Storm Clouds Darken the Conquered South: Love Amid the Carnage, #3

By Michael Staton

Newspaper editor Bill Stamford, a former Confederate officer, and his graphic artist wife, Franny, use the pages of their newspaper to stand up for the newly won rights of North Carolina's freedmen. Their support earns the ire of the Ku Klux Klan, putting themselves and their two children in mortal danger. But Bill and Franny won't yield to Klan pressure, won't abandon their Black friends. Still, they must find a way to keep their kids safe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: May 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597054768

Book preview

One

Roaring Flames

Flames shredded the midnight sky beyond the small North Carolina town of Sharon Center. They illuminated the churning bellies of clouds obscuring a crescent moon and stars. From half a mile away, the glow looked like a miniature sunrise. Five minutes earlier, vivid red and yellow light had streamed through Bill Stamford’s bedroom window and romped along the wall above the bed he and his wife Franny shared, awakening them. A cool March breeze wafted into the room, tickling exposed skin.

In their nightshirts, the couple had sprung from their bed and hastened to the window.

Damn! Morbsville’s on fire! Franny clenched Bill’s arm.

Once a large Union Army refugee camp, the freedmen’s town lay beyond uncultivated land one-half mile west of Sharon Center.

Against the sidewall, eleven-month-old Travis stirred in his crib and began to cry.

Hush, baby boy, Bill told his son as he threw on wrinkled pants, shirt and a jacket. He turned to Franny, a questioning look on his face.

I’ll stay, Bill, and look after the kids. You and your mother head out to Morbsville.

Down the hallway, a girlish voice screeched, Momma! Fire!

Bill tightened his belt. Wynona sounds scared.

She has a vivid imagination. Probably thinks hellfire has cracked open the ground. Franny scooped up Travis and headed for the door. I’m coming, sweetie.

Wynona was nearly three, born prematurely six months after the end of the war.

Make sure Mark doesn’t follow me. Tell him to get ready to typeset a story on the fire.

Done! Franny scurried along the hall to the bedroom shared by Wynona and Bill’s thirteen-year-old sister, Laura.

It’s okay, Wynona. Laura’s voice, its reassuring tone faltering, turned jittery.

Bill rushed by the girls’ bedroom, the open door revealing Wynona clenching her mother’s legs, Laura standing at the window, her body shaking.

Bill glanced into his mother’s room. Empty. She must already be on the road to Morbsville.

~ * ~

Walking at a fast pace, Bill and his mother drew closer to the colored town, at last reaching the summit of Ball’s Knob where they saw the building on fire.

I knew it! Icie Belle’s eyes were as hot as the flames consuming a wood structure next to the just-built African Methodist Episcopal Church. Poor Avis! All her work for nothing!

Avis, wife of Charlie Kurtz, Bill’s one-armed friend, taught reading, writing and figures at the Freedmen Bureau school, built with the help of relief organizations and the people of Morbsville.

They’ll rebuild, Momma. The coloreds value education far more than most whites hereabouts. Bill’s gaze shifted from Icie Belle to the fire-tinted Deep River two hundred yards away.

The townsfolk, their faces painted crimson by the fire, had formed a bucket brigade between the river and the burning school. They were passing buckets to improvised firemen who tossed water onto nearby buildings, mostly the church and a general store, to keep them from bursting into flames. A return line handed empty buckets from person to person all the way to the river where they were refilled.

Three whites were helping—Charlie, Avis and an unexpected sight—tavernkeeper Elmer Clyburn, Bill’s first Sharon Center friend.

It’ll take a miracle to stop the fire from spreading. Clutching his mother’s arm, Bill beckoned her to follow him to the end of the firefighting line.

Whoever started the darn fire—probably Klansmen—they’ll get off scot-free since they’re heroes to most of Sharon. Very unladylike, Icie Belle spit into the dirt near her boots.

I know, Momma. The Klan’s untouchable with Jonathan Worth as the governor, but the Radical Republicans in Washington City are hopping mad. They’re enfeebling President Johnson with all this talk of impeachment and championing fairer state constitutions. Ours will be up for a vote in early April. Big changes are on the way.

You’re dreaming, Bill, if you think the Klan’s going to acquiesce to Republicans controlling the Tar Heel government. They’ll bully more coloreds, carpetbaggers and scalawags. There’ll be more fires and maybe murders.

