Handpicked Family. Shannon FarringtonЧитать онлайн книгу.
will see that you get a hot meal.”
The freedman nodded. “That’s awfully kind of ya, sir, but I was most lookin’ for the newspaperman.”
“You’ve found him.”
The man stepped closer. He removed his slouch hat and laid it across his chest. “Name’s Robert, sir—”
Peter stopped him with an upturned hand. “Enough of this ‘sir’ business. I’m no army officer. The name’s Carpenter. What can I do for you?”
Brilliant white teeth shone in a smile for a fraction of a second. Then Robert looked down and fingered his hat before saying, “I’m looking for my wife, Mr. Carpenter. She went north some years back. I been to see the bureau agent over in Larkinsville but he weren’t much help. Then I heard about you.”
Peter wondered exactly what the man had heard. He waited to learn for himself.
“Folks say that you’re puttin’ notices in your paper. That you help find people.”
“That’s true.” Or at least, that was what he was attempting to do. “If you’ll give me your information, I’ll place the notice.”
The man nodded but then hesitated. “Thing is...well, I can’t pay.”
“If you could, you’d be the first,” Peter said.
“I can work, though,” Robert said. “You need somethin’ fixed? I can do that.”
“I’m sure you can,” Peter replied. “And believe me, there is plenty to do around here. Go on inside and see the reverend. Get yourself something to eat and we will talk when I get back.”
He mounted his horse, then clicked his tongue. The old mare reluctantly lifted her hooves. Peter didn’t look back to see with his own eyes, but he knew for certain that the freedman had entered the church. He’d heard the hinges on the front door groan, and then the soft, polite greeting from inside.
Miss Martin. Knowing her, she had probably been watching from the window and came to fetch the man the moment Peter started away. He shook his head but admitted to himself that if the world was different he would be flattered by her attention. She had a comely face in a fresh, pure sort of way. She wasn’t a woman taken by powders and rouge. And she isn’t vain enough to try to hide her freckles. She’s content with the looks the Creator granted her. Peter allowed his thoughts to linger there a moment or two longer. Her eyes were green. Her hair was red, not screaming with the intensity of an out-of-control fire but warm, rich, like a slow August sunset.
His brother’s description of Caroline’s hair then came to mind. “Like Virginia soil when it is first turned...that rich reddish brown...”
His jaw inadvertently tightened. If Daniel had paid less attention to the woman standing beside that freshly turned Virginia soil and simply marched through it, Peter wouldn’t be looking for a widow and a child. Daniel had written that her father and younger brother had both died early on in the war and her mother had been taken by typhus some years before that.
Peter wondered if Caroline and her child had been able to survive the hardship of war, the sicknesses, the privations. Had she found a family elsewhere? Had she married quickly and passed Daniel’s child off as the offspring of another?
A child should know his own father, Peter thought as he broodingly plodded along. And he will if I have anything to say about it. He planned to move Caroline and the child in with his parents back in Baltimore, provide for them personally. And if she has remarried? Then he would see to it that she and the child were properly cared for and he would keep in contact to make certain it remained that way. I owe that to my brother’s child. It was hard, however, not to be discouraged. His printed notices in the local area papers concerning Daniel’s wife had generated no information. Was he only fooling himself that he could find her?
He thought then of the freedman who had approached him earlier. Am I only fooling him as well? Can I really hope to find anyone?
Peter urged the mare to hurry along, although she continued to step gingerly. Where the ground wasn’t rocky it was spongy from yesterday’s rain. It seemed a metaphor for his state of mind. Hard facts and muddy uncertainty. Such is life.
After two hours navigating roots and ruts, he saw the town of Larkinsville ahead. This tiny hamlet had fared better than the others in the surrounding area. The buildings were still standing. The telegraph office was operational. Any damage the town had suffered during the war was being quickly repaired. The smell of fresh lumber was everywhere.
I suppose the presence of a Federal garrison has something to do with that, Peter thought.
He went straight to the telegraph office to dispatch his article to Baltimore. Then he wired David Wainwright personally concerning the lost supplies. “Don’t wire yet with delivery plans,” Peter telegraphed. “More information to follow.” He knew the charitable citizens of Baltimore would act quickly to fill the present need, but it would take them several days at least to collect another shipment of supplies. In the meantime, Peter hoped to discover what had gone wrong with the first.
Having finished with the telegraph office, Peter then rode to the garrison. A scar-faced sentry forced him to dismount at the gate. After securing the mare, another Bluecoat directed him to the officer in charge, Lieutenant Glassman. The lieutenant was a fresh-faced lad who more than likely had ridden out the war in the comfort of a senior officer’s shadow, perhaps a father or uncle. He probably sheltered in a command post while other men of his age were dying in ditches.
Still, Peter did his best to cultivate a respectful relationship with the young lieutenant. Not everyone had been able to do his proper duty. He knew that better than anyone. And Glassman is, after all, the local man in charge. Animosity won’t serve me or Reverend Webb’s community well.
“Ah, Carpenter,” Glassman said as he laid aside the cigar he’d been puffing and leaned back in his desk chair. “I see you are back. Trouble?”
It was only then that Peter noticed the well-dressed man in the corner of the room. The stranger was wearing a silk vest and a brushed cutaway coat. His cravat was adorned with a jeweled pin. Peter sized up the man at once. The clothes and that superior lift of the chin told him he was either a politician or a carpetbagger. No doubt I’ll determine which in a matter of minutes.
“I hope not,” Peter said, in reference to Glassman’s remark concerning trouble.
The officer smiled, then cordially gestured toward the guest in the corner. “This is Mr. Johnson.”
Peter offered him a nod. Glassman then asked, “So what brings you to see me?”
“Questions,” Peter said.
Glassman chuckled softly. “I’d expect nothing less from a newspaperman.” He then gave Johnson a toothy grin. “Mr. Carpenter runs a nice little press up in Baltimore.”
The word “little” irked Peter, as did the shared laugh between Johnson and the lieutenant. His business here was no laughing matter, and as for his paper, he had churned out more news than many of the big Eastern papers combined. At least, real news...not war propaganda or plays on public fears.
“My question...” he said slowly, doing his best to constrain his irritation as he drew the men’s attention back to real discussion.
“Yes, yes,” Glassman said.
“I’ve come to find out what happened to the escorts that were supposed to meet the food shipment in Mount Jackson.”
Glassman blinked. “Escorts?”
“Yes. I arranged for them here in this office just last week. They did not arrive at the station, and as a result my party had to travel unaccompanied.” He then added for emphasis, “There were ladies in the party.”
“Egad!” Glassman exclaimed, looking positively chagrined.