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Harbinger of Healing

By Connie Stevens

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HARBINGER OF HEALING

September 1870

Charity Galbraith choked back the retort dancing on her tongue with a garbled cough. Uncle Luther’s opinions of her occupation and the station to which he believed all women were born grated on her nerves. Had she known a non-stop dissertation of his narrow-minded views would accompany her south, she’d never have entreated him to be her traveling escort.
She turned toward the train’s grimy window and muttered under her breath. “Perhaps I should feign sleep.” If she had to endure five more minutes of his diatribe, she’d surely throw the nearest loose object at him. Said object happened to be her thrice-read volume of Jane Eyre. No, she’d never treat the intrepid heroine of her favorite novel so shabbily. Perhaps the stale liverwurst sandwich her uncle had magnanimously bestowed on her would serve as a better projectile.
Two days of train travel with her pompous, cigar-puffing uncle frayed the threads of her poise dangerously thin. She returned her attention to her chaperone and sugared her tone. “It may make you feel better to know that my editor shares your opinion of women writers and therefore requires that I use a masculine pen name.”
Uncle Luther’s thick, black eyebrows bristled together like a fat caterpillar preparing for winter. “He does? Your articles don’t bear your name?”
Pricks of irritation made her squirm, and she glanced at the novel in her lap. If female authors of fiction were now acceptable, why not of magazine articles? The upper crust of society made up the majority of the magazine’s audience, and they apparently weren’t ready to read the expressed viewpoint of current events from the female perspective. “The readership of Keystone Magazine thinks my articles are written by Charles Galbraith.”
Speaking her father’s name sent waves of sorrow through her. Major Charles Hampton Galbraith of the Federal army never returned home after the War of Southern Rebellion, and the ache to know what became of him still haunted her.
A harrumph met her ears, and she braced herself for more of Uncle Luther’s unsolicited criticism.
“What would your father think of the unseemly usage of his name?”
Her eyes burned and she swallowed hard. “Even though most everyone in Harrisburg knew him as Hampton Galbraith, I use his first name in tribute to him.”
He muttered something she couldn’t quite hear over the monotonous rumble of the train wheels. She turned to squint out the soot-darkened window as the landscape lurched past. Where were they? Virginia? No, they changed trains in Washington some time ago, so surely they must be in North Carolina by now.
Had the train carried her enough miles from home to safely to inform her uncle of her intentions? She twisted in her seat and found him buried behind his newspaper.
“I hope you’ll be able to cancel the reservation for my room at the hotel in Atlanta.”
The newspaper crumpled as Uncle Luther lowered it and sent her a scowl. “What are you talking about?”
A hint of defiance tiptoed through her, and she lifted her chin. “I don’t plan to stay in Atlanta, Uncle. This trip is not only for the purpose of researching the series of articles for the magazine. I promised my friend back in Harrisburg, Essie Carver, that I’d search for her son.”
“What? What kind of nonsense is this? Of course, you’re staying in Atlanta under my protection. That Carver woman is a servant.”
Ire flared in Charity belly. “She’s a businesswoman. She was born a slave and escaped that horrendous life. Now she makes her living as a seamstress.”
Uncle Luther sniffed. “That hardly makes her a businesswoman. She’s still a—”
“She’s my friend.” Charity interrupted him before he could use the despicable word. “You know how dangerous it is for a Negro woman to return to the South alone. Even though it’s been six years since the war, Negroes aren’t looked upon with favor in those states. Besides, she hasn’t the money or the connections for such a search. Essie hasn’t seen her son, Wylie, since he was sold to a neighboring plantation eleven years ago. He was only thirteen. She doesn’t know if he’s alive or dead.”
“I still don’t see why you must take it upon yourself. Why can’t this Wylie initiate the search.” He shook his head until his jowls flapped. “What about your family’s reputation? What will people think of you going off to find this slave—”
“He’s no longer a slave.” Her fingers curled around the end of the armrest of the lumpy seat. “That’s what my father—your brother—fought for. He believed nobody has the right to own another human being. Essie and Wylie are but two of the people for whom my father fought.”