Bill nodded. "The Courant will be the voice of reason and won’t be browbeaten by the Klan. We’ll always champion the civil rights and voting rights of the coloreds. No going back to Black Codes."

They tramped toward the end of the bucket line. I still wonder if we made the right decision leaving Kenansville. Yes, I’ve a flower shop, but it’s struggling so. Icie Belle patted Bill’s arm.

Everyone’s suffering in Sharon, Momma, just as they’re suffering in Kenansville. God only knows when the economy will overcome the war. Three years later and we’re still on our knees.

Too many bad memories in Kenansville. Bill hadn’t been able to look at the Grove Presbyterian Church without thinking: here’s where my papa suffered his heart attack. He’d been right to agree to Wilmington Daily Journal’s John Gleeman’s sale proposal.

I can read your mind, Bill. I know what you’re thinking. Yes, it hurt to see the church day after day. But it wasn’t just where your father had his heart attack. It was also the site of your wedding. I had doubts, but ultimately, I think we needed to make a new start, and Mr. Gleeman gave us the opportunity.

Gleeman’s brother had owned the Courant. A Confederate soldier, he’d been captured and imprisoned on an island in Lake Erie. That’s where he had died, a victim of dysentery. Gleeman had offered Icie Belle and Bill the Courant for the Kenansville Gazette and they’d agreed to the swap.

Hey, Billy Boy! Abandoning the bucket brigade, Charlie rushed toward Bill and Icie Belle. Avis followed on his heels. Maddenin’ night! Avis’s fit to be tied.

Filled to the rim, the bucket sloshed in his arms as Bill heaved the water onto the church, helping to keep the walls wet and protected from wind-blown embers. He turned toward his oncoming buddy, his possum. Klan’s handiwork. Fire’s a warning. Vote’s coming up.

Face sweaty and wracked with fear, Avis seized Icie Belle’s shoulders. Damn them! Coloreds have a right to get schooling.

As my Bill says, we’ll rebuild the school. Icie Belle looped her arm around Avis’s shoulder. We’ll make it bigger and better. The Klan won’t win.

Thank God it wasn’t midday, the schoolroom filled with children, meemaws and pappies. Avis buried her face against Icie Belle’s neck and sobbed.

Charlie gently drew Avis away from Bill’s mother and kissed his wife’s forehead. You’ll be back teachin’ in no time. I’ll lead the effort to rebuild. They ain’t goin’ to win.

Sniffling, Avis stroked her husband’s cheek, then brushed an ember from his coat sleeve. My brave darling!

No, just so tired of blowhards who hide behind masks. I pretty much know the hidden faces, startin’ with Sheriff Wells. The Union soldiers down in Wilmington are useless. Not enough of ’em. We’re on our own.

Bill took off his hat and swept stiff fingers through his hair, worn unusually long since a mini ball marred an ear during the night they had escaped Richmond at the end of the war. At least they’re not murdering people—yet. He set the hat back atop his noggin. They’re getting more brazen, though.

Charlie grabbed a bucket from a skinny colored boy no more than twelve and flung its water onto the church’s roof. Had they done this in the afternoon while my Avis was teachin’, I’d have shot all the fellers I think are Klansmen.

Charlie and Avis attended the freedmen’s church they were trying to save. They figured most of the men sitting in the pews of the white churches in Sharon Center wore Klan masks once the sun went down.

All around Bill, men and women, and even some boisterous children, were hauling buckets of water to the church and general store; others toted empty ones to the return line. They worked at breakneck speed, with no need to worry about running out of water with the river so close.

No longer in the line of buckets, Elmer Clyburn startled Bill, appearing suddenly at his elbow. You must be shocked to see me, considerin’ my views on givin’ the coloreds instant freedom. Couldn’t stay cooped up in the apartment and didn’t feel like goin’ downstairs to the tavern. I want you to know I’m not a heartless miscreant. That’s why I’m helpin’ keep nearby buildings from burnin’ down.

You’ve got courage, Elmer, offering friendship to a scalawag who wants coloreds to get voting rights. Bill took a filled bucket from a thin-as-a-rail woman and rushed to the general store. Elmer grasped the handle of a pail and followed.

I sure don’t want to see federal occupation troops patrollin’ Sharon’s streets. Elmer clasped the bucket’s base and lobbed water against the store. I hear there’re colored troops down in Wilmington.

