the train? I know you didn't anticipate the possibility - train travel is practically nonexistent in the South - except here and some spots in Virginia, where it's being restored. The L&N has two trains to Louisville every day - you unpack goods from there at Simmons' store. You can catch the Louisville and Frankfort there to Covington on the Kentucky side at Cincinnati... cross the river and catch the CCC from Cincinnati to Columbus. You might have to walk from there to Marion."

"What will it cost me? I only have the $80."

"Two cents a mile on the L&N, so 180 miles - that is $3.60 to Louisville. The other lines' fares are about the same. You will have more than enough."

Alice chimed in, "Tom, it's a wonderful thing you're doing, but we shall miss you fiercely. Promise you'll write us from Ohio."

With a heavy heart, I went back to my room. I had come to like Nashville; I had come to love Alice and Charles Douglass. Next day, I gave Mr. Simmons notice. I would be leaving for Ohio on April 7th, 1866.

The next two weeks were somber ones. Alice insisted I have supper with them every night. On our last Friday night, she slowly dissolved into tears and had to leave the table to compose herself. I too was overcome with emotion but managed to suppress my tears until I reached my room. With a heavy heart, I packed my belongings - I had exchanged my knapsack for, yes, a large carpet bag, and I had managed to buy two suits of clothes on time from the clothing store next to Mr. Simmons' shop. I placed the spare suit, my revolver, and the colonel's effects in the bag. I wrapped the colonel's sword along with mine in a blanket which I tied between the handles.

The next day, they met me at the station just after midday - my train was due to leave at 1 o'clock. I pledged to stay in touch. Trying not to bawl, Alice bit her lip and clutched her handkerchief, then abruptly threw herself upon me in a warm embrace. Charles took my hand then pulled me into a hug as well. I wiped my eyes, nodded at both of them, entered the depot, and bought a $3.60 ticket to Louisville.

Chapter Eight

April 7-9, 1866, Nashville, Tennessee to Marion, Ohio

I hadn't been on a train since the regiment had been moved west after Gettysburg to join Bragg's Army of Tennessee. For that ride, I'd been standing in a cattle car. This trip was much more comfortable even though the wooden bench was as hard as a church pew. This particular train was not an express, so we took our time - seven and a half hours to get to Louisville. It was just getting dark but still light enough to see my way around. One of the station agents informed me that the Louisville and Frankfort train wouldn't be leaving until early next morning. When I asked him where I could find a bed for the night, he kindly offered me the floor of a storeroom at the station. I gratefully accepted and made my pallet on the cold floor.

Next morning, I awoke with the usual stiffness and aching head and made my way across the street to the L&F depot to catch the 6:35 Covington train. I bought my $2.10 ticket and settled back for the next leg of my journey. With the denser population along the river, we made more stops, so it took almost as long to cover the 107 miles to Covington as it did the 180 miles from Nashville to Louisville - six and a quarter hours this time. But due to my early start it was still only midday when I reached the Kentucky side of Cincinnati. Before crossing the river and entering hostile territory, however, I resolved to make myself more presentable. So, at Covington Station, after enquiring of the Agent, I was directed to a full-service barber shop where I enjoyed a bath and haircut and changed into my clean set of clothes. The barber also instructed me on how to cross the river into Cincinnati and take the Columbus train.

"There's the Suspension Bridge that Mr. Roebling's building - goes right across the river into the city. But don't take that - it's not done yet. So, you've got to walk across the pontoon bridge that the Yankees built - that'll cost you a penny - or you can ride on the ferry - that'll cost you five cents. Either way, once you get across just head east to the Little Miami train station on Riverside Street; it's right on the river just across the Miami Canal. Now, to get to the ferry from here - we're on Second Street - you just go out the door turn right then left towards the river. When you get to Front Street turn right, and you'll see the landing."

"Thank you for your help, kind Sir," I said and gave him an extra dollar for his troubles. "One more question, if I may - as you may surmise, I am a former Confederate officer - what kind of reception should I expect on the other side of the river?"

"A cool one, I suppose," he answered, "although being alone, the law will not likely bother you. Most of the marauders and guerillas have been run out by now, so you should not arouse much interest. But civilians will notice your accent and will be naturally suspicious. Ohio gave many of its sons to the war - their mothers will not be glad to meet you."

"No, I don't suppose they will." Shaking his hand, I thanked him again and proceeded to follow his directions to the landing and the ferry. When I got there, I learned that the ferry was on its return journey and would be available to board in 20 minutes or so. I passed the time anxiously, wishing not for the first time that I had taken up the tobacco habit. Instead, I chewed on my own thoughts, realizing for the first time that I had no idea what I was going to do when I found Mrs. Calahan - if I found her. What if her family were in some other state and she went home to be with them? Even if she were still in Marion, I could not directly accost a grieving young mother with my disgusting, frightening visage. That would terrify the poor woman. And I could not approach her unchaperoned. It just wouldn't be fitting. So, what must I do?

Before I figured it out, the ferry returned. I paid my fare and boarded the flat raft-like vessel tied to a series of cables and pulleys. A team of two mules stood on the bank watching. I assumed its counterpart on the Ohio side was about to pull us across the river. Twenty-five minutes later, we disembarked and, for the first time since July 1863, I was in Yankee Land.

I continued following the good barber's directions, turned east along the river and walked until I crossed a small canal and saw the train depot on my right. Before approaching the agent, I contemplated finding some young boy to make himself a nickel by purchasing a ticket for me. But I thought that would be suspicious, so I brazened it out and walked right up to the window. Without even looking up, the agent sold me a $2 ticket to Columbus on the 2:30 train.

Like my two previous train junkets, this ride was also uneventful. The car was only half full and those who were there paid me no mind. I passed the time thinking about my mission - my almost spiritual quest to deliver some form of condolence and consolation to a woman completely unknown to me. This line of thinking led me to another line of thinking - the colonel's last words had been spiritual in nature. He and his wife were religious people, and his widow would undoubtedly seek support from her priest or pastor. Calahan being an Irish name, she was most likely a Catholic. So, I would find a priest in Marion and ask him to accompany me on my visit to the widow. Problem solved? I hoped so. We would see.

After three hours forty-five minutes, we pulled into Columbus. As I gathered my belongings, my stomach rumbled reminding me that I had not eaten a bite all day. I had also not sorted out my transportation to Marion. I would attend to that after eating something. Walking from the depot, I turned south down a wide street and scanned both sides for a promising source of a meal. After two blocks or so, I came across the Zettler House - a rather large hotel advertising a restaurant. Doffing my hat, I entered its vestibule and turned right into a welcoming array of tablecloths, clinking glasses, and wonderful smells. An elderly gentleman escorted me to a table, rattled off a litany of the day's fare, all of which I apparently ordered, for I spent the next hour and a half gorging myself on pork, chicken, veal, two or three kinds of potatoes, various beans, followed by several sweet dishes whose names I could not pronounce. Unaccustomed to eating this way, I was deliriously miserable. The cost of the meal - an astounding $1.75 -forced me to break another $10 greenback, but I still had $0.75 from the first one. Feeling like a bloated corpse looks, and I had seen many, I waddled to the hotel desk and booked a room for the night. Before attempting the stairs, I asked the clerk about transportation to Marion.

