The Soldier's Lady by Michael Phillips

Author:Michael Phillips
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Reconstruction (U.S. history, 1865–1877)—Fiction, Plantation life—Fiction, North Carolina—Fiction
ISBN: 9780764200427
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group

MENTOR

17

THE BOY WOKE UP WITH DAYLIGHT STREAMING through two windows above a warm bed in which he slept. He had never slept in a bed with actual sheets and blankets and a mattress in his life. He had no idea where he was.

Gradually the events of the strange night returned to his consciousness.

His natural instinct was to flee. But almost as quickly, he realized the folly of the idea. He had never lain in anything so soft and clean and comfortable in his life. It felt good! Why would he run from this?

Now he realized that he was wearing some kind of strange clothing. It was clean and soft like the bed. And he didn’t smell anymore—his body was clean too.

A door opened. The man from yesterday walked in. He was carrying a tray.

“Good morning, son!” he said. “How did you sleep?”

“Uh . . . okay, I reckon.”

“Would you like some fresh orange juice?”

“Uh, sure,” he replied. The man handed him the glass on the tray. He sat up, took it, tasted it, and then drank it down in a single long gulp.

He handed the man the glass and looked up at him. “Uh . . . thanks,” he said. “I ain’t neber had dat before.” His forehead wrinkled in question. “Why’d you bring me here, mister? Who is you, anyway?”

“My name is Trumbull,” the man answered. “And I didn’t bring you here, you chose to come.”

“How you mean dat?”

“I put a choice before you, then you made your own decision. You may leave anytime you like. There are always two roads before us. They are before us every minute of our lives.”

“What does you mean . . . two roads?”

“The two roads between light and darkness. They are the two roads of character that determine what kind of people we become.”

“What kin’ er nonsense you talkin’ ’bout, mister? I ain’t neber heard nuffin’ like dat. What wuz dat light I seen las’ night?”

“I don’t know. I saw no light.”

“When you come out from dat buildin’, dere wuz light all roun’ you.”

The man called Trumbull smiled. “Well, that is amazing,” he said. “He must have wanted to save you even more than I did.”

“Who you talkin’ ’bout? Whatchu mean He must hab wanted ter save me?”

“I’m talking about God, son.”

“What! Now I knows you’s crazy! I’s gettin’ out er here. Where you put my clothes?”

“I was planning to have them washed this morning. But if you want them back now, I will get them for you.”

He turned to walk away.

“Hey, mister—how’d you know where ter fin’ us las’ night?”

“I followed you,” answered Trumbull, turning back into the room.

“Why—why you doin’ all dis? Why you foller us?”

“I followed you, son—only you.”

“Why me?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Well, I want ter know why.”

“What’s your name, son?”

“Duff . . . Micah Duff.”

“Well then, young Micah Duff,” said Trumbull, pulling a chair to the bedside. “If you want to know why, I will tell you.—Why don’t you have some breakfast from this tray while I tell you about it.

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