Chariot on the Mountain Read online

  CHARIOT on the MOUNTAIN

  JACK FORD

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Jack Ford

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2018932847

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1309-4

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1311-7

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-1311-7

  To the memory of Kitty Payne—

  with the hope that her story might inspire us all.

  PROLOGUE

  Bear Mountain, near Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

  July 24, 1845 . . .

  THE HORSEMEN THUNDERED ALONG THE NARROW COUNTRY LANE, ironclad hooves flinging up showers of sparks as they pounded the gravel path, all pretense of stealth abandoned. Close behind, a wagon covered with a tarpaulin and drawn by two lathered horses in traces bounced and swayed precariously as it struggled to keep up with the four mounted men.

  As they burst into a small clearing, the gauzy midnight moonlight revealed a ramshackle log cabin wedged up against the side of a hill. A sagging masonry chimney claimed one exterior wall, and a lean-to holding stacked firewood the other, while an ancient oak tree stood guard over a stone well in the front yard.

  The lead rider yanked his mount to a skidding halt and jumped to the ground. Tall and broad through the chest and shoulders, clad in a flowing canvas duster, with a slouch hat clamped down over his forehead, he snatched a shotgun from the rifle sheath attached to his saddle. The others hastily dismounted and also pulled out shotguns as the wagon surged into the clearing and stopped. The driver clambered down from the wagon seat and gathered up the reins of all the horses.

  After fanning out around the cabin, the men took up positions around the building while the leader approached the door. Before he reached it, the door swung open and an old black man stepped outside. He was short and wiry, with tufts of white hair sprouting from the sides of his otherwise bald head, his stooped frame covered only by a long homespun nightshirt. He held a single-shot squirrel rifle, which was pointed shakily at the riders. For a moment no one spoke, and then the leader nodded toward the cabin.

  “They in there?” he asked.

  “Yup,” the old man muttered, looking warily at the other gunmen.

  “Where?”

  “Back room,” the old man answered quietly, taking a step back as the leader and one of the gunmen took up positions on either side of him, shotguns pointed directly at his head.

  The leader reached out and jerked the rifle out of the old man’s hands, tossing it to the ground.

  “You two head round back,” he said, nodding to the men stationed on the sides of the cabin. “You come with me,” he said to the other gunman.

  After barging past the old black man, the two intruders stormed into the house. Inside, they swiftly crossed the small front room and came to a rickety door set in the back wall. The leader rammed his boot into the door, and the wood splintered as it buckled inward. There was a scream as the men rushed inside.

  A moment later, the leader exited the back room, dragging a woman behind him. She was a young, light-skinned black woman, dressed only in a cotton nightgown, and she struggled to pull away from him as he yanked her roughly toward the front door. The other man followed, pulling three sleepy and confused small black children with him.

  “Leave us be!” the woman screamed hysterically, scrambling to her feet, trying desperately to pull away. “We’re free! You can’t take us!”

  The leader lashed out with a vicious backhand across her face, snapping her head back and knocking her to the floor. “Shut up,” he snarled. “You damn well ain’t free, and you’re comin’ back where you belong!”

  The young woman glared at him defiantly, blood curling down from the corner of her mouth. “I’m free, and I got papers to prove it. Them too,” she cried, looking fearfully toward the three children.

  “Throw them into the wagon,” the leader ordered, pointing to the children, who were now wailing as they reached for their mother. “Quick!”

  “No!” the woman cried. “You can’t do this!”

  As the leader jerked her to her feet, she thrashed, twisting and flailing, dragging her nails across his face and kicking out at him. He stepped back away from her and then threw a crushing overhand punch, striking her on the side of her head, knocking her again to the floor. Dazed, she stumbled as she fought to stand.

  “Tie her up! Good an’ tight! Then throw her in the wagon,” he yelled as the two other men rushed into the cabin. “And get them damn kids outta here,” he ordered. “Now!”

  After dashing outside, the leader approached the black man, who was now trembling with fear. He shoved the muzzle of the shotgun under the old man’s chin and lifted his head until their eyes met.

  “You keep your mouth shut ’bout this, you hear?” the leader said, his eyes narrowed threateningly.

  The old man nodded. “Where my money?” he rasped, the gun barrel pushed up against his throat now.

  The leader tossed some coins on the ground. “Your damn Judas money,” he sneered.

  “Ain’t what I be promised,” the old man said, looking down at the coins. “S’posed be more.” />
  “Lucky you gettin’ that much.” Digging the barrel of the shotgun deeper into the old man’s neck, he leaned close to him. “You go tellin’ anybody ’bout this”—he paused menacingly—“next time we be comin’ for you!”