Uncle Luther grunted and snapped open his newspaper without another word. Grateful for the silence except for the clackety-clacking of the wheels rolling down the track, Charity allowed her thoughts to wander back to her last conversation with Essie. All the woman could tell her was the name of the plantation to which Wylie had been sold—Covington Plantation, near a town called Juniper Springs.
There was a third aspect to her journey, the purpose of which she’d shared with no one. Her research assignment for the magazine not only offered the opportunity to search for Essie’s son, but also to pursue the desire of her heart for the past six years. She prayed for God’s help in learning what had become of her father.
Her mother had kept the few letters they’d received from him in the drawer of the china cabinet, and the paper had grown yellowed and worn from the number of times Charity and her mother had taken them out and read them. The last word from the war department indicated Father had been wounded and taken prisoner at a battle in northern Georgia—some place called Pickett’s Mill. She and her mother had been left to wait and wonder. Mama had taken her broken heart to her grave, but Charity still longed to know the truth.
Growling snores emerged from behind Uncle Luther’s newspaper. Charity set aside her book and rose, stretching her stiff legs. She gingerly stepped past her uncle’s sprawled out form and held on to the corners of the seat backs to keep her balance as the train lurched along, carrying her deeper into the southern countryside. Making her way toward the back of the railcar, she hailed the conductor.
“Sir? Can you tell me how much longer it will be before we arrive in Atlanta?”
The plump, rosy-cheeked man peered at her over the top of his lopsided spectacles. “This here train don’t go to Atlanta, miss. It goes on to Savannah. You’ll be changin’ trains and headin’ westbound at Augusta. We’re scheduled to arrive in Augusta at nine forty-five tomorrow mornin’.”
“I see.” She glanced back at her uncle whose snores could be heard all the way back to where she stood conversing with the conductor. “Do you happen to have the westbound schedule?”
He beamed and proudly pulled a small black booklet from his jacket pocket. “Of course. Let’s see.” He licked his thumb and pushed back a couple of pages. “Here it is. Westbound train leaves Augusta at eleven ten in the mornin’, and it stops to take on water at Madison. It’ll get you into Atlanta at six fifteen tomorrow evenin’.”
“Is there a northbound train from Madison?”
“Uh huh. Train runs between Madison and Athens every day.”
She thanked the man and returned to her seat, a plan formulating in her head.
[time jump—same POV]
Charity rummaged around in her satchel for her comb. There wasn’t anything she could do with her rumpled, travel-disheveled clothing, but at least she could tidy her hair. Uncle Luther and some other men had moved to the smoking car to discuss business over brandy and cigars, leaving Charity to watch out the window for the sign indicating they were coming into Madison. The westbound train was shorter than the southbound and didn’t haul as many freight cars, thus allowing the train to make better time.
The whistle sounded and the brakes squealed, slowing the train around a bend in the tracks.
“Madison. Madison, Georgia, ladies and gentlemen.” The conductor made his way through car calling out the information. “We’ll stop here for about fifteen minutes, so don’t go far.”
“Excuse me, sir.” Charity reached out and touched the man’s elbow.
“Yes, miss?”
“I’ll be disembarking the train at Madison. Could you please see that my trunk is taken off the baggage car?” She handed him her claim stub.
This conductor wasn’t as pleasant as the one from the southbound train. He glanced at the stub and sent her a surly scowl. “Yer ticket goes through to Atlanta, don’t it?”
“Yes it does, but my plans have changed. Please remove my trunk.”
He grumbled but headed toward the back of the railcar. Charity picked up her satchel and left the note she’d penned to Uncle Luther explaining her departure on the empty seat. Gathering her skirts about her, she quickly stepped toward the door, hoping she’d not encounter her uncle. Judging by the boisterous laughter coming from the smoking car, the men were well into the bottle of brandy.
Charity hurried across the platform to the ticket window. “One way ticket to Athens, please.” She dug in her reticule for her coin purse. “Might I be able to hire a carriage in Athens to take me to the town of Juniper Springs?”
The clerk assured her carriages were available at a price. A porter thumped her trunk down on the platform. Minutes later, the train hissed and belched steam. The whistle sounded and the behemoth groaned, rolling westward toward Atlanta and leaving Charity standing in a swirling cloud of soot and dust.


