Hail, Columbia! by Jack Martin

Author:Jack Martin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Autoset from 'Hail, Columbia! BODY styled for AeP.indd'
by 'Rebecca' on 14/09/2022 at 09:14
Content may have been edited since
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2022-10-26T18:03:36+00:00

CHAPTER 5

“AND EVERY SCHEME OF BONDAGE FAIL …”

“You didn’t finish your dinner, Granda,” said the thin, smiling girl who sat at one end of the table. “You’re always telling me how important it is to eat right.”

At the other end of the table, Nathan Bedford Forrest stopped drumming his fingers and smiled at his granddaughter. “You are right, sweetpea. I have some things on my mind that have killed my appetite; nothing for you to worry your pretty little self about. Now, tell me how your lessons with the tutor went today.”

The girl made a face of distaste. “He kept me writing all the darn day. Practice, practice, practice he said. Make the letters neat, make them readable. It was so boring.”

“I know, darling. It is hard now, but a day will come when you will thank him.” Forrest smiled indulgently at the person he loved the most in the world, while inwardly he winced at the thought of his own semi-literacy. That will not be her lot; she will be a lady, and have a lady’s accomplishments.

The cook appeared in the dining room door. “Gineral Forrest, suh, there be a man waitin’ in your library. He be the one you expectin’.”

“Thank you,” Forrest said gravely; the cook curtsied and left the room. He then spoke to his granddaughter. “Pumpkin, go upstairs and do your reading. Grandpa will be up just as soon as he’s done a little business.”

The petite girl flounced over to her grandfather, pecked him on the cheek, and skipped out of the room. The smile slowly left Forrest’s face, to be replaced by a grim frown. He rose to his feet. Too quickly, a series of deep coughs tore from his lungs. He swiftly covered his mouth with a large linen handkerchief. When the fit finally subsided, he restored the handkerchief to his side coat pocket, squared his narrow shoulders, and marched from the dining room into the library, where his most trusted courier awaited him standing. Nodding to the man, Forrest went to his desk, opened the top drawer, and drew out about thirty envelopes, all save one addressed to leaders in various chapters of the Klan, all containing letters that he had painstakingly written in his own hand, a task he hating doing because it made his semi-literacy all too obvious. He walked over to the courier and handed all but the one to the man.

“These are all to be delivered posthaste to the men to whom they are addressed,” said Forrest. “Use whatever other messengers you can trust to make certain they are delivered in person, and no later than three days from today.”

Forrest hesitated, then handed the final envelope over to the courier. “This is addressed to someone who will surprise you. It is not a mistake, and you must deliver this one personally. I will trust no one else with it.”

The courier, a man who had handled many delicate matters for Forrest over the past six years, looked at the name and address on the final envelope.

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