"Marion's about 50 miles," he said, "there's no railroad there yet, but you can catch a coach leaving twice a day from the depot up the street. The ride will cost you $2.00. Or you can catch a ride with one of the freight haulers going to Marion from the depot twice a day. That will just cost you whatever the driver asks to carry you - usually a dollar or so. The hauler is quicker too - the coach makes stops but he doesn't... takes him about 7 hours... he just stops once to change horses."

I pressed fifty cents in his hand and thanked him for the information, then took myself to my room. Despite the comfortable bed, I did not sleep quickly because of my engorged state, but that eventually subsided, and I drifted off. I awoke at dawn and quickly dressed and hurried up the street to the depot. At one end of the building was a dock, where a line of wagons was in various states of loading and unloading. A railroad agent was overseeing the procedure. I approached him and asked if any of the wagons were going to Marion. Without answering me directly, he just yelled out, "Any of you teamsters going to Marion today?"

One of the fellows yelled back, "I am. What of it?"

It was now my turn to yell, "I'll pay you for a ride."

He yelled back, "Show me your money."

I pulled out two greenback dollars and waved them in the air.

"You've got yourself a ride," he said.

I walked up to his wagon and threw my belongings under the seat, then turned and began helping him load crates on the back. He nodded in acknowledgment and kept on working. After the last crate was loaded, he climbed up in the driver's seat and I joined him on the other end of the bench. He clucked at his team, shook the reins and we were off.

When we were down the road a ways, I turned to the driver, extended my hand, and introduced myself.

"I'm Tom Browning and I thank you for driving me to Marion."

He half turned and looked at me with one eye while the other stayed on the road. "You a Johnny Reb?" He turned both eyes back to the road.

"Yes Sir - I was, 4th Alabama Infantry - I was at Appomattox - I've given my parole."

"What in the blue blazes are you doing in Ohio?"

I told him about my mission. He nodded again and extended his hand, "I'm Jack Garner and it's a pleasure to drive you to Marion."

We rode on in silence for a while until I could no longer stand it, so I spoke up:

"What about you, Jack? You serve in the war? What did you do?"

"Exactly what I'm doing now. I'm 55 years old. They told me I was too old to fight but I could be more help driving supply wagons, so that's what I did. I'd have fought if they had let me... but Lord, I'm glad I had my three girls and no boys..."

I nodded this time and thought "yes, that is a blessing."

We changed horses in the little town of Delaware and headed up the road again. As we rumbled along, I asked Jack about Marion and its churches. I told him my plan for arranging a meeting with Mrs. Calahan. He thought it an appropriate way to fulfill my promise.

"You're right, Tom. She's likely to be Catholic and there's a Catholic Church in Marion - Church of St. Mary, I think, but I don't know - me and the wife are Presbyterians. But St. Mary's is right in the middle of Marion on Prospect Street, and I'll take you straight there."

We were now on the edge of Marion, and it was about 2 o'clock. Just a few minutes later we pulled up in front of a new-looking red brick building with a steeple.

"This is it, young man... I've enjoyed our trip. I wish you success in your mission."

"Jack, I am forever in your debt. Here's your two dollars." I handed him the money. "And here's my hand again. May we meet again down the road someday."

He shook my hand, grabbed his reins, and rolled away. I picked up my bundle and walked up to the church door.

Chapter Nine

April 10-11, 1866, Marion, Ohio

I turned the handle of the big door and pulled, not really expecting it to open, but it did quite easily. I entered the quiet sanctuary and stood looking down the center aisle to the altar and pulpit. At least, it looked like a pulpit, but I wasn't sure if the Catholics called it that. There were a couple of tables on either side of it with lighted candles, and coal oil lamps hung at various points on the two side walls. Despite the lamps, it was rather dark and a bit cool inside. Oddly enough, this had a soothing, calming effect on me, and I suddenly wanted to stop and stay a while. I sat down on the very last bench and looked at the figure on the cross above the altar.

My reverie was interrupted by footsteps. I looked down and saw a short man in clerical robes walking towards me. With more than a touch of brogue, he greeted me.

"Hello young man. I'm Father John Coveney. What brings you into St. Mary's today?"

"Hello Father. I'm Tom Browning from Harvest, Alabama, and I'm here to seek your help in fulfilling a promise to a dying man."

"My word, that's the most interesting thing I've heard in quite a while. Let me sit here with you, while you explain yourself."

As he sat down, I gave him a quick appraisal: he was very short - perhaps five feet tall, thick but not portly, looked about the age of Jack Garner. He was clean-shaven with short, white hair. His most remarkable feature was a pair of bright blue eyes that positively twinkled. I instantly felt at ease with him and proceeded to recount all the events of my life since the surrender. He listened quietly then spoke gently, as he rubbed his chin:

"So, you have traveled five hundred miles to convey the Colonel's belongings and last words to his wife because you gave him your word? God bless you for your devotion to duty. And your reasoning approach to your quest - it would indeed be inappropriate for you to visit the widow alone. As it so happens, I am well acquainted with Charles Calahan and his family - I conducted his funeral mass in this very church just four weeks after his death. Mrs. Calahan is a member of this parish and still lives in her home with her daughter and at present, with her mother Mrs. O'Neill. And it will be a privilege to accompany you on your visit to the family. They live out the Marysville Road, two miles south of town. We'll go tomorrow. But tonight, you'll dine with me and sleep here in the parsonage."

We had a fine supper provided by some of the parish ladies - roast chicken, fresh peas, and biscuits. Afterwards, we sat around and talked about the war, its effects on the South, and the future of the nation. Father Coveney shared a nip of fine Irish whisky as well. I hadn't had any spirits since being wounded two years ago and I had forgotten its strength. Now I was pleasantly reacquainted with it. The priest showed me my room in the parsonage, and I slept the sleep of the dead.

The good father roused me the next morning when he brought a bowl and pitcher into the room. "Get yourself spiffed up a bit, then come round to the kitchen and we'll eat a bite before heading out to the Calahan's."

I did as he instructed - I even went outside and found a twig and cleaned my teeth. I found my way to the kitchen and ate a light meal of bread and chicken left over from last night's supper. By the time we finished, it was still only a little after seven, "Too early to see the widow, we'll go at ten," he said, so I helped him clean up the grounds of the church before time to set out. Finally, he raised up from pulling weeds, brushed his hands together, and said, "it's about time to be leaving. You better be getting your things for the widow." He then turned and walked towards the street. I went back to my room in the parsonage, straightened the bed, and placed my bag on it. Untying the blanket, I removed my sword and retied the blanket around the other. I opened the bag and checked its contents again - the pocketbook - making sure the letter was inside it, his watch and chain, the tintype. On an impulse, I put $20 back in the wallet - I hadn't needed it after all. I closed the bag and went back to the street. There I found Father Coveney talking to a boy of 13 or 14, who was holding onto a horse and buggy.

"One of our parishioners has graciously loaned us transportation for our journey and I have gratefully accepted. Young Jamey is his son. Thank you, boy, and give my thanks to your father for his generosity. Tell him we'll take good care of his conveyance and will return it to him this evening."

With that, he climbed up into the seat and took the reins. I stepped up beside him and before I could sit down, we took off at a trot, throwing me back on the bench. I righted myself, arranged my belongings around my feet, and settled for the two-mile ride.

