Healing Grace (2 page)

“Mr. Emerson!” Sadie Timmons called out as she pushed through the kitchen door. Her arms were loaded with foodstuffs and other supplies she’d brought from town. Hastily, lest she drop something, she set them on the table. Or tried to.

The burlap sack of potatoes tipped over and, because the drawstring wasn’t pulled tight, the whole lot went rolling. Scrambling, Sadie attempted to prevent the potatoes from tumbling off the table, but she didn’t have enough hands. Several landed with successive thumps, and then went off in every direction across the floorboards.

“Dagnabbit!” she screeched.

Only after she’d gathered them up and securely righted the satchel, did it occur to her that she hadn’t heard Mr. Emerson’s customary hail, “That you, Sadie girl?” He didn’t come waddling into the kitchen, rubbing his hands together, spouting, “What scrumptious meal are you going to prepare for me today?”

And that was just odd.

Sadie was Luther’s only servant. The farmlands that were part of his property were now rented out, so Luther didn’t need anyone to tend them. His only need was someone to take care of the house, the handful of barn animals and him. Sadie cleaned, cooked, did laundry and fed chickens. But these chores didn’t take more than a few hours. Most of her time with Mr. Emerson was spent in the parlor reading to him, or listening as he droned on about his family. He liked to talk about his grandchildren, and he liked to tell stories about his own children when they were young.

Sadie knew Mr. Emerson’s children, Mr. Trent and Miss Jessica well. Sadie’s father, Wally was the stable foreman at Mr. Trent’s home, Grace Manor. Sadie lived at Grace Manor with her daddy in one of the houses provided for Grace Manor’s servants.

Mr. Trent was always nice to her, so Sadie liked him just fine, but between the two of Mr. Emerson’s offspring, her true affinity was with Miss Jessica. If it weren’t for Miss Jessica, Sadie wouldn’t know how to read. She wouldn’t have had an education at all. When Sadie was twelve years old, Miss Jessica had started a school for colored children, and Sadie had been a star pupil.

Miss Jessica and her husband didn’t live in Tennessee any longer, but they came to visit every now and then. Sadie looked forward to the visits, even though Miss Jessica was always pestering her about applying to the teacher’s college in Washington. Sadie had thought about it. She’d thought about it a lot, but wasn’t ready. And there was no reason to pack up and leave. The work she did was monotonous and Mr. Emerson could be a terrible jabberjaw, but her job was easy and she was well paid. Besides, she was comfortable here.

Wondering again why Mr. Emerson hadn’t made an appearance, Sadie meandered through the house, stopping briefly to peek into the parlor and the study. Mr. Emerson wasn’t in either room. She was on her way upstairs, assuming he might be napping, when the hackles on the back of her neck began to prickle. Mr. Emerson didn’t take naps upstairs. If he wanted to rest during the day, he did so on the chaise in the parlor.

Sadie wasn’t surprised to find the bedroom empty. The bed was unmade, but that was expected. It had probably been in the same disarray the whole weekend. The last time she’d been by was Friday.

It occurred to her that Mr. Emerson might be at Grace Manor. Sometimes he stayed the night, which would account for his absence. But she would have known if he were there. His horse would have been in the stable this morning, and it wasn’t. The last time Mr. Emerson had been at Grace Manor was Friday evening and he’d gone home after his visit.

The next place Sadie decided to check was the barn. The wagon she’d driven to and from town was in the yard with the horse still hitched, something she needed to take care of, but for now she sauntered on past. The cow and three goats were in their pens, as always, but Mr. Emerson’s mare wasn’t. That meant he was out, except Mr. Emerson rarely went out this early.

As she stepped back into the yard, Sadie heard a whinny. It hadn’t come from the hitched horse and wasn’t close. To shield her view from blinding morning sunlight she had to hold her hand up. There, in the east field, was Mr. Emerson’s old mare, and she was saddled.

The hackles on Sadie’s neck prickled again, worse this time. “Mr. Emerson! Mr. Emerson! Are you out here somewhere?” she called, but somehow knew he wouldn’t answer.

For a moment, she fidgeted, unsure of what to do. Glad that she hadn’t yet unhitched the wagon, Sadie climbed up onto the bench and set out. She would ask her father. Wally would have a solution. He always did.

Keeping at a good clip, she was soon on the isolated stretch of road that would take her to Grace Manor. Ahead of her, she noticed what looked like buzzards circling. She hadn’t seen them on her way in, but then again, because she’d come from town and not directly from Grace Manor, she’d traveled a different route.

Moments later, she was almost directly under the circling birds. The grass on either side of the road was tall, and as her eyes scoured it—looking for what, she didn’t know exactly—she noticed an area, not far off the shoulder, that appeared as if somebody had punched a hole in it. At the same time she smelled the rank odor—the stench of death.

