Promise of Time Read online

  Copyright

  ISBN 978-1-61626-285-3

  Copyright © 2011 by S. Dionne Moore. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 721, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  one

  Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, 1863

  The prayer of the reverend, standing on a raised platform for all to see and hear, droned in Ellie’s ears. She saw him but did not see him. Her heart and eyes focused more on the huge arch designating the entrance to Evergreen Cemetery and the rising fog that still clung over the raw mounds of dirt, marking the fresh graves in the new burial site of Gettysburg, about to be officially dedicated.

  Reverend Stockton got louder, his prayer building, the words plucking at the taut chords of her heart. “. . .because Thou hast called us, that Thy blessings await us, and that Thy designs. . .”

  Blessings!

  Witnessing the terror of her friends and family during those terrible days of intense battle between the North and South. This was a blessing? What of the mourning Wade family, grieved over the loss of Genny, their young daughter, killed by a stray bullet as she made bread? The stench of death, still a powerful memory in her mind, when bodies lay in the fields bloated and rotting. Ellie’s breath choked and she pressed her hand against her mouth. What of the blessing of a husband of less than two years lying in a grave in hated Southern soil, lost and forgotten except by the one person who had loved him?

  “. . .in reverence of Thy ways, and in accordance with Thy word, we love and magnify the infinite perfections. . .”

  Ellie pressed her hand tighter to her lips. A touch on her elbow made her turn toward her friend.

  “Ellie?”

  She could hear the concern in Rose’s voice.

  “You need to rest. Why don’t we go home?”

  Ellie took a deep breath. She couldn’t allow her own grief to pull her friend away from this very important program, not with the president set to speak. Besides, at some point she needed to distance herself from her grief if she was to be of any use to Rose. Her quiet friend’s swelling body and pale face showed signs of her own private torment, what with the impending birth of her first child and the continued report of her husband missing in action.

  Ellie led her friend through the crowd, mostly women. Some reached out to her, widows themselves. She felt their isolation in a physical way that pinched her vision to a narrow tunnel, and at the end of that tunnel was the cold stone of a grave marker.

  Sunshine broke through the haze that marked the beginning of the day and shone down on her head, yet she felt it from a distance, the warmth unable to penetrate the shell of her grief.

  “I believe we will see some sunshine today after all,” Rose murmured, resting a hand on her stomach. “It will be good to feel warm again.”

  “Yes. It would feel good,” Ellie said, more to placate her friend than from any feeling of conviction. How long had it been since she’d felt the lulling warmth of peace? Seven long months. Ever since the news came that Martin had died.

  “You don’t have to stay for me,” Rose said.

  Ellie closed her eyes and swallowed. Forced a smile. “You wanted to hear Mr. Everett. We should stay.” Mr. Edward Everett’s speech would be long. She knew the man’s reputation, and she was unsure what reserve of strength she would draw from to survive what was surely to be a long day of even longer speeches. “And Mr. Lincoln, of course. What a treasure to have him come and speak on our behalf.” She again pressed her hand to her lips, recalling the president’s own recent grief. To lose a child so young. She chided herself for being selfish. Others knew grief and still functioned. She must as well. “I—I think I’ll take a stroll.”

  She felt Rose’s eyes on her, and when her friend held out a handkerchief, Ellie took it without comment. That Rose knew where Ellie’s stroll would take her didn’t surprise her. The sight of row upon row of neatly placed graves tore at her. She rolled with the wave of fresh grief, shocked anew by the bitter taste of despair that sucked away what fleeting strength she had tried to cloak herself with.

  She knelt at the edge of the field of graves. Disbelief swirling. All of this was a mistake. It had to be. Martin should be here, in Gettysburg, not buried haphazardly in some Southern field. She closed her eyes and went to her knees in the damp soil, uncaring of those who might be staring. No, they would have their attention fastened upon the speaker, she comforted herself. She shifted, grinding dirt into her skirts, dimly aware that the long prayer had ended and music played. She made use of Rose’s handkerchief until it became a saturated mass.

  The music went quiet, and a man’s rich voice began the slow rise that marked the beginning of a speech. Everett. Rose must be entranced. Having heard so much of the orator and his absolute support of the Union’s cause, her friend had been excited to hear him talk. Ellie caught only bits and pieces of the man’s speech as she walked along the perimeter of the crowd, too restless to sit, too grieved to stand still.

  Her legs had begun to ache when a smattering of applause broke her reverie. Ellie headed back toward the place where she had parted from Rose. Thousands of people crowded around the raised platform. When Ellie could not discern the familiar shape of her friend, panic plucked at her. Rose wouldn’t leave her. She was sure of it. Her throat closed. Maybe something terrible had happened. Dread squeezed her chest. She would be alone. Again.

  Ellie took in the smear of pale faces staring her way. One moved in her direction and touched her arm. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  She did not recognize the man, nor the woman beside him. A couple. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

  “Ellie?”

  Rose!

