Grief can take care of itself,120Please respect copyright.PENANAirQFVoJg2M
but to get the full value of a joy you must have someone to divide it with.120Please respect copyright.PENANA7OfjvzUayE
- Mark Twain-
The steamer trunk cracked open as it fell from the back of the litter. Her mother's china spilled out, delicate saucers and tea cups crushed under the hooves of the robber's horse. The animal danced on what remained of her inheritance, grinding it into the muddy road.
Verity's driver fumbled out of the cart with his trembling hands lifted over a balding head. He stammered out pleas while the man on the horse glowered at him. The barrel of his revolver shifted from the driver towards Verity. She lifted her chin as her backbone snapped straight with indignation.
“Well? What are you waiting for? Shoot me,” she demanded. Her life didn't count for much anymore and the future was bleak. If it all ended there on that Tennessee back road, then so be it.
The robber pulled back the hammer on the pistol, his eyebrows lifting. “You're awful uppity, little Yankee. You come down to these parts to gloat?”
“No, your kind killed my kind. I have no where else to go. Isn't that everyone's story these days? Now rob and murder us or be on your way. I'm tired, hot and hungry. And certainly in no mood for conversation.”
The man dropped the weapon and cocked his head to the side. With a rumbling laugh he tugged down the kerchief covering the lower half of his face. He wasn't a young man and his front teeth were black, a scrubby layer of whiskers on his chin. “I have a mind to let you pass, Miss...”
Verity glanced down at her hands, neatening her gloves. “Mrs.”
“Pardon me,” he quipped, spitting onto the road, “Mrs...”
“Watts.”
“You look awful pretty in black. In what battle did you husband get it, Mrs. Watts?”
Verity gave a dry scoff, keeping her eyes on her hands. “Does it matter-”
“Yes,” the man lifted the revolver again and pointed it at her. “As much as your life matters.”
“Bull Run.”
The man dropped the revolver. “You'll be meaning Manassas.”
She nodded and blinked up at him. “So will you be killing us today, Mr...”
“Gerald,” he replied shaking his shaggy head. “So tell your man to get up off his knees. I will be needing your purse though. And jewelry.”
The driver scrambled back onto the cart. Verity dug into her carpet bag and pulled out the bundle of money she had stowed in there. She had sewn the rest of her valuables into her petticoats for safe keeping. Something like this had been bound to happen.
Mr. Gerald trotted up to the side of the cart and took the roll of US bills from her. His eyes grazed over her fingers at the shape of her wedding ring under her glove, too late for her to hide it away. He turned from her with a chuckle.
“Keep it, mam'. I'll be stealing no wedding rings from widows, no matter what side their man fought on.” He tipped his hat and led the horse away.
“Mr. Gerald!” Verity turned towards him. He stopped and glanced back. “Tell me, where my husband died, why was it so important?”
The man replaced the kerchief over his nose. “My younger brother was killed at Sharpsburg. Wanted to make sure your husband wasn't the one that pulled the trigger.”
Verity gripped the edge of the cart. Sharpsburg to the Confederates. Antietam to the Union, where her father had been killed. He hadn't asked about him though and she certainly wasn't going to tell now.
“I'm sorry for your loss,” she managed, the driver snorting at the irony of showing sympathy to the man who had just robbed them.
Verity didn't know if the man replied to her condolences. And she never would.
The lightening snap of a bullet cracked from the nearby woods. It hit Mr. Gerald in the throat, blood spurting out a good foot. He thudded from the horse into the mud, the animal rearing back in panic.
Another figure trotted out of the trees, dressed in blue. The stranger's clothes were thread bare and his golden brown hair matted with dirt from living out in the elements. He ambled over to the dying man and shot him one more time in the forehead.
Verity stared in shock. The savagery of the action shook her to the core. she stumbled off the cart and retched by the horses.
“Miss!” It was a young man's voice, bright as though they were at a picnic or church social.
Verity pressed her hands to her waist and righted herself, breathing deeply through her nose. The union soldier strode up to her. Heavy lines etched the sides of his mouth and forehead but he was clearly younger than he seemed. They all had aged ten years in a matter of four.
“I believe this is yours.” He presented the money to her, Mr. Gerald's blood smearing the top bill.
She snatched it away, ripping the stained sheet from the rest and handing it over to the soldier.
“Oh no please, I don't need-”
She shoved it into his chest as she passed by him. “Take it. Blood money for your services.”
Slogging through the mud till the hem of her mourning dress was soaked, she dropped by the trunk in the back. The body lay in the middle of the road. Eyes fixed in front of her, she righted the splintering trunk and opened it. There were a few pieces still intact. She removed her cloak and carefully wrapped the chipped china in it, swallowing back tears. For all her bravado, Verity couldn't fight the shock washing over her.
“Mrs. Watts, we need to be on our way!” The driver called out. She ignored him.
“Here let me help-” The young man was by her side once again, picking up her mother's plates and saucers. Dirtying them with mud and blood.
“No, no. I don't need you to help-” she protested.
“Please, I insist-”
She shoved him away and rose to her feet, wrapping her arms around her body. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to remember she had seen far worse things in the hospital in Virginia. Working as a nurse, she had seen ravaged body after body. But she had never seen such violence in person.
“Miss-”
“Mrs,” she corrected yet again. “It's Mrs. Watts.”
“Mrs. Watts, I apologize if I disturbed you-”
“No,” Verity interrupted. “I understand, you did what you had to do. Anyway, Mr. Ger- ...that man was in the wrong.”
He shifted on his feet, clasping his hands behind his back. “Did you know him?”
Verity laughed. “No, not formally. He was just a thief.”
But what was he before all this? What were you? A man with a boy's smile and blood on his hands. She thought grimly. She certainly wasn't the spoiled girl she had been before the war.
“Where are you headed, Mrs. Watts?”
“To the next town. The man will take me only that far,” she replied, neatening her bonnet. “Mr. Brooks, if you will kindly get that trunk into the back?”
“No use, Missus. It's busted. Lets get a move on before dark,” Brooks, the driver, snapped impatiently.
Without a word, the young man strode back to the trunk and hefted it into the cart, picking up the salvageable shards of china and putting it with the rest. Verity managed a smile as he returned to where she waited. Twilight breeze hushed through the trees, crickets and katydids shrilling in the bushes.
“I'm trying to get to Missouri,” Verity volunteered with a shrug.
The young man's gray eyes widened as he let out a bark of a laugh. “Is that so? Whereabouts?”
“St. Petersburg.”
He smirked and pretended to tip a hat to her that wasn't present. “Then I should be introducing myself proper like. We might be neighbors come this time next year. My name is Sawyer.”
Verity managed a weak smile as he reached out to help her up into the cart. “Mr. Sawyer?”
“That's right,” he answered, gripping her hand lightly. “Tom Sawyer.”
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