The last thing Sadie wanted to do was pull over and look. She wanted to ride right on past, go straight to her daddy and let him come back to find out what was lying in the flattened grass. It could be a deer, or a dog, or another animal that had somehow met its demise. But even as these thoughts came to her, Sadie knew she was wrong.

Her throat was tight as she pulled the brake and jumped down. It was even more clogged as she pushed into the waist-high grass. Mr. Emerson’s heart had probably given out. Old hearts did that. When it happened, he’d been on his way home from Grace Manor, which meant he’d been lying there, beside the road, for several days. Sadie knew before she saw the body that Mr. Emerson would be dead. What she didn’t expect was the blood.

Mr. Emerson was covered in it—his jacket, waistcoat and shirt—and more was pooled on the ground around him. It wasn’t bright red, like fresh blood would have been. It was more a burnished brown, but that was because time and the sun had dried it.

Covering her mouth with both hands, Sadie spun away. It was all she could do to keep the bile that rose in her gut from coming up. Tears sprang to her eyes as she stood there, bent over. All she could think was that an animal had gotten to him. That’s why Mr. Emerson was bloody. She didn’t want to look again. More than anything in the world, she didn’t want to.

But she did look, this time forcing her eyes past all that blood, to Mr. Emerson’s face. His expression wasn’t distressed. In fact, it appeared he was merely sleeping. Under her breath she whispered, “Poor Mr. Emerson. Poor, poor Mr. Emerson.”

There was nothing Sadie could do. She wasn’t strong enough to gather Mr. Emerson up and hoist him into the wagon. She would have to get her father. And Mr. Trent. Mr. Trent would be upset. So would Miss Emily and the children. Those dear little ones adored their grandpa.

Sadie was about to turn away, when something near Mr. Emerson’s out-flung arm caught her eye. Pebbles had been neatly stacked on top of what looked like a scrap of parchment. Someone had set the stones deliberately. They’d done it to keep the wind from whisking the paper away.

Carefully Sadie stepped closer, around Mr. Emerson’s legs, and reached down to pluck the parchment from under the pebbles. The bloody streaks on it weren’t what caused her to instantly drop it.

Caught by the breeze, the paper fluttered back and forth over the long grass, then skittered down and landed on Mr. Emerson’s crimson-coated chest. The words written there were in view, as if the paper itself wanted to ensure its message wouldn’t be missed.

We don’t like traitors.

K.K.K.

The colonel’s office was large, with its dark paneled walls and polished floorboards. Burgundy drapes had been drawn to block out the heat of the afternoon sun. Dominating one side of the room was a desk, as deeply stained as the walls, and messily piled high with papers and books, inkwells and writing implements, and several coffee cups.

As the colonel’s adjutant, Lieutenant Sam Murphy slipped silently through the door, his first thought was that it was good he was back. He’d only taken ten days’ leave and already the colonel’s desk was in utter disarray.

The formidable man himself was in the middle of the room, in process of circling two at-attention officer candidates.

“I could have your dishonorable discharge for this. Is that what you want?” the colonel said sternly as he stopped in front of the redheaded one. The soldier was at least half a foot shorter than the colonel. Both cadets were. Then again, everybody was shorter than the colonel.

“No, sir!” the redhead barked.

“And you, James?” the colonel side-stepped to glare down at the dark-haired one.

“No, sir!” James exclaimed.

The colonel’s eyes narrowed. “Whose idea was it?”

“Mine, sir,” the redhead spoke up.

“Is that right, James?” The colonel’s glower remained fixed on the second cadet.

“No, sir.”

“No? So, if this breach of the honor code wasn’t Harrison’s idea, then it was yours, James?” the colonel intoned.

“It was mine, sir,” Harrison, the redhead, cut in. “James had nothing to do with it.”

“Is that correct, James?”

“No, sir!”

“Lying is a disgrace to you, your service and your country. Are you
lying
to me?”

“No, sir!” James repeated.

“No, sir,” the colonel mimicked. “James, are you capable of saying anything besides ‘No, sir’?”

“No, sir!”

Abruptly the colonel turned away. The cadets didn’t see, but Sam did—the smirk that curled the corner of the powerful man’s mouth. Sam had to bite his own lip to keep from chuckling. Briefly the colonel caught his adjutant’s eye and nodded in silent greeting, then turned on his heel—a perfectly executed about-face—walked around the desk and lowered his tall frame to the chair. He picked up a small grouping of papers from an unruly pile and absently intoned, “You will both report to Sergeant Duncan at zero five hundred tomorrow. Dismissed.”