Icie Belle flicked a cinder off the front of her coat. Colored troops! Those will sure infuriate the masked cowards.

Bill reared back and sent water flying against the mercantile. If Klansmen all over the South raise too much cane, it’ll help Grant get elected president in the fall. He’ll not want to see his battlefield victories undone. If necessary, he’ll use occupation troops to enforce the Thirteenth Amendment—and the Fourteenth when it’s ratified. The man will order more troops into the South to destroy the Klan.

Sharing the handle of a bucket, Charlie and Avis tossed its contents against the general store, drenching several sparks that had just settled on the front wall. I’d say it’s time for another one of your editorials, those special ones that incense most everyone in Sharon. Charlie winked at Elmer. Except for the White Horse tavernkeeper.

You’re right, possum. I think it’s time to worry the dog. I’ll use the hated General Sherman’s words: ‘My aim was to whip the rebels, to humble their pride, to follow them to their innermost recesses, and make them fear and dread us. Fear is the beginning of wisdom.’

Back with a new bucket, Icie Belle showered her water against the front wall of the general store smothering a tiny flame. Ultimately, the question is: who’ll tire first? Grant and the Radical Republicans or the Klan?

God help us if it’s the Radical Republicans. Avis winced.

Elmer scowled at a hole in his coat sleeve, the result of a still-burning ember. "I believe the Klan would like to move against the Courant, but if they do, they’ll sully the honor of a veteran who served with General Lee, a brave man who took shrapnel in the back at Chancellorsville."

Avis turned her bucket upside down, placed it on the ground, then sat on it. So Franny decided to stay with the kids?

Our servants, Malinda and Wilson, could have looked after Wynona and Travis, but Franny wanted to do some mothering.

Rising to her feet, Avis picked up the empty bucket. I really thought the war’s end meant we could bring children into a peaceful world. She regarded the nearly consumed schoolhouse. Guess we’re facing a different kind of war.

As he brushed an ember from his nose, Bill remembered those last hours in Richmond before the city fell to Union troops. They’d boarded a train bound for North Carolina, and on the journey, Franny had proudly announced her first pregnancy. Wynona had been born in November 1865; Travis the tenth of July 1867. They were children of a new age, the Klan Era.

Bill smiled grimly as sprinkles began falling, too late to save the schoolhouse. However, if those sprinkles grew into a drencher, the rain would smother all the embers, eliminating the chance of other buildings catching fire. Finally, some good news on a horrible night. Bill interlocked his fingers. Yes, a different kind of war. Instead of soldiers in butternut brown, flesh-and-blood ghosts wearing devil masks. I’m worn plumb out, folks. I’m going to write that editorial but can’t think any more on it until—

If they think this will stop me... As raindrops fell from the thick overcast, the AME pastor and graduate of Wilberforce University, the Reverend Elijah Jones, stomped angrily through a layer of wet ash heading toward Bill. He clutched a damp sheet of paper in his hand.

Puzzled, Bill narrowed his gaze. Jones pressed the paper against Bill’s chest. His fingers gripping the sheet, Bill raised it to his eyes.

With the fire nearly out, the newspaperman struggled to read the words. Lighting a Swift & Courtney match, he read the two words on the paper. You’re next! Defeated by the drizzle, the match’s flame dimmed and went out.

I’m sorry, Reverend Jones. Bill handed the paper back to the colored preacher. I’m so sick of their tactics.

Got another match? I want to see. Charlie patted Bill’s coat pocket containing the matchbox.

Sure. Bill lit another one. Jones held out the sheet so Charlie could see the words.

We’re with you, preacher. I’ll spend the next month out here—every night—making sure the church isn’t torched. Snatching the paper from Jones, Charlie crinkled the warning and tossed it to the ground.

Thank you, Charlie. God bless you. Jones wore a muddy frockcoat that looked out of place on a warm March night. I won’t be intimidated!

Charlie’s right. Bill dropped the wet match to the ground near the scrunched paper. You will need to post parishioners outside your church to protect it at night—for months, if need be.

Armed too. Charlie took off his Cahill hat and slapped it against his hip. What good’s freedom if you’re not willin’ to defend it?

Jones flinched. True, but what did Jesus tell Peter in the Garden of Gethsemane? ‘Then said Jesus unto him...put up again thy sword into his place, for all they that take the sword shall perish by the sword.’ Jones rested his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. We will be armed with our Bibles.

