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“Wonderful?” he repeated. “Hardly. Unfortunate, I would say.”
Unfortunate? What kind of response was that? Trudy, though had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Mr. Carpenter was a master with words when he put them on paper, not so always when addressing others. “You mean it’s unfortunate that your best sketch artist will now be limited in her newspaper duties?” Elizabeth and David made a formidable team, with him writing engaging stories and her sketching the images that brought them to life.
“No,” he said. “I was referring to the other matter. Only a foolish man would bring a child into this world.”
Trudy had gasped. “You can’t be serious?”
“I assure you, I am completely serious. This world is a dangerous, deadly place, Miss Martin. Apparently you’ve yet to realize that.”
Call her naive, for she knew she had a tendency to lean in that direction, but she’d seen her share of suffering. She told him so. Her father had died when she was but a child. Her brother had gone to war and then was left to rot in a Federal prison. She knew life had its struggles, but not all of it was bad. Families, children were the hope of the future, the promise of a better tomorrow.
Mr. Carpenter, however, thought just the opposite. “I’ll never bring children into this world.”
Pain, disappointment raked her heart, for she had felt all her aspirations concerning him going up in smoke. “Then you’ll never wed?”
“I’m wed to my paper,” he explained. “I’m committed to justice and reform. If you are going to work for me then you had better be likewise committed and put any other ideas you have out of your mind.”
Her sister, Beth, had teased her by insisting that Trudy’s interest in her employer had been written all over her face as clearly as a typeset page—a charge Trudy had denied. Apparently Mr. Carpenter, though, had read that news. Why else would he have spoken so adamantly about remaining an unmarried man?
Her embarrassment in revealing her feelings as well as her disappointment had been overwhelming. She wanted children. She wanted a home. As handsome, as courageous and committed to the truth as Peter Carpenter was, he was not the man for her.
By the time Trudy had learned this news, however, she had already convinced David to stay in Baltimore, and had promised the Mackays that she would assist them in his place. Whatever discomfort she felt concerning Mr. Carpenter and he her, they would simply have to overlook. She would not go back on her word. The Mackays were counting on her but admittedly, in this moment, she wondered how much help she could actually be to them.
The men were drawing closer. “We heard yun’s got food,” one of them shouted. “That true?”
“Aye, ’tis so,” Dr. Mackay called back. “Meet us at the church in Forest Glade at one o’clock and we will assist you there.”
“But we’re hungry now.”
“I realize that,” Dr. Mackay said as the raindrops began to fall, “but we’ve had some difficulty getting here and we must take stock of our supplies.”
Some difficulty indeed, Trudy thought sadly.
An entire wagon load of supplies had gone missing somewhere between Winchester, where they had previously counted a full shipment of goods, and the last rail stop in Mount Jackson. How that had happened Trudy couldn’t say. Her heart was grieved at the thought of what they had lost. Several Ladies Aid societies and Baltimore churches had raised the funds and supplies necessary for this journey. Trudy could only hope that whoever had commandeered their supplies had done so because they were in even more desperate need than the people in front of her.
“How do we know you’ll be there at one o’clock?” A tall man asked. “Don’t trust no Yankees.”
“Actually, we’re from Maryland,” Trudy said. Her announcement did not have the effect she had hoped.
“Even worse,” the man sneered. “Yun’s talk outta both sides of your mouth. You promise help and then don’t deliver.”
At that comment Trudy couldn’t help but take offense. She knew there was suspicion in the South toward the border states like Maryland—slave states that had not seceded from the Union. But she couldn’t help thinking it was unfair, especially when so many Maryland men had left to enlist in the Confederacy. My brother certainly delivered, she wanted to say. A knowing nudge from Emily, though, and a sharp, albeit well-meaning glance from Dr. Mackay kept her quiet. Obviously they thought the less she said right now the better.
Trudy reckoned that was wise advice, for as the group approached she studied the tall man who appeared to be the leader. Although his frock coat was full of holes and his boots had nearly just as many, Trudy recognized he was not to be tangled with. The look in his eyes scared her. She had seen it before in the faces of wounded soldiers at the hospital, the ones who had been through the worst of battle and were unable to forget. The ones who are haunted by hate, she thought.