Sam didn’t need the details of the cadets’ infraction to know the unpleasant tasks Sergeant Duncan would dole out, and he didn’t need to be told Sergeant Duncan had been here, in the colonel’s office, discussing the disciplinary action long before the cadets had been summoned.

In unison the two young soldiers saluted. Their about-faces as they turned to leave, were not nearly as crisp as the colonel’s. Just before they passed Sam, the colonel’s voice rose again.

“Do you understand why I’ve chosen to allow you to remain at this institution?”

The cadets’ heels clicked as they faced their superior once more, and James said, “No, sir.”

The colonel rose, a single fluid movement. The way he shrewdly eyed the students gave away none of the humor that infused him, but Sam knew the colonel well, and he knew, beneath that imposing exterior, his boss was laughing. It was the reason he’d returned to his chair, so the cadets wouldn’t see. Whatever prank they’d pulled was probably a good one.

“Harrison, let’s say you and James are in the thick of battle…” the colonel went on describing a potentially deadly maneuver, one that would almost guarantee the death of one man over the other. He went on to detail a single possible plan of escape, then completed the discourse by pointedly stating, “The enemy is approaching. There is no time. Harrison, what will you do?”

“Cover James, sir,” Harrison said.

“And James, what will you do?”

“Cover Harrison, sir.”

“Do you understand now why I’ve chosen not to demand your discharge?” the colonel asked.

“Yes, sir,” Harrison said.

“No, sir,” James said at the same time, then followed it up with a hasty, “I mean, yes, sir.”

“James, your buckle needs to be polished,” the colonel said. “Go! Enough of my time has been wasted today.”

The young soldiers headed out and Sam eased the door closed behind them. He expected, when he turned around, to find the colonel slouched in his chair, most likely rolling his eyes and grinning, and he expected the colonel to intone something like, “Sam, you’re never going to believe what those two did,” or more likely, “Sam, you’re not supposed to be back until tomorrow. What are you doing here?”

But the colonel didn’t say either of those things. He was in his chair, but he wasn’t slouched and he wasn’t grinning. His jaw was tight, his nostrils flared, and his eyes were squinted and unfocused. Sam’s smile withered in an instant. Since being appointed adjutant three years ago, many times Sam had witnessed the colonel overcome by this bizarre affliction.

Sam didn’t know what caused it or when it had begun. He didn’t know all of the colonel’s history, but he knew a lot of it. He knew the colonel had fought for the confederacy during the war. Back then, the colonel didn’t have the affliction. After the war, he’d been enmeshed in the Indian conflicts out west. By the time Sam had joined the service and moved up in rank, the colonel’s reputation as a brilliant military strategist was well known amongst army circles. It was because of this that the colonel had subsequently been offered a position as an instructor at West Point.

It was at that esteemed institution that Sam and the colonel’s paths crossed for the second time. Sam hadn’t thought the colonel would remember him. The last time he’d seen the colonel, Sam had been a scrawny runaway following a confederate regiment—the colonel’s regiment. Thanks to the colonel, Sam had become one of the battalion’s drummer boys. That, however, was a long time ago.

After the war, Sam returned home, but he’d never forgotten the officer who had taken him under his wing. The colonel’s influence was, in part, why Sam had decided to dedicate his life to the army. And he’d done well. He’d been handpicked to attend the special training course at West Point.

He and the rest of the selected students had already been seated in the classroom, awaiting the instructor. The name shown on the itinerary wasn’t Colonel Etienne Grace, yet Colonel Grace was the man who strode up the aisle to stand at the front of the room. Sam hadn’t needed to see the wavy dark hair, the long, pronounced nose, the firm cheekbones and jaw that gave way to dimple lines, or the brown eyes accented by arched brows, to recognize the colonel. Sam knew the tall, broad-shouldered carriage and assertive gait before the colonel even turned to face them.

Colonel Grace was without question an impressive figure, especially when fitted in dress uniform, complete with epaulets, burgundy sash and broadsword. That day at West Point the numerous medals pinned to his breast only enhanced the striking image he presented.

The colonel introduced himself, explained the change in instructors and welcomed the class. Then, much to Sam’s surprise—and embarrassment—the colonel looked directly at him and said, “I see you’ve turned out for the better,
Lieutenant
Murphy.”

Not long thereafter, the colonel was offered a promotion. The army wanted him to take over as superintendent of the military academy in Arlington, Virginia. And Sam, no doubt at the colonel’s request, had been asked if he’d consider accompanying the colonel, as adjutant.

Being the colonel’s adjutant came with plenty of benefits. There was no question the colonel was well respected by both his superiors and subordinates. From a supervisory perspective, he treated the instructors and recruits firmly but fairly, and Sam had been impressed right off by how the colonel made a point to know each of the cadets by name. When discipline was needed, it wasn’t unheard of for the rules to be bent, as he’d just done for Cadets Harrison and James. What others didn’t see, that Sam had to deal with daily, was the colonel’s unpredictability.