"Now, Captain Browning, when we arrive at the Calahan house, please allow me to approach the ladies first. You will remain with the horse while I talk to Mrs. O'Neill and inform her of your presence. When I think the time is right, I will summon you and introduce you to the mother. After listening to you, I am sure that she will want her daughter to see you and hear you out. Perhaps I should tell you that these ladies are strong Irish women - they are no wilting flowers, so you need not worry about overcoming them with the details of Charles's death. Sarah - Mrs. Calahan, will want to know."

We rode on in silence as the day grew warmer. We were now outside the town and passing through acres of fine farmland. After about half an hour, we began rolling past rows of apple trees, covered with fruit. In the midst of the tree line, the father turned the buggy down a small gravel lane past a sign reading "Calahan's Orchards." We drove for a few more minutes until we rolled up to a two-story white shiplap farmhouse with a covered porch on the front.

The second floor had three windows on the front; the first had a center door with a window on either side looking out onto the porch. Four square wooden posts held up the slanted roof over the porch. The paint was faded and peeling in a few places, but overall, it was a solid, unpretentious house that needed a little work.

Father Coveney hopped off and went up the steps; he turned and looked back at me - I think to make sure that I stayed put. I got down and lashed the horse to a hitching post and stood there rubbing the horse's withers. I heard the knock on the door and a surprised woman's voice greeting the priest as he stepped into the house. I don't know how long I waited, but it seemed hours. Strangely, I found myself sweating in anticipation of this meeting - I didn't remember feeling this anxiety before a skirmish. But the priest finally emerged and beckoned me to the door.

"Mrs. O'Neill will see you now. I've told her only that you are here at the request of her late son-in-law to deliver a message to his wife. I've left the details to you. Now, come on."

I picked up my bundle. He took my arm and led me to the door; he opened it, and I followed him into the parlor. I quickly removed my hat and straightened my hair. Looking across the room, I met the gaze of a lovely lady, dressed in black, standing resolute and proud, and ready to handle whatever may come. Father Coveney spoke out, "Mrs. O'Neill, I'd like to introduce you to Mr. Thomas Browning, former captain of the 4th Alabama Infantry."

She took a few steps towards me and offered me her hand. I took it gently and bowed to her, "Tom Browning, ma'am, though I regret the circumstances, it is an honor to make your acquaintance."

In a clear Irish voice, she said with a bit of a grin, "It is clear from our speech that neither of us is from around here. I am pleased, I think, to meet you as well, but I will know for sure after I've heard what you have to say to my daughter. Please have a seat there on the sofa. Father Coveney, you too. I will get the coffee."

She went down a hall towards the back of the house and returned with a tea service. She poured three cups of coffee from which we all took a sip. I began to explain my mission. I told her about the skirmish at Appomattox and described the circumstances of her son-in-law's death. As I told her this, tears streamed down her cheeks, so I did not linger over the details. I hurried through the rest of the story - no need for her to hear every twist and turn of the 500 mile walk home and the 500-mile rail excursion to Marion. When I had finished, she thanked me, rose from her armchair, and walked back down the hallway. I could then hear voices coming from the back of the house and then silence. After a few moments, Mrs. O'Neill returned to the room followed by a younger version of herself. She spoke to me, "Mr. Browning, I'd like to introduce to you my daughter, Mrs. Sarah Calahan."

I looked at this young woman dressed in her widow's weeds and bowed, "Mrs. Calahan, please accept my condolences in the death of your husband Lieutenant Colonel Calahan. Perhaps more than anyone else, I can personally attest to his courage, his loyalty to God and country, and his devotion to you."

With tears wetting her cheeks, she half-curtsied and said quietly, "Thank you, Mr. Browning."

Then through her tears and clenched teeth, she stepped toward me, saying, "What am I doing? Thanking you for killing my husband? For taking my baby's father? I hope the fires of Hell -"

"Sarah! Mr. Browning has personal knowledge of the circumstances of Charles's death. I think it would be good for you to hear what he has to say. Even though it will bring you great pain, it might also bring you great comfort. So, please sit here in this chair and I will sit in the other armchair. Mr. Browning, please sit there with Father Coveney, and tell us your story."

I recoiled at the widow's reaction, although I suppose I should have expected it. I hadn't personally shot Colonel Calahan, but I represented those who had. With some reluctance, I carried on:

"Mrs. Calahan, on the morning of April 9th - last year, it was Palm Sunday - I was in command of I Company of the 4th Alabama Infantry at Appomattox Court House, Virginia. We were deployed along a slight ridge near the New Hope Baptist Church. About 7:30 that morning, Federal Troops opposite us began moving against our position. About 8 o'clock, the Union line hit us, and we had a brief but very violent encounter. We repulsed that attack; the Union line fell back, and we began to regroup waiting for the next assault. At that point, my Sergeant, Lucius Petty, came to me and stated that a Union officer had been seriously wounded and wished to speak with me. I followed the Sergeant down the line and found your Colonel Calahan lying with his back against an oak. He was critically injured, with a bullet wound near the center of his chest... and his..." I saw the tears and the despair in her eyes, and I stopped, "Please, Ma'am, must you hear this? I hate to bring you such pain."

Through her sobs, she answered, "Yes, Captain Browning, though it breaks my heart."

"The Colonel was mortally wounded - a chest wound indicating that the lung had been pierced. Despite his condition, he insisted on exchanging pleasantries with me - we introduced ourselves; he complimented my company on its defense of our position, and I commended his gallantry in leading his men from the front. I offered the services of our regimental surgeon, but he politely refused. The Colonel then apologetically asked a favor of me; he showed me this tintype photograph of you and your daughter and asked me to carry it and his other personal effects to you here in Marion. I gave him my word of honor that I would do so."

With those words, I paused, opened my bag, and removed its ingredients. I first handed Mrs. Calahan the tintype - "Your husband was holding this as he breathed his last." As she cried, I gave her the pocketbook, "inside you will find money, his commission papers, and a final letter to you, which you will of course want to read in private." I handed her his watch and chain, and then I unwrapped his sword. "Those are the last of his possessions. More importantly, he asked me to convey to you his last words. To help me do this truthfully, I asked Sergeant Petty to write as the Colonel spoke." I found my wallet and pulled out Sergeant Petty's note.

"Tell my wife that I died a soldier and a Christian, with my face to the enemy and my faith in God. My only regret is leaving her and our precious girl, but... I leave with the promise of our reunion with our Lord in paradise."

"With his last breath, he called your name, 'Sally'."

I handed her the note. And, though she was now sobbing violently, her eyes smiled at this, and, before she turned her back to me, I saw a veil of comfort and well-being descend upon her.

Chapter Ten

April 11-15, 1866, Marion, Ohio

As we rode back to town, I reflected on what had just happened. Without a word, Mrs. O'Neill had put her arm around her daughter's shoulders and led her to the back of the house. Father Coveney had taken my arm and led me back to the horse and buggy. I felt a sense of relief, a bit of sinful pride for having kept my promise, and great sadness at the pain I had caused. Perhaps I would offset that with the comfort her husband's words brought to the widow.

"Penny for your thoughts, Mr. Browning," said the priest.

"My mind is awhirl right now, Father. Here I am - a murderous Alabama Methodist riding on an Ohio road with an Irish Catholic priest - I have no home, no family, no country, and now, no quest. I am adrift in a sea of strangers."

"Tut-tut, how terrible for you, Mr. Browning. But you seem to be forgetting some things: one, the Lord just led you through four years of hell not of His making - I know you didn't come through unscathed, but you did get through. Two, He just led you through a thousand-mile journey to complete a holy mission. So, you may not have all those other things, but you've got God! Or He's got you! And He's a pretty good ally."

