Storm Clouds Darken the Conquered South by Michael Staton

Author:Michael Staton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
Published: 2023-05-01T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-one

New York City Here We Come

The steam whistle blew as the New York Central locomotive and its cargo of passenger cars approached a rural road on the periphery of New York City. Sitting next to the open window, breeze blowing in her face, Franny rubbernecked, oohing and aahing. “It’s so much bigger than Richmond. What do you think, Bill? Ten times as large?”

Bill nestled his hand on his wife's thigh as he leaned across her bosom for a better look. He laughed lightly. “Probably fifty times, sweetheart. It’s magnificent, but frankly, London outshines it. Still, it’s a wonderful place for a honeymoon.”

“Indeed, it is.”

It had been a two-day journey with numerous train transfers as Bill and Franny rode the rails from Graham to Raleigh and then up to New Jersey before finally rolling into New York. They had seen their share of depots or terminals, the word favored by northern folks. The couple had somehow managed to get some sleep overnight, snuggling on a sleeping-compartment bunk.

Mid-afternoon sunlight fell on crop fields, orchards and farmhouses beyond their passenger window. It had been rainy the first day of travel, but on the second, the train had left behind the gray clouds and rain. The North greeted them with a near-perfect spring day, the sun shining on prosperous towns and farms.

Beyond lay New York City, Manhattan’s hive of ten-story buildings visible behind the wheat stalks swaying in the breeze. Perched on a ladder resting against the front of a house, a farmer in coveralls dipped a brush into a can and applied yellow paint to the siding. The fellow looked young enough to have been a Union soldier in a New York regiment during the war. No doubt the man preferred painting the outside boards over cleaning his wartime Springfield. The farmer noticed the train and waved. The engineer blew the steam whistle.

Taking Franny’s hand, Bill gently stroked each finger. “I wonder how Betsy liked our bed.”

“Imagine it’s the best she has ever slept in.”

Betsy had spent most of her young life as a slave. Working for them, taking care of Travis and Wynona, was her first job, coming only a few weeks after her papa’s lightning-strike death. Bill felt embarrassed he couldn’t pay her more. Harrumphing, Betsy had said she’d work for the Stamford family for free. He liked keeping her close—that way he could do his best to make sure her halo didn’t steal her life.

“Those poor people in Morbsville—and we never did catch the culprits who shot the damned fireworks.” Anger churned inside Bill’s belly.

Franny untangled her fingers from Bill’s hand and fisted them. “The burns kept Doc Keene busy for most of the night. We’re lucky no one died.”

“Going to be some people with bad scars, though. Sharon’s good citizens are protecting those boys, whoever they are.”

“Should we feel guilty, Bill, leaving now?”

“Guilty?”

“Leaving the guarding of colored farmhouses to others.” Franny leaned against Bill’s shoulder.

“Not a bit. The guard force is trained and ready to do its job. The Klan won’t find it so easy burning down colored farmhouses.

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