Even though the colonel could be slow to anger, it wasn’t a good idea to push him. Early on, Sam had learned that the hard way. The colonel’s aggressive drive when pressed with a project was another thing that could send Sam into a spiral of anxiety. The flipside was that the colonel liked to tease and make jokes. Not a day went by that at one point or another Sam wasn’t laughing. What this meant was that the colonel was either grinning or scowling, but rarely anything between. And then, there was
the affliction
.

The episodes came on at random, and when they struck, it was as if the colonel had fallen into a trance. He couldn’t communicate, and didn’t seem to know where or even who he was. And there was no telling what strange and scary things he might do. Sam had seen him grab things and blindly throw them. He’d seen the colonel clutch his head, as if he wanted to crush his skull between his own hands. Either that, or rip patches of hair out by the roots. Sam had heard the colonel’s wretched wails and indecipherable words, some of which were spoken in French. The colonel’s mother was French.

Sam also knew that if he didn’t bring the colonel out of it quickly, the powerful man could fall even further into the depraved state. In a tone louder than normal, he barked, “Colonel! Colonel Grace!”

Sometimes simply addressing him worked. Today it didn’t.

Sam’s next attempt was to clap loudly. He did so several times in rapid succession. As he watched the colonel flinch and close his eyes, Sam was reminded of his theory. He’d never mentioned it to anyone, and out of loyalty, never would. Nevertheless, every facet of the colonel’s fanatical character declared Sam’s theory to be accurate: Colonel Etienne Grace was slowly going insane.

Because clapping yielded no result, Sam pushed a stack of papers on the desk—normally the colonel’s desk was clean enough that he wouldn’t need to do this—then slapped the hard wood, once, twice, and finally gave it a jarring thump, a thump hard enough to hurt his own hand.

“What!” the colonel growled as his head snapped up.

The ferocity of his superior’s expression was enough to fell men, but Sam was used to it. Besides, he was too busy clenching and unclenching his hand behind his back to squelch the sting. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat and asked, “Would you like coffee, sir?”

The colonel’s features softened into a grin. “Do you think we could drum up some lemonade? It’s too hot for coffee.” He stuck a finger into his high, tight collar and tugged, adding, “Get me out from under these piles and we might have time to take an evening dip in the swimming hole.”

This was another side of the colonel—the divergent, lazy side. When the work was done, the colonel did what he wanted, even if the activity might result in reprimand. Although he took such risks frequently, Sam had never seen him called out. Of course, Sam had quite a few memories of the colonel’s secret jaunts to the swimming hole.

It was there that Sam had discovered the numerous scars the colonel bore. From them Sam had figured out the colonel had taken musket balls twice, once in his right shoulder, and the second on his left side just above the hip. The wound that Sam found the most intriguing though, was the long gash that crisscrossed the front of the colonel’s body from just above his left nipple to a point level with his belly button on the far right side. It looked like the colonel had been sliced open with a saber.

These scars, however, were the newer ones, the ones obtained after the war—the ones Sam believed were at the core of the affliction. The rest of the marks riddling the colonel’s magnificent frame had been acquired during or before the war. Sam already knew about those.

Thoughts of leisure time soaking in cool refreshing water had Sam scurrying to clear away the colonel’s used coffee cups and produce the requested lemonade. Soon enough he was settled in his seat at one end of the colonel’s desk, digging in.

They were barely a third of the way through the first stack, when in between signing the documents Sam handed over, the colonel asked casually, “Why did you come back today? You weren’t due back until tomorrow.”

“I was bored.” Sam shrugged. He’d known this response would get a rise out of the colonel. He waited for the colonel’s laughter to fade, to say, “I wanted to make sure everything’s ready for the graduation ceremony tomorrow.”

“You already took care of that. Before you left.” The colonel smirked, then asked, “Tell me about your trip. How’d it go? What did you do?”

Sam didn’t look up. “Didn’t do much. Here, sir. You need to read this, and we need to reply.”

“I did read it. While you were gone. It’s not urgent. Put it in the ‘later’ pile. At least tell me where you went and who you saw.”

Sam glanced at the colonel, but ducked his eyes quickly. “Decided to stay in Washington for a couple days. Went to the theatre a few times. Drank too much at the tavern.”

The colonel chuckled, then soberly asked, “I thought you were taking the train to Tennessee? To visit your brothers and sisters?”

Sam’s pulse sped up. Just as he knew a lot about the colonel, the colonel knew a lot about him. Since accepting the appointment as the colonel’s adjutant, not once had Sam mentioned his boyhood home. He couldn’t, and not solely because his dedication to the colonel might be questioned.