I had no reply to that. It was perhaps not what I wanted to hear, but it was great cause for reflection.

We returned the horse and buggy to its owner and then walked back to the parsonage. As we strolled along, my companion spoke out,

"Now that you've seen the widow, what are your plans? Will you be staying with us long? You're welcome to stay here at the church for a few days. There's some work on the grounds you could help me with. My back just won't hold up to digging like it used to. Besides, every Yankee town needs its own Johnny Reb - we could flog you in front of the Courthouse every Saturday at noon."

He chuckled as he said the last. "Better than being hanged," I said.

"No, I guess you'll be getting back to Alabama and home."

"I don't think so, Father - nothing for me there. It's going to take a long time for the South to recover, probably won't be in my lifetime. No, I'm thinking of maybe heading out west - work for a few years until I can perhaps set up a store of my own somewhere. I understand they're building a railroad across the country - maybe I can catch on there."

"There's going to be work everywhere, Tom. The country's just lost more than half a million men. I don't mean to slight the dead, but someone's got to pick up their slack."

"You're right about that. I suppose I could delay my railroad career for a few days to help you dig some holes."

"Good. We'll start in the morning."

And we did. I dug holes for flowers, trees, and fence posts. And I hauled water. I told the father that it was not a good time of the year for moving or planting trees - flowers yes, trees no, but he insisted, saying, "neither the planter nor the waterer counts for anything; only God, who gives growth." I was not going to argue scripture with a man wearing a collar; I continued to dig.

We stopped about 4 in the afternoon - not a moment too soon, for I was about spent - my shirt was drenched with sweat, and I had blisters on both palms. And my lower back ached fiercely. I followed Father Coveney into the parsonage kitchen, where he set a bucket of water on the table. I washed up the best I could, then the father did the same. We then sat down at the table and ate from a basket that had been delivered by one of the ladies of the church. Funny, like St. Nick's elves, our cooks seemed to be invisible, but they were faithful in providing.

We continued our labors the next day, Friday. Father Coveney announced that he would have to spend Saturday hearing confessions and preparing for Sunday services. I asked how I could help him get ready and he told me to use the day as a time of reflection. I wasn't sure of his meaning, but I was glad to not be digging holes. I did work for a while helping two ladies sweep and clean the church sanctuary. We were finished by noon, so I decided to take a walk around town. I strolled down Prospect Street to Center Street then over to the Marion County Courthouse. Like every courthouse I'd ever seen, this one had benches out by the street where old-timers could gather and swap tall tales. I guess because it was Saturday, there was no business being conducted in the Courthouse, and the benches were empty. I sat down on one and began contemplating the events of the past few years. I had come a ways from the quiet, dull but secure life of a storekeeper to the extreme uncertainty of a wayfaring stranger. So much of my life was unsettled - where could I call home, how would I make a living, would I have my own Alice to share my life with, what of my friends - did Ike and Phil and Lucius make it home? These questions vexed me, as did the fundamental moral question of my life - could God forgive me for the killing I had done? I thought it odd that I hadn't really allowed myself to think about these things before now; I suppose this was what the father meant by a time of reflection. I resolved to myself to speak with him, especially about that last matter.

I don't know how long I sat there, but the sun was getting low when I came to myself and walked back to the parsonage. I couldn't find Father Coveney, but I came across some bread and cheese in the kitchen, so I ate a light supper, then retired to my room and read a bit in one of the Father's books - Great Expectations by Mr. Charles Dickens.

When I awoke the next morning, the parsonage was quiet. I did my usual morning preparations and dressed in my cleanest suit. I made my way to the church, where I found the priest, a few altar boys, and lady parishioners preparing for the service. I offered to help but was politely refused by each party, so I quietly settled in the back row and waited for the mass to begin. I had never attended one before, so I didn't know what to expect. There weren't many Catholics in north Alabama; they were plentiful down around Mobile, where the French had first settled, but most of us up on the north end were Baptists or Methodists, with strong opinions on Popery. My father and mother, being rather broad-minded about religion, did not share those anti-Catholic sentiments. So rather than outraged or disgusted at the prospect of participating in a mass, I was mildly uncomfortable but curious.

Shortly before 9 o'clock, Mrs. O'Neill and Mrs. Calahan walked in and, after kneeling and crossing themselves, sat in a row near the front. Between them they shepherded a beautiful little red head with ringlets dangling on her neck. Like mother and grandmother, she was dressed in a dark gray or black dress, but with a show of white lace at the sleeves and collar. All three wore thin black veils that shaded but did not obscure their faces.

The mass began and I soon felt like a fish out of water. Of course, most of the talking and all the singing was in Latin, so I didn't understand a thing. And the constant up and down about wore me out. I noticed that the little Calahan girl seemed right at home - she kneeled at the right time and responded when she was supposed to. I could not help but think about the colonel and what he was missing.

Finally, after what seemed like days, the mass was over, and we all filed out. I was standing off to the side, about to head back to the parsonage, when I heard my name called out. I turned and saw Mrs. O'Neill approaching.

"Mr. Browning, I'm so glad I was able to catch you. I see that you are still with us... that gives me the opportunity to thank you again for your kindness to Charles and my daughter. It was quite a gift to us. Sarah cherishes the letter from Charles. Most of all, she has his last words to warm her heart. Again, thank you for everything. I'm not even sure I should be talking to you - mourning etiquette, you know. But we Irish girls cannot hold our tongues, can we?"

She smiled and walked back to her family. Mrs. Calahan never looked my way.

Chapter Eleven

April 16-Aug 15, 1866, Marion, Ohio

Over the next few days, I continued working with Father Coveney. The blisters were turning into calluses, and the church grounds were taking shape. But I knew it was time for me to move on; I had imposed on the priest long enough. So, I gave myself two days to figure out a plan but come what may I was quitting the parsonage on Friday.

Fortunately, like so many times in my story, fate or destiny or God intervened - this time in the form of Jack Garner. As I was working on a flower bed in front of the church on Thursday, I heard horses and a wagon approaching; I turned to see Mr. Garner pull up his team in front of the church.

"Mr. Browning... hello, I trust your mission was successful? Or have you not attempted it yet?" he shouted out as he climbed down from his seat.

"Mr. Garner, good to see you again... and yes, I completed my mission - visited the widow and handed over her husband's effects. Since doing that, I've been helping Father Coveney with some work around the church. But I think it's about time to move on. How about you, Jack? How's your business?"

"I never thought I would say this, but business is TOO good. Since the end of the war, just about every manufacturer in Ohio is tied up with Reconstruction trade - milling lumber, making tile, and other goods to ship south. I'm hauling 16 hours a day; my family doesn't even know who I am anymore."

"Have you thought about running another wagon?"

"Yes, I have - I've got enough capital saved up to buy another wagon and team, but I don't know anyone I trust enough to drive it." I saw a light come on in his eyes and a grin cross his face. "Unless, of course, you would consider doing the job?"

"Jack, you hardly know me, why would you trust me with such a responsibility?"

"Tom, you traveled more than 500 miles to keep a promise to a dead man. That tells me all I need to know about your character. Now, how'd you like to drive for me?"

"I think I'd like that very much. Could I ride along with you a few days to see how it's done?"