Charlie returned his hat to his pate. I’ve heard where the thickness of a Bible stopped a mini ball. Can it stop a torch flung at your church? Hopefully, the Lord’s in the mood to dispense miracles when the Klan next pays a visit.

The Lord’s always ready to rain miracles down on us, Charlie Kurtz. Jones turned to Bill. Mr. Editor, tell your readers we'll hold classes in the church. Charlie’s Avis will resume teaching book learning in two days’ time, if she’s willing.

Did I hear someone mention my name? Avis left the company of Icie Belle and Elmer and slogged through the ash and mud to Charlie’s side. Of course, Reverend Jones, I’ll continue to teach. A bunch of men in silly masks can’t stop me.

Jones grinned. Avis, you’re a godsend for us.

The rain came down harder, too late for the log-cabin schoolhouse. Steam rose from the school's remains, forming when raindrops smacked against charred logs. Soon, the gusher vanquished even the smoke. The downpour sent everyone in the bucket lines scurrying for cover. Dozens of abandoned buckets littered the ground.

Good-hearted former slaves loaned rain nappers to the five whites. Unfolding one, Bill held it above his mother’s head. The contraption was wide enough to mostly protect them from the cloudburst as they trotted the half mile back to Sharon Center. Lightning streaked across the sky, revealing the storm clouds. Several seconds later, thunder rumbled through the Deep River Valley.

Walking with Bill and his mother, Elmer groaned as the thunder faded. Be my luck to get struck by lightnin’.

You survived the war, Icie Belle pointed out. I’d say you've bang-up-to-the-elephant luck.

So far, ma’am. Elmer slowed his walk as lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the road. I hate thunderstorms.

Not me, Icie Belle retorted. Back in Kenansville, I’d sit on the front porch with my husband and watch them approach. We’d stay out in our rocking chairs until the wind blew rain in our faces.

As soon as we reach the downtown, I’m beelinin’ for the White Horse and havin’ me a stiff whiskey. Elmer scratched his neck below his collar. Soot’s ticklin’ my skin.

Icie Belle laughed. Might be wiser to head upstairs to your apartment and get out of those sopping-wet clothes.

You should listen to my momma, a wise Ohio girl, Bill advised.

Icie Belle wagged her index finger at the tavernkeeper. Yes, listen to me, Elmer. Want some wisdom? Don’t wake your wife from a sound sleep. And don’t go to bed blootered. You’ll find yourself sleeping on the loveseat with nothing to love.

Elmer whooped laughter. I wager you’ve been talkin’ to my Sophia.

The five friends reached the downtown with the thunderstorm still roiling the sky. Elmer headed for his apartment. Charlie and Avis climbed the stoop to their porch and front door. Illuminated by a kerosene streetlight in front of the newspaper office, Bill and his mother gasped at a piece of paper fixed to the Courant’s entrance.

There was enough light to see the words. Just like on the church door: You’re next! Bill ripped the sheet from the glass. He tore it and watched the breeze carry the pieces toward Elmer’s tavern.

So, we’re a threat. Icie Belle stood on her tiptoes and kissed her son on his cheek. That means we’re doing our job.

We won’t be silenced, Momma. Just as Papa refused to be silenced during the war.

That’s what I want to hear from my eldest son. Of course, I expected those words from you.

If need be, I’ll stand guard out here, sitting in a chair, loaded rifle on my lap.

They know better than to set a downtown building on fire. Too much wood. Most of Sharon would burn down. Icie Belle patted Bill’s cheek on the spot she’d kissed.

Bill nodded. You’re right. I’m going into the back room to write the fire story and the editorial. If Franny’s awake, tell her I’ll come to bed when I’m done. Mark should be waiting to typeset my work. Both of us need to get some sleep. Bill looked at his pocket watch. It’s well past two. News knows no schedule.

Two

An Author in the Making

Ensconced in his father’s chair behind a war-surplus desk in the bedroom, Bill stared forlornly at the manuscript, his frustration growing. He wanted to tear it up. The plot felt wrong, the tale a lie. Every new sentence he penned left him wondering why he hadn’t tossed the mess into the fireplace. This current version centered on a young soldier. Not a Confederate, though. A damned blue belly. He stood and stepped to the window, looked down on Main Street and the storefronts, so many vacant three years after the war's end.