Emily recognized it, too. “Perhaps it’s a good thing our planned military escorts did not arrive,” she whispered. “Their blue uniforms would only add fuel to the fire.”
Trudy swallowed back the lump in her throat. Had she already done so by announcing they had come from Maryland? The man with the vengeful eyes was studying her intently.
“Gentlemen,” Dr. Mackay said, “I understand your frustration.”
“You don’t know nothin’,” the leader retorted. “You’re a Yankee. You’re used to hot meals and warm beds.”
“Aye. ’tis true that I’m from the North,” Dr. Mackay admitted. “Pennsylvania. Before that, Scotland, but I’m not here as a soldier. I’m here as a Christian offering aid.”
“Well, we’ll see about that.”
The rain had stopped but still Trudy shivered. The other two able-bodied men in the group were carrying pitchforks. As for the ones hobbling on crutches, no one knew what they concealed in their clothing.
And here I sit helpless beside Emily. If David were here, he could help protect her. What real use am I? If something happens to her, to her husband, what about poor little baby Andrew?
Emily had sacrificed time with her precious seven-month-old son to come to Virginia. Andrew was home in Baltimore with Emily’s parents.
Determined to do her best by the baby and his mother, Trudy stole a glance to her right, then her left. The road on which they were presently parked was sunken, with high banks on both sides. Even the most skilled teamster would find escape impossible. She looked again at Dr. Mackay. Trudy knew he would do his best to defend them both, but he was severely outnumbered.
It was then that a pair of riders crested the knoll. One was dressed in the black garb of a parson. At sight of the other, Trudy’s heart skipped a beat. She would have recognized those broad shoulders anywhere. Peter Carpenter was riding toward them.
Oh Lord. Thank you!
“Gentlemen,” Peter called in his typical commanding voice as he approached. “It was determined that you should come to the church this afternoon to receive assistance.”
“We don’t want to wait,” the tall leader retorted.
“I realize that, Mr. Zimmer, Mr. O’Neil, Mr. Jones,” he said, addressing the two with the pitchforks, as well, “but it’s only fair to the other folks in the area to wait. Come to the church at one and we will see to your needs.”
Trudy felt her anxiety slipping away. They will listen to him, she thought.
The parson had caught up to him. The poor man looked as weathered and threadbare as his parishioners. While he continued the conversation with the disgruntled men, Mr. Carpenter urged his horse toward Dr. Mackay’s wagon.
“Where’s the other buckboard?” he asked.
“Part of our shipment was mislaid,” Dr. Mackay said.
“Stolen?” Mr. Carpenter clarified.
“It looks that way.” Dr. Mackay then explained how the Federal escorts had never arrived. “I thought it more foolish to remain idle at the station, so we started for our destination.”
Mr. Carpenter grumbled in agreement. Then he noticed her. His left eyebrow arched. “What are you doing here?”
She was used to his curt tone and unpolished manners. But this is not surprise speaking, she thought. It was obvious disapproval. It wasn’t as though she had expected open arms, but still...did he think she had followed him here purposefully, relentlessly intent on claiming him as a husband? That certainly wasn’t the case now.
But will he believe that? “David couldn’t come,” she said with all the steadiness of voice she could muster.
“So I see.”
She started to tell him why but he clearly didn’t care to hear it now. “I’ve already plenty of responsibility, Miss Martin,” he said. “I’ve no need for more.” And at that he whipped his horse back in the direction of the men.
* * *
Irritated couldn’t even begin to describe what Peter was feeling in that moment. Furious perhaps was more like it. No doubt Miss Martin had some plausible excuse for deliberately inserting herself into these events, but he didn’t have time for it now, not when a pack of unruly, hungry men were pressing their grievances.
Reverend James Webb, the underfed and overwhelmed parson of these parts, was still trying to assuage the fears of those gathered. “I assure you, Jack, Tom, Arthur, there will be food for all, if you’ll only let these people get it organized.”
“How d’ we know if you’ll still have food by one o’clock?” Jack Zimmer yelled.