  She turned, and Rose’s small form hurried toward her. “I was keeping an eye out for you.” Concern etched Rose’s expression and dimmed the twinkle in her eyes. “You’ve been crying.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Ellie could see the protest form on Rose’s lips, but she turned her attention back to the speaker, steeling herself. She did her best to concentrate on the speech, but only when President Lincoln stood did she feel anything close to anticipation. Here was the man—black crepe around his top hat in honor of the death of his own son—who understood death in a personal way. President Lincoln’s presence injected a measure of life into the corner of her heart that the news of Martin’s death had withered.

  Papers in hand, his higher-pitched voice strong with conviction, Lincoln began. “Fourscore and seven years ago. . .”

  ❧

  Theodore watched from the shadows of Rupp’s Tannery as a group of men on horseback cantered down Baltimore Street, passed him, then eased onto Emmitsburg Road. He pressed his back to the building that squatted parallel to Baltimore Street and prayed the moonlight would not reveal him. He withdrew to the back of the building, crossed the yard, forged a small stream, and passed through several yards before he reached Breckinridge Street. He stared at the house in front of him. It was the one he remembered from the day of his cousin’s marriage. His cousins’s bride’s house, left to her by her mother. The place Theo hoped to find her.

  His tension eased when he realized the window
s of the brick house were dark. A wide oak tree blocked the front of the house from view, but his cousin’s letters had described the clever entry to a cellar at one end of the porch and how his wife worked hard at putting up vegetables and storing various canned goods in the cool space. It was the place he hoped to call home for the night.

  Theo rested against the cold brick and dared to close his eyes. His feet burned with rawness, a torture worsened with every passing day but endured out of necessity. He dared not loose the bloody strips of cloth he had tied on to relieve the pain in his bare feet.

  In slow degrees, his body relaxed, but he jerked alert in the next breath. Exhaustion would be his downfall. He pushed himself away from the brick wall and went to his hands and knees. With ears keen from nights spent discerning the difference between the sounds of humans or animals approaching, Theo absorbed the atmosphere. Where his vision might fail, his ears would not.

  Satisf ied that nothing out of the ordinary moved, he stood and hastened toward the house. Sweat broke out on his upper lip as the porch came into view. He squeezed himself up close to the brick wall of his cousin’s house and slithered toward the porch. In the darkness, he felt for the hinges of the cellar door and found the ring used to pull the door open.

  Theo spit into his hand and smeared the wetness on first the top hinge then the lower one and prayed the added moisture would work as a lubricant and keep the door from squeaking. With trepidation, he eased the door toward him, drawing a breath only when the opening became large enough for him to slip through.

  With the door firmly shut behind him, he felt his way along with his hands, a damp, cool wall of stone greeting his fingertips and scrubbing his palms. For a moment he stood perplexed. The porch ran the length of the house, a good ten feet by his estimate, yet he guessed that he had come only five feet. This stone wall must be to support the middle section to avoid sag. Sure his assessment must be correct, he followed the wall into a room that smelled of apples, with undertones of dust and mildew. But the cool air refreshed him. He longed for a light to see by but dared not risk giving himself away, even if he did possess a lantern.

  His fingers skimmed the jars of produce and rough gunnysacks of apples and potatoes. Food. His hand closed around the smooth skin of an apple, and he sank his teeth into the fruit, surprised by the tart bite of the tender flesh. He munched as quietly as he could then began on a potato and finished with another apple.

  A dull thud brought him up straight. His hands went clammy and he lowered the apple and cocked his head to listen harder.

  The sound did not repeat. He took another bite, quieter this time. It must be someone in the house turning over in bed or falling out. If Martin’s wife, Ellie, was not alone, or if she had relatives living with her in the wake of her grief, his chances of being identified increased. The thought congealed the contents of his stomach into a heaving mass.

  He put the apple aside and stretched out on the dirt floor, his body demanding rest. With his fist, he made a pillow of a small sack of apples. He closed his eyes and tried to plan how he would introduce himself into the household.

  What would Ellie Lester be like in person? He had read so much about her in Martin’s letters that Theo felt as if he knew her. But among Martin’s personal effects, he never located a picture. Not everyone, he supposed, had the benefit of such a treasure to remember a loved one by, but he had hoped to remind himself what she looked like before coming face-to-face with her. His cousin’s wedding to the woman had been a long time ago, and though Theo recalled the day, the faces had receded a bit as the horrors of war had driven the pleasant memories into hiding.

  Something tickled along Theo’s arm, and he slapped at the place, feeling the crush of a tiny body. A spider, no doubt. With a weary sigh, he rolled to his side and fell into a deep sleep.

  two

  Ellie tied a dark handkerchief over her golden hair. She crossed to the table and tested the knot of the dishcloth, in which she had tied a loaf of bread and cold salt meat from her lone supper. Rose had invited her to stay and eat with her, but Ellie had made the decision to seclude herself after the dedication ceremony to rest for the evening duties she needed to perform. Though she made sure to remind Rose to call her should her labor begin.