  The leader turned toward his men, who were dragging the barely conscious and trussed-up woman and her wailing children to the wagon. “Get these damn niggras loaded up, and let’s get the hell outta here!” he ordered.

  After springing up into the saddle, the leader jerked the reins, wheeling his horse around, and galloped back down the lane, followed closely by the other gunmen and the hurtling wagon with its bound and crying cargo.

  CHAPTER 1

  Rappahannock County, Virginia

  One year earlier ...

  AS THE FIRST LIGHT OF DAWN ETCHED A VELVETY PURPLE RIBBON along the edge of the dark sky, the farm began to awaken. Cook fires flared and frying bacon grease sizzled in the cluster of tar-paper and wood-slatted slave cabins, while the sounds of mules braying echoed from within the stable. Candles flickered to life inside the main house, a rambling collection of rooms that seemed to have been haphazardly grafted, at various times, onto the solid two-story log structure that sat at the center of the homestead. The timbers and walls stretched and sighed, and the floorboards creaked and groaned, as the old farmhouse arose from its slumber.

  In the kitchen, a separate log building that was attached to the rear of the main house by a covered walkway, an old slave woman struggled to hang a heavy cast-iron pot on a hook inside the massive fireplace, which took up the entire back wall of the room. The smell of damp wood wafted up from the hissing chunks of firewood as small flames began to lick around the edges. The woman was dark skinned, with a lined, ancient face. A smoke-smudged apron and a threadbare calico housedress draped her short, rotund figure. Despite the chill of the early morning, sweat was trickling in rivulets through the creases in her forehead and dripping down her cheeks as she wrestled with the heavy pot.

  A low, narrow door on the side wall of the kitchen creaked open, revealing a cramped, sloping-roofed bedroom, where three small children were still asleep, snuggled together on a single floor pallet. A woman stepped out of the room, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders.

  “’Bout time you decided to jine us,” the old woman muttered without turning around, still grappling with the pot as water sloshed over the edge. “Princess Kitty done arrived,” she sniffed.

  The other woman was much younger, in her twenties, and had a pretty oval face with high cheekbones; a delicately angled nose; almond eyes that were dark, with flecks of honey; and light skin the color of soft caramel. Her black, tightly curled hair, splashed with a few rays of red, was pulled back and tied up in a bunch behind her head. She was tall and slim, held herself almost regally erect, and towered over the stooped old woman.

  “Don’t you go callin’ me that,” the young woman said, glaring down at her. “I asked you before not to,” she added firmly.

  The old woman refused to make eye contact with Kitty, talking instead into the fireplace as she bent and poked at the flickering logs piled under the large pot, now swinging from its hook.

  “Once old mastuh be dead, you be workin’ in the fields, just like the rest of ’em. No more bein’ uppity, with your readin’ and writin’, talkin’ like white folk, an’ all special treated,” the old woman said, straightening up and turning to face Kitty. “That day comin’ soon,” she added with an evil chuckle.

  Leaning down, Kitty pressed her face up close to the woman’s. “Don’t you go talkin’ that way about the master,” she snapped.

  “You just wait,” the old woman cackled, backing away from Kitty. “That ol’ man not long for this earth, and then nobody be lookin’ out for you, like he done all these years. Then you be just another nigger like the rest of us. Mistress prob’ly go an’ sell you off,” she said.

  Kitty’s eyes sparked. She was taking a step toward the woman when she heard her name being called from the front room.

  “You best be answerin’ when Mistress call,” the woman jeered.

  “You and me not done,” Kitty whispered harshly before she turned and left the kitchen, heading into the main house.

  The front room was the largest living space in the original log structure and was dominated by an immense fieldstone fireplace. Rough-hewn furniture was scattered across the bare polished oak-plank floor. Mary Maddox stood before a double-sash window, gazing out into the front yard. She was tall and angular, with thick gray-streaked brown hair tied back in a bun, high sculpted cheekbones, and striking crystalline blue eyes. Decades as a farmwife had taken a toll on her appearance, yet even in her late fifties, she still had a hint of the natural beauty that had made her one of the noted belles of Rappahannock County as a young woman.

  “He wants to see you,” the mistress said coldly, her back to Kitty. “Please do not agitate him. He’s in a great deal of pain.”

  “No, ma’am. I understand. I’ll certainly be very quiet and careful not to disturb him,” Kitty answered.

  As Kitty turned toward the small hallway leading to the main bedroom, Mary spoke again, this time her voice not as harsh. “He doesn’t have much time left,” she said softly.