“How do we know ya won’t give it to someone else?” Tom O’Neil added.
As the men continued to pepper the parson with questions, Peter stealthily felt for the derringer tucked discreetly inside his frock coat pocket. Yes, this was a mission of mercy but he was not about to be at the mercy of a riotous mob. He’d seen what desperate men could do before. Back in 1861, an unruly pack in Baltimore had rioted and brought about the opening bloodshed of four years of war.
And for what good? Peter thought. The result was that a generation of America’s brightest and best were dead and the country was reunified in name only. Southerners hated Northerners and vice versa, and the freedmen who’d once been controlled by slave masters were now victims of an ineffective Federal bureaucracy. The promise of a more perfect union for all had yet to be fulfilled and Peter took that offense personally. He’d had two brothers give their lives in the hope of a better tomorrow and he was determined not to let their sacrifices be in vain.
Sadly he wasn’t surprised by Dr. Mackay’s report that the Federal escorts had deserted the wagon convoy, nor that a shipment of supplies had been stolen. Who’d taken it...well, of that he couldn’t be sure. He’d met more than one US soldier who’d rather see Southerners starve, and just as many Southerners who would steal or kill to prevent that from happening.
Clutching the derringer, he cast a quick glance at Miss Martin. And she has no idea what she has stepped into. This is no place for a lady. Mrs. Mackay has a husband to look after her. Peter knew that because Miss Martin was his employee, her welfare would now fall to him. And that’s the last thing I need. He already had a woman for whom he needed to claim responsibility—as soon as he could find her. Caroline. Caroline Carpenter. His brother’s widow.
His thoughts quickly returned to the Baltimore belle before him. Foolish woman, he thought. I never should have hired her. He told himself he should have known from the beginning that her naive boldness would be trouble. He remembered vividly the day she had stepped into his office. “My sister tells me you are in need of workers for your newspaper,” she had said. “I’m here to apply.”
He’d stared at her for a moment, half in shock, half in admiration over her straightforward approach. Most women seemed somewhat intimidated by him. Even now her sister Elizabeth still had a tendency to call him “sir.”
“What can you do?” he’d asked.
Miss Martin had confessed that, unlike her sister, she had no artistic talents, but that she had a good grasp of grammar and had won numerous spelling medals in school. “I thought you might be in need of a proofreader.”
In actuality, he had been, and he had offered her a position on a trial basis. She had excelled in her tasks, and soon Peter had offered her the position permanently. Truth be told, she had been a great help to him. Up until the point she pegged me for a husband. I thought I had put a stop to that. Evidently she did not take the hint.
In that instant Jack Zimmer rightfully reclaimed his attention. His voice was growing more emphatic with each word he spoke. “Look, preacher, we aren’t leaving here till you give us some food.”
Jones and O’Neil were armed with pitchforks. The others were lame, but taken collectively, they could still be a considerable force. Peter assessed his own strength. If he stayed on his horse he’d have the upper hand, but Zimmer knows my weakness. If he forces me to the ground I’ll be useless. He glanced at Reverend Webb. Preacher won’t fight. He’s a man of peace. And Dr. MacKay is closest to the women...
The derringer was his only safeguard. Although he despised the thought of firing it, he would do so if it came to that. Miss Martin had left him little other choice. Hopefully just showing it would be enough.
“We can give you all a little something now,” she suddenly announced.
Everyone, including Peter, immediately turned in her direction. That naive, hopeful look was on her face. Have mercy, he grumbled to himself.
“We packed small sacks of cornmeal,” she said. “We can give you some of that. They are at the back of Dr. Mackay’s wagon.”
Don’t tell them what you have! Peter thought. Let alone where it is! But much to his surprise, her offer seemed to defuse the tension.
“It be real flour?” Mr. Jones asked. “None a that ground-up chalk the carpetbaggers bring through?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Real food. Real cornmeal.”
While Jones and O’Neil were pleased enough to drop their pitchforks, Zimmer still didn’t look happy. Wheat had been the primary staple before the war. The cattle and the slaves ate the corn. But these people would have to settle for anything they could swallow.