Dale Covington rolled his head from side to side to unkink the tightened muscles in his neck, and once more thanked God for the job he had at the sawmill. It had taken him some time to develop the muscular arms and calloused hands required for the manual labor—work he’d never known before the war. It was a good thing his father couldn’t see him now.
Dale limped across the bridge that led to the town of Juniper Springs, but he still had work to do before returning to the small house he rented from Simon Pembroke, the Yankee who moved to Georgia after the war and bought the sawmill. How many times had Dale come to the end of a long day and thought about the opulent home he’d once occupied with his parents and later with his wife?
The old wound in his leg hampered his progress as his hitched gait carried him toward the general store and his second job. Clyde Sawyer, the man who ran the mercantile, always had odd jobs for Dale to do and deliveries for him to make. The extra job enabled Dale to add a few more dollars a month to his savings. One day he’d be a landowner again. He set aside his weariness and pushed open the back door of the store.
“Clyde?”
A stocky man with wisps of gray hair around his ears stepped through the curtained doorway and wiped perspiration off his balding head with the corner of his denim apron. “Afternoon, Dale. There’s a couple of orders on the clipboard to be delivered, and those crates by the door gotta be unpacked. Why don’t you take a sit-down first? You look like you could use it.”
Dale shook his head. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll unpack the new stock first and deliver those orders on my way home.”
“Fine with me. Oh, my Sweet Pea made some cookies this mornin’. Said to make sure to save you some.” Clyde pointed to a cloth-covered basket. “They’re under that blue-checked napkin. Help yourself.”
“Thanks. And tell Betsy I said thank you to her, too.”
Clyde bobbed his head and returned to the front of the store, whistling as he went. Dale envied Clyde. The man had always led a simple, hardworking life. He’d never known wealth and therefore didn’t miss it. He had a wife he adored who loved him in return, and by all appearances he seemed completely content with his life. How much easier would it be to face each day without regrets, disappointments, and grief?
Dale heaved a sigh and munched on a cinnamon-crusted cookie while he pried open the heavy crates. Ammunition and gun-cleaning supplies filled one crate, sewing supplies and button hooks in another. Three more contained canning jars and foodstuffs. Bolts of new cloth were stacked atop the last crate.
By the time he got everything unpacked, checked off the bills of lading, and ready for Clyde to stock the following morning, the sun hovered just above Yonah Mountain to the west. Dale stacked the two crates he’d set aside for the Juniper Springs Hotel and carried them two doors down, entering through the side door by way of the alley. Using the servants’ entrance galled him at the beginning, but now he shrugged it off and set the crates down. The head housekeeper signed for them and Dale made his way back to the mercantile to pick up the crate destined for the boardinghouse. As soon as he dropped off this order, he could head to his little cottage and solitary supper.
He limped across the street with the boardinghouse order and went around to the kitchen door. Amiable chatter reached his ears when he knocked on the back door. Hannah Sparrow, the widow who ran the boardinghouse, greeted him.
“Come in, Dale.” She held the door open for him.
“Thank you, Mrs. Sparrow.”
She plunked her hands on her hips. “When are you going to call me Hannah like everyone else?” Without waiting for a reply, she fluttered her fingers. “Excuse me. I must see to my new boarder.” She left Dale to take the grocery items out of the wooden box and lay them on the worktable, and while he did so, he could hear her making introductions in the dining room.
“Everyone, this is Miss Charity Galbraith. She’s a reporter with Keystone Magazine.”
Dale peered through the crack in the door to get a look at the newcomer. An attractive, dark-haired woman in a maroon skirt and white shirtwaist stood beside Mrs. Sparrow. A collection of greetings blended in disharmony as Mrs. Sparrow introduced Miss Galbraith to everyone seated at the table.
“This is Frances Hyatt. She’s our dressmaker. Miles Flint there is the sheriff in our county. Polly Ferguson and her daughter, Margaret, run the bakery down the street. Elden Hardy is a wheelwright and he’s from West Virginia. Arch Wheeler works at the land office, and across from him is Tate Ridley. Tate works at the sawmill.”
Miss Galbraith greeted each person in turn, and her northern accent rasped across Dale’s ears like sandpaper. The reporter was a Yankee—if he didn’t miss his guess, she was from Pennsylvania.
Tate Ridley spoke up. “What sort o’ articles you plannin’ on writin’ ’bout our town, Miss Galbraith?” Dale detected the familiar belligerent tone in Tate’s voice.
“Keystone has assigned a series of articles to me on the Reconstruction. I’m here to research and document the progress of putting our country back together after the war.”
Dale gritted his teeth. Reconstruction, indeed. How many times did he have to be reminded of all he’d lost until the pain finally dulled? For the thousandth time he wondered if his decision to stay in Juniper Springs after the war was prudent. There were any number of places he could have started over, but the ugly memories would have dogged his steps no matter where he’d gone.
Why would a woman reporter travel to Georgia alone? He’d seen more northern carpetbaggers than he cared to count, but she certainly didn’t look like someone who was here to snatch up cheap land or make money on the misery of others. He didn’t wait to hear any more.
Dale let himself out the back door and headed down the now-darkened street toward his small rented house. There was a crisp coolness to the air—an onset of autumn? Or perhaps the chill that permeated his bones was generated by the voice of the Yankee woman at the boardinghouse.

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