"Sure Tom, it'll take a while to get the new wagon built and a team outfitted, so until that's all ready, you can tag along with me. What's today? Thursday? All right, I'll be coming back through here tomorrow and I'll pick you up around 11 o'clock. We'll get you going, and we'll talk money then, too."

So began my life as a teamster. I soon picked up the tricks of the trade and within two weeks I was taking my own team and wagon on the Columbus-Marysville-Marion run, while Jack kept the Columbus-Delaware-Marion route. Father Coveney let me stay at the parsonage until I found a furnished room in a boarding house near the livery stable where we kept the wagon and team. Thus, having found somewhat permanent lodging, I dashed off a letter to Charles and Alice relating the success of my visit to Mrs. Calahan and describing my new occupation and surroundings.

Life carried on. The transport work was long and hard but rewarding - it was uplifting to deliver much-needed supplies or finished goods, to contribute productively to commerce and community. Jack and I met up once a week in Marion to plan the next week's hauls and settle finances. The church was a convenient meeting place; it also gave me a chance to visit with the priest.

Working the Marysville route took me by the Calahan Orchard every day. By late July, I could see one line of trees was heavy with apples. I didn't know anything about growing fruit, but they looked ready for picking. I said as much to Father Coveney and Jack Garner one Friday. The father nodded:

"Yep, those would be the early ripers - the summer Rambo's, I think they're called. They're ready for picking about the second or third week of August. Mr. Garner, you might get some hauling business out of them - Mrs. O'Neill says they have a bumper crop this year and they have only the one wagon to get them to the cider mill."

Jack liked the idea and suggested I stop by the Calahan orchard and offer our services. So, on the following Monday before going home, I rolled up the lane to the house. To my surprise, the entire family was seated on the front porch, escaping the heat of the house. As I stepped down from the wagon, Mrs. O'Neill rose from her chair and greeted me.

"Mr. Browning, what a pleasant surprise! Please come up on the porch and join us."

"Thank you, ma'am. I'm sorry to disturb you - I know you're still in mourning, but I only wanted to take a moment to discuss a small business matter. I am now driving for Mr. Jack Garner from over at Delaware. Father Coveney said you might be needing some help hauling your apples to the cider mill this year, so I stopped by to offer our services. We would be honored to have your business. Since you are located close to your mill, Mr. Garner authorized me to offer you a preferred rate of four dollars per hundred pounds. If you can use us, you can reach me through Father Coveney - he'll get the message to me. Thank you, and again, I am sorry to interrupt your afternoon."

I started to get back on the wagon, but she stopped me.

"Wait Mr. Browning. You're not disturbing us... yes, we're still in mourning, but it's the second period and we may receive close family and friends if we choose, and I think we'll consider you a friend. Now come on up on the porch and we'll get you a glass of lemonade."

Naturally, I did as she said. I bowed to Mrs. Calahan, "Good afternoon, Ma'am."

She simply nodded her head and silently rose and went into the house.

I turned my gaze to the little red-haired beauty clutching the arm of her mother's empty chair.

"You must be Emily. Father Coveney told me there was a wonderful little angel living here at the orchard. I don't see any wings, but do you think he was speaking of you?'

She refused to speak or even look up, just tried to burrow her chin into her shoulder. I smiled and thought to myself how wonderful it is to be a child.

I turned to find Mrs. O'Neill holding out a glass of lemonade.

"Please excuse my daughter, Captain. It's just too much for her to bear right now. She still can't accept Charles is gone. She's angry at him for dying and at you for living."

"Your daughter owes me no apology, Mrs. O'Neill. Her pain is unfathomable; if her anger at me assuages that suffering, then I will gladly bear it."

I sat down on the edge of the porch and talked with the grandmother and granddaughter for almost an hour. I learned a great deal about the apple business, while trying to make eye contact with little Emily, who apparently could not speak. Finally, I took my leave, promising to return on August 15th to help carry the first harvest to the mill.

As I rode on to the stable and parked the horses and wagon for the night, I thought about my visit with the ladies and how strange but comforting it felt to be in the presence of woman and child. I hadn't experienced the feelings of family and home in five years. Sure, the war had made many of us brothers, but any affection was always tempered by impending death and destruction. I longed for the warmth and security I had just glimpsed at the Calahans.

Chapter Twelve

Aug 15 - Oct 15, 1866, Marion, Ohio

Over the next two weeks, I continued my rounds as usual. As Wednesday the 15th approached, Jack scheduled my pickups for only Monday and Tuesday, so when I arrived at the orchard, I was free to haul apples for the rest of the week. When I pulled up at the house, Mrs. O'Neill and Mrs. Calahan were already outside, both dressed in dark dresses but with the wide sleeves tied around their wrists with bits of ribbon and the skirts falling closely around their limbs. They were not wearing hoops! Both turned red-faced when they saw me appraising their attire. Mrs. Calahan turned away and ignored my presence, but her mother greeted me cheerily,

"Good morning, Mr. Browning. Please excuse our manner of dress. You have caught us in an embarrassing predicament - two of our pickers caught sick overnight so we must flout mourning etiquette and pick apples ourselves."

"Good morning to you Ma'am... your secret is safe with me. And, if you will provide me a basket and a lesson, I will pick as well."

Of course, Mrs. O'Neill politely refused my offer, but I insisted and eventually she relented. I followed the Calahan ladies and three other hired pickers to a row of heavily laden trees and we were soon picking fruit. After filling my first basket, I set it down, walked back to the house and drove the wagon to the row of trees we were harvesting. Although the trees weren't very tall - they were called dwarf trees, after all - we required a ladder to reach the upper branches. We soon developed a process for picking: the other pickers would work the lower halves of the trees reachable from the ground, while I would come behind with the ladder and pick from the upper halves. I attached my basket to my belt with a bit of rope, and then I could pick with both hands. I had almost filled my basket when I missed it with my left-hand toss. The apple fell away, and I heard a subdued but high-pitched "Owwww" from down below. I looked down and saw a surprised Emily looking up at me, with tears in her eyes and rubbing her head. I scurried down the ladder and, without thinking, picked her up in my arms and held her head to my chest.

"Emily, are you all right?"

She wrapped her arms around my neck, placed her cheek against my chest and sniffled softly. While I was trying to console her, a small gray mongrel appeared at my feet, placed his front paws on my knees and looked anxiously up at the little girl.

"Emily, I didn't know you had a friend with you. Who is this? He seems to be worried about you."

She raised her head, rubbing her eyes, and looked down.

"That's Shadow; he's my dog."

"Well, here," I said, setting her down on her feet," you'd better let him see you're all right."

The pup immediately stood up on her and began licking her face. Emily squirmed and sputtered and laughed, trying to keep the dog's tongue out of her mouth - a losing battle. She put her little arms around his neck and hugged him close.

"You're two peas in a pod, aren't you? I see why his name is Shadow. Emily, where are your mother and grandmother? Do they know you're out here? Did you come out to help pick apples?"

"Yes, Mama and Grandmama came to the house to get me. They're coming back out to pick too, but I ran off ahead of them - they stopped to talk to Mr. Robert and Mr. Henry."

As she finished her explanation, the two ladies walked up flustered and flushed.

Mrs. O'Neill began the commotion, "Emily! You shouldn't run off like that! And you shouldn't be out here bothering Mr. Browning!"