Jones pressed his way to the front of the group. “Well, word or not, I’m not going to pass up the chance for some meal right now. I’ll take what’s offered.”
O’Neil stepped toward the wagons also. Reverend Webb encouraged the others to form a queue. On the principle that some food was better than none, Zimmer joined it, as well.
“What about medicines?” he asked. “People around here are sick.”
“Aye,” Dr. Mackay said, “but first we must reorganize our supplies. Come to the church. We will do our best by you there.”
The situation had been remedied, at least for now. Still Peter kept his guard. With one eye he watched the men. With the other he studied Miss Martin. She was smiling, no doubt pleased with herself and hoping he would be pleased with her. Well, he wasn’t, and at the risk of being ungentlemanly, he was going to let her know that.
* * *
The cornmeal had been distributed without further incident and the men were now returning to what remained of their homes. Emily was helping her husband resecure the oilcloth cover over their wagon while Trudy held the second one in check. Mr. Carpenter was still on his horse, his back ramrod straight as if poised for battle. Since there had been no skirmish with the hungry men, was he now about to engage her in one? Apparently so, for when the last local man disappeared over the knoll, her employer slid from his horse and lumbered toward her.
He had that look in his eye, the one he showed in the newsroom whenever a reporter missed a deadline or the proof sheets weren’t to his liking. Trudy’s thoughts tumbled nervously over one another. Inadvertently she tightened her reins. Her horse threw his head in protest. Quickly she tried to correct her mistake but only made matters worse. Now the horse seemed determined to back up.
“No... No... Don’t do that! Please, no.”
“Loosen the reins, Miss Martin!” Mr. Carpenter commanded as he muscled his way, albeit somewhat awkwardly, into the driver’s box. His ink-stained hands reached for hers. Forcefully he commandeered the reins.
“Stand!” he called to the beast.
The horse promptly obeyed. Trudy had no doubt that it would. Even she felt the sudden urge to sit bolt upright at attention.
“You must be more careful.”
“Y-yes...” She replied. For a split second she was tempted to call him “sir” but she knew he did not like that title.
“It’s Mr. Carpenter or Peter,” he’d always said, and although she had wanted to call him by his Christian name, she certainly would not do so now. He might think more of the familiarity than she actually meant.
“Miss Martin,” he said as he put on the brake and then turned to her. His probing brown eyes seemed to bore right into her soul. “Why exactly are you here in your brother-in-law’s place?”
Trudy swallowed hard. “Exactly?”
“Yes, Miss Martin.”
“Well... Mr. Collins is ill and cannot oversee the paper...”
Still the look... Elizabeth called it frightening, like standing before a judge who was eagerly awaiting confession so he might pronounce sentence. Trudy was beginning to understand. He uses this tactic to assert his authority, to intimidate. Why hadn’t she noticed this about him before?
Do not worry. I’ve no longer any interest in you whatsoever, she wanted to say, but she had been raised to be a lady. Even if at times she failed to live up to the standard, she was determined now to salvage some shred of dignity. And a lady wouldn’t dare broach the subject of romance with a man. So she was committed to explain in as few words as possible. After all, she had come here for other reasons—ones totally unrelated to him.
“Elizabeth is feeling very poorly—”
“And you thought it best to leave her and come here?”
Guilt threatened to creep back in but she lifted her chin. Elizabeth was fine. She didn’t need her help, but according to Emily, the people here did. “David was worried and Mr. Collins is now ill, so he will be caring for his wife and overseeing the paper in your absence.”
Mr. Carpenter rolled his eyes at that. She did not stop to ask why. Trudy then explained that her brother had been wounded here. “I wanted to express my thanks to Reverend Webb.”
“This is no sightseeing expedition, Miss Martin.” The look he gave her then made her wanted to leap from the wagon, run all the way back to Mount Jackson and climb aboard the first train to Baltimore, but Trudy steeled her resolve.
I have injected myself into his cause, wrongly, perhaps, but it is done and I will see this mission through. “I realize that, Mr. Carpenter,” she said firmly, “I am here to render aid, not play the role of a tourist.”