One of the family cats, Tessir, leaped onto the bed and began napping, Bill returned to the chair. The cat from Richmond got along remarkably with his mother’s cat, Indy, but the little guy still liked to occasionally get away from the other feline.

What did Bill know about being a soldier in Lincoln’s Army of the Potomac? Ultimately, though, what choice did he have? Who above the Mason-Dixon line would buy a novel about a Confederate soldier from North Carolina trying not to die on the day of his baptism of fire?

Bill set aside his fountain pen. Why keep working on an unsaleable story? There were alternatives, he supposed. He could forget New York publishers and turn to ones in New Orleans. He could make his hero a Confederate soldier and discard the notion of selling the novel in Northern states. Vacillation wearying him. Bill really needed a plot that would appeal to readers in both the North and the South.

Morning sunlight streamed through the window, making the kerosene lamp on the desk superfluous. Wheeling the chair rightward, he turned the wick down into the burner until the flame was extinguished. Beyond the bedroom, Travis cried from his kitchen highchair, his porridge eaten, wanting Malinda to let him run around the upstairs apartment. Tessir swung his head around, glanced at the door entrance, then resumed his nap. Bill scratched at chin stubble. Maybe he should move the action away from battlefields to the dark alleyways of London, England. Make it a spy caper in the style of Confederate heroine Rose Greenhow. But instead of Rose, let the girl be from New York. Her nemesis? A Tar Heel boy tasked with procuring a super cannon that would make the South invincible. Her only problem? She loves the Southern boy.

Two days since the fire, Bill had gotten the news story and editorial written. Mark had typeset them. Franny did a woodcut of a schoolhouse in flames. Newsboys were out on the streets of Sharon Center and Graham hawking copies of the latest Courant. The editorial had to have angered the Klan, but so far, no other buildings had been torched. Even so, male parishioners of the Morbsville AME church were still keeping vigilant watch at night.

It was a cool, late-March morning, prompting Bill to vigorously slap his upper arms.  Going to the fireplace, he stoked the nearly-snuffed fire until it flamed to life. Letting the heat warm him, he settled back into his chair and ran his fingers along the top edge of the manuscript. He needed to start over yet again, shift the action to London. He slipped his fingers beneath the unfinished novel. Nothing worth saving. Soon, his work of the last two months burned inside the fireplace.

Daddy? Breakfast getting cold. Wynona ambled into the bedroom, one of Laura’s dolls held against her chest. Laura no longer played with dolls. She preferred novels about adventurous young ladies getting into all kinds of mischief. You bad, Daddy. No throw book in fireplace.

At the sound of Wynona’s voice, Tessir jumped down from the bed and headed for the hallway. He thought he’d make good his escape before the girl discovered him.

Bill went to his daughter and picked her up. Sitting once again in the chair, he nestled Wynona in his lap. It’s only fit for the fire, sweetie. I’m starting over. Going to write a better book.

Wynona raised the doll up to near Bill’s eyes. Daddy, Dolly has bruise on face. Kiss, make better.

Bill brushed his lips against the forehead of the poured-wax doll, purchased by his father before the war as a Christmas present for Laura. It had become an exquisite hand-me-down. Wynona spent hours dressing Dolly with clothes sewn by Malinda from Butterick mail-order patterns. There! I made it all better, sweetie.

Wynona directed her attention to the window. I saw fire, Daddy. Pretty, fireflies in sky.

They were embers, Wynona. Just like his daughter to see beauty in everything. Hard to believe Wynona isn’t three yet.

Bill was ready to battle the Klan, but needed to remember he’d fathered two children, one still in the crib. He mustn’t ever put their lives in danger. Two knocks on the open bedroom door drew his attention. Wilson, the Stamford family’s gardener and stableman, stepped through the entryway. Sir, can you spare a few minutes?

For you, Wilson, always. Bill lifted his daughter from his lap and set her on her feet. Wynona, see if Malinda has finished the new dress she’s been sewing for Dolly.

Yes, Daddy. She leaned forward, expecting a fatherly kiss."

Bill obliged, kissing his daughter on the cheek.

Wilson mussed Wynona’s hair as she shuffled by him. I’ve done seen your doll’s dress. It’s mighty pretty, just like you.