"She's not a bother at all, Ma'am. After a little run-in with a falling apple, she introduced me to her partner Shadow. I think we've become great friends."

The little girl grinned shyly until her mother angrily took her hand and pulled her away. The three ladies walked back to the other pickers while I retook my position on the ladder.

With a brief intermission for a lunch of bread and cheese, we picked until dusk, having harvested almost half of the ripened fruit and filling the Calahan's wagon. Mrs. O'Neill kindly allowed me to stable my horses in her barn for the night, and I proposed to sleep in her barn. Of course, she offered me a bed in the house, but I wouldn't hear of staying in the house with two women in mourning. So, I bunked in the barn and woke the next day ready to resume our work.

Thursday and Friday were repeats of Wednesday, so by Friday afternoon we had picked the ripe summer Rambos. Mr. Henry and I drove our wagons to the cider mill, where we helped unload the wagons and then returned to our respective homes.

On Monday, it was business as usual, but on the way home that evening, I stopped by the Calahan Orchard to see if the ladies would need my services again. Mrs. O'Neill greeted me and, while Emily watched me from behind her Grandmama's skirt and Shadow sniffed at my trousers, arranged for me to return on September 20th for the next round of picking.

On the assigned date, I was dutifully present and ready to work. Since all the hired hands were recovered, the ladies weren't required to pick, but they prepared lunch for all. Mrs. O'Neill served it; her daughter stayed in the house. Even though my contract did not really include picking, I preferred staying busy to standing and watching. So, I climbed the ladder again and we resumed where we left off in August. I didn't drop any apples on Emily's head, but I did get to see her and her Shadow at lunch each day. The picking went well; we finished in three days and transported half the harvest to the cider mill and the other half to the Calahan's storage shed. The latter would be sold at market or turned into applesauce.

We repeated this process two weeks later for the Spitzenburgs and the Rome Beauties. These two were the bulk of Calahan's output and it took a full week to pick, haul, and store them all. When we were done, I was surprised at my feelings of sadness - I had quite enjoyed the picking itself, and I would miss playing with Emily. As I settled up business with Mrs. O'Neill, I said my goodbyes to the little girl and her dog and returned to my life as a teamster.

Chapter 13

Oct 16, 1866 - Apr 21, 1867, Marion, Ohio

The hauling business was booming - Mr. Garner and I were on the road six days a week for about twelve hours a day. New industry was sprouting up in the Marion area - a man named Huber was starting up a farm implements factory and Jack had to add a larger wagon to haul iron parts from Columbus to the factory and new hay rakes from the factory to rail. We still met up once a week at St. Mary's to settle our pay and arrange schedules for the next week. Father Coveney was in fine form and busy like us; he was now going over to Bellefontaine once a week to conduct mass at a new church there. I occasionally went to his service on Sunday morning, mostly to get a chance to see Emily. I kept my room at the boarding house and occasionally ventured out to a hotel restaurant for Sunday supper. A time or two, I received a few nasty looks and whispered slurs, but for the most part, the people of Marion treated me no different than the locals. I figured they were as tired of the rancor and violence as I was. Now, we were all just trying to reclaim our lives.

I received a response to my letter to Charles and Alice in Nashville. Seems they had been busy too; Charles informed me that they were expecting an addition to the family about Christmas. I smiled at that news - happy evidence that life does indeed go on.

The weather started turning in late November. I had never experienced an Ohio winter, and I was a bit shocked by the sudden cold, which necessitated a trip to Hickerson's General Store for woolen underwear and a heavy coat. The snow began in earnest in December, but most days it wasn't so heavy that we couldn't haul freight. Mr. Garner, loving Christmas like a child, declared there would be no work on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, or the day after. So, I spent those days helping Father Coveney get St. Mary's ready for Christmas Eve mass, and then I ate Christmas dinner with the priest and a few of his parishioners.

The snow was heavier in January and February, then about half as much in early March. Except for a few days of heavy ice and snow, we were able to work through the winter. By late March, everything was thawing out; for a while, the roads were so slushy, we had to wear our rain slickers against the mud slung from the wheels. By mid-April, the roads were much better and traffic from farm wagons was greatly increased. Marion was bustling and business was good.

Palm Sunday fell on April 14th, and I managed to attend the mass at St. Mary's. I cannot claim high moral motivation for my attendance; I mostly wanted to see little Emily again. I was surprised to see her wearing a white dress and a little white bonnet. Her mother and grandmother were decked out in lavender dresses with white hats and no veils - the first time I'd seen them without. As I looked at Mrs. Calahan's face for the first time, I thought her the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. With her luxuriant red hair tied up at her neck, her green eyes, soft facial features, and porcelain skin, she was breathtaking. And I was thunderstruck. Once the service had ended, I approached her and Mrs. O'Neill. The widow nodded grimly but her mother was more effusive, "Mr. Browning, it's so good to see you. Now that we are receiving company, we would be pleased if you and Father Coveney would visit us some evening for supper. Wait a minute! Next Sunday is Easter. Why don't you and Father come for lunch after Easter mass?"

My tongue was tied. Fortunately, Father Coveney walked up just in time to hear her question.

"It would be our great pleasure to come. Thank you for the gracious invitation."

The priest's response was much more enthusiastic than mine, for I had seen the widow clinch her fists and walk out the door, when she heard her mother's invitation.

I stumbled through the next week, thinking of nothing but the coming Sunday and lunch with Mrs. Calahan. I did manage to get my cargos to the correct destinations. But my mind was not on my work. I didn't know what was happening to me. I really had no experience with the fairer sex. Sure, I had noticed young ladies; before the war, I had often spoken with girls who had come into the store, and I had even done a few reels at local dances. But my parents' death and the onset of war had postponed any romantic endeavors on my part. And now I was sure that no woman would find me an attractive suitor - certainly, not one who blamed me for the death of her husband. So, I would choose to worship from afar. If possible, I would become her friend. If that became unbearable, I would go west.

On Easter Sunday, I was in my usual back row seat. As the Calahan family passed by, I noticed they were accompanied by a smartly dressed young man of perhaps thirty years. He followed them into their pew and sat next to Mrs. O'Neill. I spent the rest of the mass casting furtive glances their way, wondering who this interloper was and what he was doing with my Mrs. Calahan. When I saw him touch her elbow as she exited her pew, I realized the hopeless futility of my romantic musings. She now seemed to have the attention of a handsome, well-to-do gentleman, while I - I was less than nothing to her - a disfigured killer of husbands and fathers.

Of course, my resignation did not prevent me from probing Father Coveney about this new man. As we drove in our borrowed buggy to the Calahan's home, I peppered him with the obvious questions.

"His name is George T. Strong. He's a banker and financier from Cleveland - works for a Mr. Rockefeller over there. He's here in Marion to help Mr. Huber get his plant running - seems Mr. Rockefeller is an investor."

"What did he do in the war?" I asked.

"Nothing. Apparently, his father bought him a substitute. Pretty common for his social circle, so he suffered little ignominy for it. But around here, most folks saw it as privileged cowardice. So, to my mind, you are twice the man as Mr. Armstrong, even though you fought for the wrong side. But there's the rub - your courage gains you no advantage; your men killed Charles Calahan."

"Advantage in what, Father?"

"Why, the contest for Mrs. Calahan's hand, of course."

This flustered me to no end, so I responded a bit hotly,

"I was not aware of any such contest. And if it indeed exists, I am certainly not a contestant!"

