Sweet Victory

Animals stirred in the silent night. Was I going crazy or was I caught in an illusion. Sanity endangered, I was at my wit's end. With fearful eyes, I tried to catch a ray of light that could save me from this anguish. A rancid rancor in my heart helped me stay alive. The darkness was stark, but then I saw a beam of light...

It was a soft glow in the distance, but it oriented me. Focus: I finally had a place to look. The darkness was profound, but now the light grew and gave form to the environment.

I regained my balance and stood up. The road was muddy beneath my boots. I heard the slow bump-bump of wheels turning and a voice singing "Dixie." I couldn't tell how long I had lain there. I was a good rider, but the borrowed horse was not well trained. He had fallen, startled by an owl, and left me afoot.

"Hello," I shouted.

"What? Somebody there?" a harsh man's voice said.

"Yes, my horse threw me. Can you help me?" As I saw the old man in the lamp light, I wondered if I would be better off to stay on the roadside.
"I am Emmy Henry. I have to get home."

"I'm just going to ma barn, missy," he said. "Ah don't travel fur in the dark."

"Yes, I understand," I said. "Maybe I could rest there till morning."

"Yes'm. Maybe it'll be awright," he said hesitantly.

The wagon was rough, but sturdy. In only minutes we were turning into the yard of the barn. In the small storage shed, he offered me the only chair and left to complete his tasks.

My earlier terror returned. I was carrying a message to Captain Walker of the U.S. Army and my benefactor appeared to be a stalwart Southern supporter. This Alabama farmer may not remain gracious if he learns I am a Northern spy.

My long cloak and hair were muddy, but my skirt was not. I pulled them about me against the chill as I sat in the chair and rested my head on the table where the man did his books. I heard the wagon thumping into the barn to unload whatever cargo he carried. His voice was muffled as he talked to the mules.

I must have dozed for several minutes, but I jerked awake when I heard another sound--a sharp whistle. It was still dark. Without any hint of daylight, I had no sure sign of time or direction. A lost spy is a useless creature, and in addition, I was a miserable one.

I had carried messages to troops on three different occasions, but nothing like this had happened before. Being a Southerner in a compromising position had never been a problem. Before I carried verbal messages without much chance of detection. I only gave times or locations of movement. This time I carried a map.
I took it out of my pocket and carefully tore it on the crease down the middle. Then I folded it and put the pieces in the bottom of my boots.

I was threatened rather than reassured by the arrival of another person. There were not many Northern sympathizers around. In truth, I was not of that persuasion myself, however, I was convinced of the righteousness of the Northern cause on the basis of human compassion.

Alert now, I stepped to the door and cracked it open. I could see nothing, but sounds were revealing. Two voices exchanged quiet greetings. Had I not been so fearful, I would have thought they were cautious of me.

The rider led his horse into the barn, and the voices faded. It was so dark in the little shed that I could only move by feeling carefully along the wall. The man had brought the lantern when we arrived, but he took it with him to the barn. I felt burlap sacks of seed or feed and shelves with tools. I was trapped, at least until daylight. I found the chair again and returned to my rest on the little table.

Thumping of wagon wheels jarred me from light sleep. The door was framed by the hint of morning light. At last, I could see where I was. Whether to go home, or continue my journey to the Hickory Creek bridge was yet to be determined. Hearing quiet voices outside, I summoned my strength to stand and receive my benefactor as the door opened.

"Good morning, ma'am," the old man said. "I forgot what you said your name was. I am sorry for such pitiful accomodations."

"Why, sir, I am grateful for your assistance. My name is Emaline Henry. I realize you could only offer me what was available at the time. Now, I do need to get my bearings. I must get home today." I felt no need to mention Hickory Creek. "But sir, who may I thank. I don't know your name either."

"Oh, I'm sorry. My name is Moses Lindquist. I live back up the road. Now I have to get back and tend the stock. Looks like the rain is over." He turned and led me to the wagon where the owner of the other voice was waiting.

I pulled the hood of my cloak close about my face against the sharp chill of the morning and brushed away the crusted mud. The man waiting at the wagon was a tall and broad-shouldered. He offered me his assistance into the wagon.

"Moses, you could introduce me," he said chidingly.

"Oh, yes, I forgot. This is Miss Henry. She may need some help to get home."

"I'd be glad to help," he said. "My name is Edmund Lee Framingham. I live at Burr Oak."

"I'm glad to meet you Mr. Framingham." I took the hand he offered as I climbed into the wagon. "Thank you very much." I hoped my face did not reveal the shock I felt on hearing the name of his home. Burr Oak was the password that would reveal my contact. Could this be some sort or coincidence? Perhaps not. After all, I was heading for Hickory Creek bridge. Maybe he was too.

As we started down the muddy road, I looked around. I was not sure of the direction we had come, but it seemed that we were not heading for Mr. Lindquist's home. He had indicated it was in the opposite direction.

"Mr. Lindquist, where are we going?" I asked. "I thought you had to tend your stock."

"Oh, yes, I will get to that, but first I thought I should take you to Hickery Holler where there is a store. I think John Soames has a horse that will get you home." He seemed very sure of himself although he had never asked me where my home was.

Mr. Framinghamm, who was quite handsome, rode ahead on the narrow road.