Bill motioned for Wilson to seat himself on a loveseat near the desk. Can I assume you’re here about the other night’s schoolhouse burning and the Klan?

Yessum, Mr. Bill. White folks think me and Malinda are uppity coloreds. I got me faults, sir, I brag too much. I’ve told too many gossipers about servin’ the Grants at the end of the war. Gettin’ paid fine money to cook their food and muck out their stables. I fear I’ve caught the eye of Klansmen. Sure don’t want to see harm come to you and your loved ones, Mr. Bill.

If the Klan comes after me, Wilson, it won’t be due to you and Malinda. Bill rested his hands on the desktop where the manuscript had been. I’m not one of the fine Kenan brothers, inheriting a colonelcy in the war. I joined as a private and through honorable service rose to become a captain, serving James Seddon, Confederate Secretary of War. Some say I’m a bonafide hero. Bill laughed without amusement. The Klan will need to think long and hard before they attack a Confederate hero with a giant scar on his back—or anyone under my protection.

I knows, Mr. Bill. But they’re a brash bunch. Me and Malinda can’t be under your safeguard twenty-four hours a day. Those white fiends in their scary masks carry pistols, knives and whips. I couldn’t live with myself if Malinda got whipped like a dog.

Bill maneuvered the inkwell into the open space. I’d like to say I can guarantee your safety, Wilson. But nothing’s—

I’m takin’ Malinda up to Cleveland, Mr. Bill, Wilson interrupted. Goin’ to find a job in a factory up there, one that pays a livin’ wage. Malinda’s takin’ up seamstress work. Wilson crooked an awkward smile.

It’s not cookies and cake up North, Wilson. You’ll face hate.

Sneaky hate. Not like down here. Nuttin’ sneaky about the Klan. Wilson fingered the latest edition of the Courant lying at the edge of the desk. I’ve been goin’ to the class taught by Franny’s friend, Avis. She’s good at learnin’ old bodies like me. How long before the Northern folks grow bored and leave the South? Won’t be long before the Klan steals our right to vote and restores their Black Codes. We've a better chance for a good life up in Ohio. I’ve a brother who lives in Cleveland. He says we can stay with him until we get our own place.

I really can’t mount an argument against your plans, Wilson. You and Malinda have been brave these last few years. Running to New Bern and up to Hampton Roads, finding your way onto General Grant’s household staff. Bill reached across the desk and shook Wilson’s hand. Good luck. When are you planning to leave?

Wilson rose, joints creaking. By the end of the month. Takin’ the train north into Virginie, then hoppin’ ’nother for the trip to Ohio. Goin’ to carry just a few clothes. Still better than when we sneaked off in ’63.

Write to us when you arrive at your brother’s place. Let me know how the trip went—if the railroads have started coupling colored-only carriages to their trains.

Sure will, Mr. Bill.

His hand perched on Wilson’s shoulder, Bill ushered him out of the room. Grinning broadly, Charlie met them in the hallway.

Howdy, Mr. Charlie. Wilson formally bowed. You’s lookin’ mighty fine this mornin’. Sure glad you and the wife are goin’ to our church. Also, a blessin’ to Avis for her decision to keep teachin’ the little ones.

"Thank you, Wilson. We’re all God’s children in His eyes, whites, coloreds, even Chinamen. I want to be an example for other whites. I ain’t goin’ to be mad at the Yanks for losin’ an arm. Plenty of blue bellies without arms and legs. And widows up North sleepin’ in cold beds, just like down here. And I must say, Wilson, those garden beds of yours in front of the Courant look mighty pretty."

Wilson nodded as if he heard such praise a hundred times a day. Mr. Bill’s goin’ to have to find another flower-gardenin’ man. Malinda’s been talkin’ my ear off, wantin’ to see life north of the Mason-Dixon. I finally done surrendered. We’re movin’ to Cleveland.

Charlie swung his gaze from Wilson to Bill. Goin’ to be a bleak-lookin’ front from now on, Billy Boy. Elmer’s White Horse will look prettier. Maybe I ought see your momma about doin’ your gardenin’, except I got some special plans on the horizon. Came here this cool mornin’ to talk to you about them. Charlie nodded. Good luck, Wilson. Tell those Clevelanders better days are comin’ for the coloreds in the South. Don’t lose faith.

I’ll tell ’em, Mr. Charlie. I’ll preach it to every abolitionist who says he’s growin’ fainthearted.