"Oh, I've seen the way you look at her. And who's to blame you? She's a handsome woman! And she'll still be 20 years from now - just look at the mother. God forgive me, if I weren't wearing this collar, I'd set my cap for that one!"

"Father Coveney!" I exclaimed at his confession.

"What? Do I not have eyes? Or a nose? Or a heart? Do I not bleed? I am a man like you, in all respects. But I have given myself to God and the Church, and like Moses, I may look at the Promised Land, but I may not touch."

Those blue eyes twinkled while he cackled and stuck a stubby pipe in his mouth. As we slowed to turn onto the orchard lane, he quietly said,

"Now, be careful here to avoid talk of the war. Shouldn't be too difficult - we know that Mr. Strong will probably be wary of the subject, and you don't want to remind the widow of your part in it. So, if we're to make any headway here, you must mind your tongue and keep your wits about you."

"What do you mean about making headway? I've told you, Father, I'm not a proper suitor for Mrs. Calahan, so please make no overtures on my part."

"Nonsense, boy. In the absence of a proper matchmaker, I am the logical choice to perform that role and I officially, just between you and me, take up the mantle today."

I was about to make my indignant rebuttal when we came to an abrupt halt at the Calahan front door.

The Easter meal was anticlimactic. The ladies set a fine table with a ham, potatoes, fried apples, biscuits, and a pie and a cake. Emily was delightful company. Conversation was light and indeed avoided the war. And, Mr. Strong, my putative villain, turned out to be a kind and engaging young man, whom I could not bring myself to hate, even a little bit.

As we drove back to town, I felt again that longing for the love and comfort of a home and family, but my heart and head told me this was impossible for me. Understandably, Sarah Calahan would never forgive me for the death of her husband. I sighed deeply. Father Coveney took note.

"What was that, Tom? More wallowing?"

"Yes, Father, I suppose so. I cannot lie to a priest, so I must admit to a certain affection for Mrs. Calahan. But I dare not humor such feelings when I know their object is unattainable. She could never look favorably upon this disfigured face."

"What is this blathering on and on about your repulsive appearance? I'll admit you're no Adonis, but you're no gargoyle, either, at least, not enough to spook the horses. But, coming to that - only good breeding has kept me from asking until now - how did you get those scars?"

"Chickamauga. Minie ball hit me here on the cheek below the left eye and passed on out the right temple. That's why I have this huge dimple on the left and the crater on the right. Darndest thing... the surgeon said it was luck that I was alive, but it was a miracle that I could still see out of that eye. They took me to a convalescent home in Marietta. Two months later I was back with the company in Virginia. I still have monstrous headaches from time to time."

"Small wonder! You've taken a bullet through the head. I'll just have to be more patient with your foolishness, I guess. Your brain is scrambled like a skillet of eggs."

"Thanks for your understanding, Father."

"You're most welcome, my addle-pated friend."

Chapter 14

Apr 22, 1867 - April 21, 1868, Marion, Ohio

Life went on. The summer of '67 was a busy one - Mr. Garner now had four wagons rolling six, sometimes seven days a week. Occasionally, Mrs. O'Neill would invite Father Coveney and me out to the orchard for Sunday lunch. And I would see the family at Sunday mass. Emily was growing at an alarming rate and was still as lovely and pleasant as ever. Mr. Strong was still pursuing Mrs. Calahan. I continued to worship from a distance. In our few and brief encounters, she would, at least, now acknowledge my presence with a nod and a curt "Mr. Browning". My heart ached, but my head saw the justice of her actions.

From August through October, I helped the Calahan's harvest and haul their apples, then Jack and I settled in to cope with another Ohio winter, hauling when the weather allowed. After Christmas, I received another letter from Charles announcing the arrival of Charles Thomas Douglass - named for his father and me. Through January and February, we worked sporadically, but by the March thaw, we were back to full speed.

Another Palm Sunday arrived, and Mrs. O'Neill once again invited us to Easter lunch. On the next Sunday, the good father and I gladly drove the two miles to the Calahan home. Once again, the meal was sumptuous, the company delightful, and the need to belong overwhelming. As we were about to enjoy dessert, Mr. Strong tapped his spoon on the side of his glass, pushed back his chair, and stood. Clearing his throat and raising his glass, he said,

"Here in the presence of friends and loved ones, I wish to announce that Mrs. Calahan - Sarah, has agreed to do me the honor of becoming my wife. I am not deserving of this honor. I still cannot believe that she accepted my proposal but thank God that she did. I will spend the rest of my days trying to be worthy of her and precious Emily. I wanted you to share in our happiness. To Sarah and Emily."

We all joined in his toast. Though at first his announcement felt like a punch in the stomach, my sense of loss quickly changed into a strange feeling of resignation and relief. I no longer had to torture myself with romantic fancies of unrequited love. I could instead accept the reality of my situation and be happy for Sarah, George, and Emily. After all, when you love someone, it's their happiness that matters.

We all congratulated the happy couple. I warmly shook Strong's hand, and when Sarah surprisingly offered hers, I took it and said,

"Mrs. Calahan, I am so glad for you. You and Emily are most deserving of this new-found happiness. I say to you and Mr. Strong, if I may ever be of service to you, please call upon me."

I thought her voice and face somewhat softer when she replied, "Thank you, Mr. Browning."

The ride back to town was a bit subdued. Finally, Father Coveney spoke,

"Are you all right, Tom?"

"Yes, Father, strangely, I am. He's a good man - not just a handsome man with prospects and money, but a man of character. He'll be a good husband and father. I'm happy for her and Emily. Besides, I didn't come to Ohio to find a wife. I came to honor a promise. I asked God to help with that and He did. Expecting more would be greedy and ungrateful."

He nodded,

"If you're not careful, Tom, you'll become a wise man."

The next few days were extremely busy. We were now running four wagons and Jack was considering adding another. When we all met up on Friday, he said that we had hauled more freight that week than ever before.

On the following Monday, I had just returned from the day's hauling, when Father Coveney came banging on my boardinghouse room door. He was clearly in a bother- all red faced and excited.

"Tom, the Calahans need our help. The county agent got a telegram from someone down at the college in Columbus, who himself had gotten a wire from someone out northeast of here. They're saying that a late frost is coming, and it'll probably be blowing in here tomorrow night. The apple trees are at the green bud stage now. A frost right now would kill them."

"That's terrible, Father. But what can we do about it?"

"First we have to get word to the Orchard and then we'll probably need to stay out there and help them set out the hay bales in the morning."

"Hay bales? What are they for?"

"About the only way growers can protect the trees from frost is to either wet them down from above or use smudge pots. Mrs. Calahan's got no irrigation system and no smudge pots, so she'll have to use hay bales. You wet them down a bit with water, then put a little coal oil on them, then set a match to them. The bales smolder for quite a long time. The smoke protects the buds."

"We need to go help. We'll take your wagon so we can help move the bales around. So, let's go."

We hurried to the livery stable, harnessed the horses, and headed out for the orchard. It was almost dark, when we got there. Mrs. O'Neill received Father Coveney's news in her usual calm manner and began planning the next day's work.

"Tom, please take your wagon down the road to Robert's farm and tell him to be here at first light to set out the bales. Tell him to bring Henry with him - and Henry's boy, too. While you're gone, I'll make pallets for you and the father in the parlor. You'll stay here tonight so we can get a quick start in the morning."