  “You know I will.”

  “The minute your pain starts,” Ellie pressed.

  Rose had given her a wan smile. “The very minute.”

  Her friend’s pale complexion had concerned Ellie, but she knew little of babies and birthing. She would be the one to go fetch Martha, the black woman who had attended more births than Ellie could count.

  Ellie leaned forward and tested the weight of the food within the dishcloth. Too heavy and she would have a hard time slipping quickly down the cellar stairs. She peered out her darkened kitchen window and waited, her ears attuned to the ticking clock and the chimes to mark two o’clock in the morning. It would be soon, she knew. She moved back to the table and sat, her hands cupping the package of food. She in-haled the familiar scents of fresh linen combined with that of fried salt pork that still lingered.

  She loved her home, left to her—along with the family farm on the outskirts of Gettysburg—upon the death of her mother. Her only regret—that she could not have shared it with Martin for more than the few months they had been together. Her mother’s death, followed so closely by Martin’s, compounded her sadness. Still, she had a home, and her mother’s words echoed in her head. “A woman should have a place of her own, Ellie, and there’s no place like your birthplace.”

  Ellie couldn’t help the smile. Her mother might have been gentle and kind, but she also had a backbone made of brick. After her death, Ellie had moved back into town, renting the farmhouse to a young couple and the land to a farmer to work.

  This house suited her better than the farm. She loved the uniqueness of the building—two separate homes under one roof, the front porch shared by both—and having Rose so close by. She had been thrilled when Martin agreed to stay in town versus moving out to the farm, especially when talk of war had started to brew.

  Oh, Martin.

  The clock began to chime the hour, and Ellie snapped from her memories and got to her feet. She hefted the dishcloth of food and stepped out into the night. She was careful to watch where she placed her feet, the ends of the boards less squeaky than the centers. But too close to the edge and a warped board might groan a protest. She breathed more easily when she cleared the porch and made her way to the cellar as fast as she could.

  She hesitated when the cool air of the cellar whooshed across her face and neck. Something didn’t seem quite right. She held the door and squinted into the darkness. As far as she could see, the stone wall in front of her remained intact, so no worries there. That’s when it came to her. The door. Of course. She wiggled the door back and forth and realized it hadn’t uttered its normal whine of protest. Perhaps the wood had dried a bit in the low humidity and shrunk enough to solve the problem.

  Ellie shrugged off the matter and descended the cellar steps until she stood in front of the stone wall that supported the porch in the middle. She began to work at the loose stones with her bare fingers then searched in her apron pocket for the slender knife she carried for such purposes. Removing the first stone was always the most difficult. With the aid of the knife, she wedged the tip between a gap and withdrew the first stone. The smell of unwashed bodies hit her full in the face. When five stones were removed, she set the dishcloth on the ledge, turned her back on the hole, and marched up the steps to the yard where she shrank beneath a tree.

  In the dim light, the man and two women moved from the cover of the cellar toward the back of the house.

  As fast as she could, Ellie returned to the cellar and replaced the stones. In the stillness of the night, she could see nothing moving. She didn’t know where the runaways escaped to. It was safer that way.

  “Lord, go with them,” she whispered.

  ❧

  Theo’s heart
rate slowed with each passing minute of silence. Again, his ears had not failed him even though his body lay suspended in near unconsciousness. At first his instinct had been to rise and run, but the darkness of the cellar had registered in his mind and assured him that whoever he was hearing could not see him.

  He had gone to his knees and crawled from his corner toward the doorway. Sounds of scratching and stabbing against a rough surface made him hold his breath. He heard more scraping then light steps retreating. He weighed whether he should retreat to the tree in the front yard or stay put.

  But as he debated, more noises came to his ears. This time a lower murmur—a grunt. A low sniff. A pair of footsteps on the stairs, then another, and another, the tread of the last heavier than the first two. A wave of fetid, warm air assaulted Theo’s nose. He stood to his feet, biting down on a gasp as his tender feet were reintroduced to his full weight.

  Dim light streamed through the open cellar door, and he could just make out the hole in the stone wall before the rustle of material forced him to retreat a step. He dared not take the path back to his corner in the dark, lest he knock something over or disturb a jar. He stood, stock still, fear of discovery pressing down on his spine.

  He heard the rush of breathing and the scraping of the stones. When he inched his head around the corner, he saw the outline of a woman, her dark clothes making her nearly invisible, only the soft sounds of the stones giving away her presence.

  Ellie? He wanted to say the name but knew he must bide his time. Whatever she was doing, he must not startle her.

  When the scraping of stones stopped, the woman retreated up the steps and lowered the cellar doors, leaving him encased in blackness once again.

  three

  Theo lay still, wide awake yet confused. He longed for a watch of some sort to tell the time and free him from the prison of not knowing how long he slept or whether it was day or night. He rubbed his head and scratched his chest. A bath would be nice. A real bath. Not a little bit of water on an already filthy rag, but one with warm water and a bar of soap.