Tell ’em we don’t know words like fainthearted. Charlie gripped Wilson’s hand and shook it robustly. Maybe someday Avis and me will visit you up yonder in Cleveland.

Ya’ll always be welcome, Mr. Charlie. Wilson headed down the hallway past other bedrooms toward the kitchen and parlor.

I’d forgotten you were planning to stop by today, Bill told Charlie. "Where do you prefer? Bedroom or down in the Courant’s back room?"

Bedroom will do. Too much commotion downstairs.

Bill led him past the empty crib and bed to the corner desk. He settled into his comfortable writing chair while Charlie sat on the loveseat. You said you wanted to float something by me?

I’ve a special request, Billy Boy.

Bill curled his lips. Should I be worried?

Have I ever led you astray?

You really don’t want me to answer, Charlie.

I’ve been doin’ lots of thinkin’, possum. Thought I’d made up my mind. Now I ain’t sure. Funny how a short walk from the apartment to yours can muddle a brain. I’m goin’ to do more thinkin’ on it before I pass it by you. I just don’t know if I’ll be doin’ right. Charlie shook his head, a frown marring his face, then rose to his feet. Think I’ll mosey up to the church in Morbsville and sit in on Avis’s class. She inspires me.

Bill stayed behind his desk and allowed Charlie to find his way out. The man was like a brother. He didn’t need escorting. Charlie had run of the place.

Pen in his hand, Bill picked up a sheet of paper from a stack of stationery. He thought for a moment, then wrote the first sentence of the newest version of his novel. London in the winter means fog, perfect for Connecticut girl Emily Carroll when she has to scurry through alleyways to escape meddlesome Confederate spies.

Hard to do writing when there’s so many interruptions. Clad in a flowery, light-green dress, blond curls cascading down her back, Franny stood in the doorway, hands pressed against her hips. At her feet, Tessir eyed the bed again, sprang and burrowed between two pillows.

I’m starting the novel over.

Again? When do you plan to finish it, darling? 1890?

1901.

By then, those newfangled machines, typewriters, should be in common use. One of those should speed up your slow-as-molasses style.

Just need to settle on a plot, one that will sell in both the North and the South.

Franny shrugged. Tell me about it later. You need to eat, get downstairs and start working on next week’s newspaper.

A kiss first?

Well, come here, my husband. Show me how much you want that kiss.

Bill sidled around the desk and scooped her into his arms. She found his mouth and pressed her lips hard against his, then slithered her tongue past his chin to his neck.

I’m about ready to invite you into our bed. He ran his fingers through her hair.

Look at how comfy Tessir is. We can’t ruin his nap. And besides, we don’t want Travis or Wynona barging into the room when we’re spooning, right? I think not.

Three

A Quest for Courtship

In need of fresh air, Bill swung open the Courant’s front door and stepped into the sunlight. A cool afternoon greeted him, a partly sunny day where gray and white clouds tussled with only hints of blue sky. The clouds churned, buffeted by a strong western wind. Massaging his arms with cold fingers, Bill regretted not wearing a coat. An earlier glance through the front window had misled him. The sight of others in shirtsleeves had made him think it was warmer than this. It was a typical late-March day.

He started to return to the office to get his coat, but Elmer Clyburn exited Brown’s Barbershop, his hair clipped and neat. Bill smiled. Elmer looked more like a bank clerk than the garrulous owner of the White Horse.

You look splendid, my friend. Bill tipped his straw hat to Elmer. Much too dazzling for Sharon, or even Graham. You should move your family to Raleigh where you’ll find much more dazzling people than here.

Elmer chuckled. Goin’ nowhere except to the White Horse. He took a look at his pocket watch. The afternoon imbibers should start showin’ up, ’less they’re favorin’ the Horse and Barrel Tavern. Most men in Sharon like to drink two or three times a week ’cept them with wives who drag ’em to one of those churches where folks talk in tongues.

The competition with the Horse and Barrel must be fierce. Sharon’s a pretty small place. Bill eyed the other tavern a block from Elmer’s place. It featured a sizable second-story sign displaying the face of songstress Adelina Patti, an oddity since she’d never sung in the saloon. "I don’t frequent the Horse and Barrel, as you know full well. I don’t cotton to its owner. Tyler’s an agitator. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’s one of the fellows who