Mrs. O'Neill lit me a lantern and I set out like Paul Revere to notify Robert and Henry. When I returned an hour later, I found the priest snoring in the parlor. I plopped down on the pile of blankets laid out by Mrs. O'Neill and soon went off to sleep.

I awoke to a bustling house. Henry, Robert, and Henry's son Will were talking with Father Coveney and Mrs. O'Neill on the front porch. While we were getting our instructions, George Strong joined us. Sarah would stay in the house to keep Emily, while the seven of us would set out the bales. Henry manned the orchard's wagon, and I took mine and we rolled over to the stock barn and began throwing bales from the hayloft into the wagon beds. Mrs. O'Neill and Will remained in the wagons and arranged the bales. When we had filled both wagons, we drove to the edge of the orchard and began to set out the bales - Henry's wagon in the clockwise direction and mine in the other. We spaced them roughly five or six feet apart.

By noon, we had completed this task, and everyone breathed a little easier, since we now had plenty of time to gather the water and fuel to create the smoke. We stopped and ate a light lunch prepared by Mrs. Calahan, then went back to work. Henry and I each carried three barrels of water on our wagons. Robert came up with two five-gallon cans of coal oil, so we were ready. The wind was beginning to pick up some, and the air was feeling cooler. Mrs. O'Neill said that we would start soaking the bales at about four o'clock, so that we would have them burning by 4:30 or 5:00 - a little before dark.

When the time came, we set to dousing and lighting the hay. By five o'clock, our eyes were watering from the smoke generated by the burning bales. The wind had increased steadily, so that we were all now holding onto our hats. It had switched directions too and was now coming from the northeast, bringing the cold with it. We were standing on the lawn between the house and the apple barn to the southwest. After fifteen minutes or so watching the smoke, Mrs. O'Neill suggested we head inside for the warm fire. Emily had joined us and was complaining with the cold. We had turned to go in, when the wind gusted, and I saw several clumps of burning hay take wing and whirligig across the sky. I paid no more attention but continued to walk toward the house. About halfway there, I stopped and turned to look at the bales once more. In the growing darkness, I saw flickering flames inside the large barn door opening. Instinctively, I shouted, "Fire", and began walking hurriedly toward the apple barn. I heard the others following behind me. Mrs. O'Neill yelled out for Robert and Henry to bring the water barrels and buckets.

As I watched, the fire raced up the barn wall and immediately ignited the straw bed under the stored apples. The loft floor soon was ablaze and began raining fire down on the fruit below. From inside the barn came a barrage of barking and howling.

"Shadow!" Emily screamed and, too quick for her grasping grandmother, tore out across the wagon path to the barn.

"Emily, no! Stop!" I heard over my shoulder, as Mrs. Calahan ran towards us, followed by Mr. Strong and Father Coveney. As Strong ran past me towards the barn, I grabbed his arm and violently pulled him back to the stricken ladies.

"Get them back out of the way! I'll get her!"

I threw him down and turned to see the barn fully in flames. The tiny figure of Emily was just disappearing into the thick smoke rolling out the large door opening. I could see the flames from the loft floor had already reached the lintel. If that went, the front wall and roof would collapse on the child.

I was at the door in a flash. I stopped only to pull the lapel of my coat over my mouth and nose, then I rushed in. Bending over as close to the ground as I could get, I went ahead, calling out Emily's name over and over. About halfway down the center aisle, I found her. She was lying listless on her side, clutching her lifeless gray friend. I snatched them up and turned to the door. I had perhaps 30 feet to go and I could see that the lintel and wall were completely ablaze. The whole structure groaned and crackled as it rained hellfire from above. I threw up a quick prayer, "God give me strength!" and I ran faster than I had ever run. As I reached the door, I heard the lintel give out with a boom. With all my strength, I flung Emily and her dog out the door. As I released them, the flaming lintel, like a pendulum, knocked me off my feet, while the front wall collapsed upon me. I was still conscious, and aware that my right coat sleeve was afire. I slapped frantically at the flames, as they climbed up to my collar. My legs were pinned, so I could not roll over. The black smoke had me choking and coughing: I was running out of breath and about to give up. Then, someone grabbed my arms and dragged me roughly out of the doorway and onto the lawn, smothering me with blankets to extinguish my clothes.

I looked up into the eyes of George Strong and Sarah Calahan. "Emily, Emily?" I croaked out.

"She's fine, Tom. She breathed a little smoke, and she's scared to death. If you listen, you can hear her crying."

"Shadow?"

"He's fine, too. If you listen, you can hear him barking."

I turned my head towards the house and listened. Sure enough, I heard that beautiful symphony of crying child and whimpering dog.

"Oh, thank God, thank God", I muttered. "George, George, fetch Father Coveney for me, will you please?"

"I'm right here, Tom", the Father said as he walked up next to George.

"Father, I fear my time has come. Will you hear my confession?

"Och, I knew I'd make a good Catholic out of you someday. Of course, I'll hear It; although I doubt a good man like you has much to confess."

I tried to laugh but erupted into a fit of coughing. When it subsided, Mrs. Calahan kneeled by my side and took my hand. As her tears fell on my face, she spoke softly to me,

"Captain Browning, it is I who needs to confess. On the day we met, I acted so horribly to you, when you were doing me an immeasurable service. Since that day I have been cold and unkind. And now, today, you have saved my daughter- doing me the greatest service of all. Please forgive me, Tom. I'll thank God every day for sending you to us here."

"Oh, Sarah, there's nothing to forgive. You suffered such a great loss; my modest service was poor recompense. And today? Emily's future is payment enough. God be with her always. "

I coughed and shook for what seemed like hours, but I'm sure were only a couple of minutes. Remarkably, I felt little physical pain from my burned face and hands. But I felt my body and spirit waning.

"Father?" He kneeled down next to my head and made the sign of the cross.

"In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,"

"Bless me father, for I have sinned. I bear the mark of Cain, for I have slain my brothers - more than I can count. And for no good reason. You know, sometimes at night, I see their faces... for these, and all my sins, I am truly sorry."

It was getting harder to find words: my breath was leaving me. "Hurry, Father," I whispered.

"Don't fret, Tom. There's still time. Lord Jesus, holy and compassionate, forgive Tom his sins. By dying you unlocked the gates of life for those who believe in you. Do not let our brother be parted from you, and by your glorious power, give him light, joy and peace in heaven, where you live and reign forever and ever. Amen."

I exhaled and relaxed - I had been holding my breath in fear he wouldn't finish. I looked into his sparkling eyes and smiled. He raised his hand above my head, and continued,

"I commend you, my dear brother, to Almighty God, and entrust you to your Creator. May you return to him who formed you from the dust of the earth. May holy Mary, the angels and all the saints come to meet you as you go forth from this life. May Christ, the true Shepherd, acknowledge you as one of his flock. May he forgive all of your sins and set you among those he has chosen. Amen."

I could barely whisper, "Thank you, Father."

His face became blurry, and my mind began to wander. I thought of Phil Hilliard's foot, my horse Sandy, Lucius Petty - I had heard nothing from Lucius - I saw Charles and Alice and their baby. I saw my mother and father. Finally, my mind settled on a tall young woman with red curls falling on her shoulders. She was gently swaying, rocking a baby in her arms, while another curly redhead sat at her feet. I smiled.

"Sally", I whispered.