  Kitty was unsure if the mistress was speaking to her or to herself. “Yes’m,” she mumbled.

  Pausing in front of the bedroom, Kitty took a deep breath, then lifted the door latch and slipped into the room, her worn leather shoes sliding quietly along the floorboards. She had not seen the master in more than a week, and she was startled at the frightening decline in his appearance. Before the heart attack, Samuel Maddox had been tall and robust, farm strong after working the fields all his life. Now, four weeks later, she could barely discern the outline of his gaunt, fragile figure buried beneath the down quilts scattered across the bed. His head lay propped up on two pillows, twisted in a strange and awkward angle. The once leonine head of flowing Scottish red hair was now greasy and matted, plastered across his skull, shot through with streaks of pale, watery gray. The room smelled of liniment and whiskey, stale sweat and urine. And of death. She stepped closer.

  Maddox struggled to turn his head in her direction. The left side of his face was frozen in a tortured scowl, but he somehow managed to contort the right corner of his mouth into something resembling a faint smile. The fingers on his right hand twitched, beckoning Kitty toward him. She settled herself on the hickory chair next to the bed, reached out and placed her hand in his. Maddox wrapped his long, bony fingers around her hand like a skeletal glove and then sighed deeply. They sat quietly for some time, neither saying a word, until she noticed a single tear escape the corner of his right eye and nestle in the sagging folds of his whiskery cheek. Kitty squeezed his hand gently.

  CHAPTER 2

  “LORD, PLEASE ACCEPT THE SOUL OF SAMUEL, YOUR SON. LET HIM sit by your side, basking in your grace, through all of eternity. May he come to know your kindness and your blessings. And may he rest in eternal peace.”

  The minister, a portly figure dressed in an ill-fitting black suit and waistcoat, raised his bowed head, closed his Bible slowly, looked around at the gathering surrounding the open grave in the fenced-in family cemetery, and solemnly intoned, “Amen.”

  A chorus of amens rippled in response through the ranks of mourners, the voices more pious and pronounced from the dark-clad neighbors surrounding the stoic Mary Maddox, quieter from the platoon of farm and house slaves assembled a few yards back.

  Kitty stood off to the side, aligned with neither neighbors nor slaves, her three children fidgeting at her side, their hands entwined in the folds of her drab gray homespun dress. She lingered there, watching silently, as the mourners shuffled solemnly away from the grave site toward the yard between the front porch and the barn, where tables of food and drink awaited.

  Mary Maddox remained standing, statue-like, at the edge of the gash in the ground, her gaze locked on the raw pine casket that had been lowered into the grave. After a long
moment, she stooped, grabbed a handful of the loose earth piled around the hole, stood, and sprinkled it down onto the top of the casket. After blessing herself with the sign of the cross, she turned and walked toward the mourners, who were now encamped around the serving tables, sipping glasses of lemonade and talking quietly.

  As Mary passed Kitty, she offered a slight, icy nod to the slave and then pointed her chin in the direction of the grave. Kitty nodded in return and shepherded her children toward the grave site. She bent and whispered to each of them in turn—five-year-old Eliza Jane, four-year-old Mary, and two-year-old Arthur—and then she and the children knelt in prayer for a moment. As they stood, Kitty dropped a small flower she had been clutching onto the top of the casket. She then ushered the children across the yard and into the main house, her head held high, looking neither right nor left, ignoring the sidelong glances flickering from many of the whispering mourners.

  Taking up a position at the head of the main table, Mary accepted condolences and chatted briefly in subdued and somber tones with friends and neighbors. The farm slaves had melted away after the ceremony, absolved from their ordinary labor for the day, while the house slaves were busy tending to the needs of the assembled mourners.

  Mary looked up and brightened noticeably as one of the guests approached. Fanny Withers stepped through the circle of neighbors and embraced Mary as the other mourners backed away deferentially, providing a halo of privacy for the two friends.

  “Oh, Fanny,” Mary whispered, locked in a long embrace. “I just don’t know what I’m goin’ to do without him.”

  Fanny pulled away slightly, keeping her hands clasped around Mary’s arms, and smiled. She was strikingly attractive, with golden curls framing a long, angular face. Tall, though not as tall as Mary, she carried herself like the local royalty that she was. Although her dress was similar in funereal color to those of the other women gathered in the yard, it was markedly different in style. Silk ribbons and lace adorned the front of the dress, while rows of ruffles cascaded down the back, all in sharp contrast to the stark simplicity of the other mourners’ attire.