Texas Angel, 2-in-1 Page 2

  How much longer could she deny it? The letter was true! All of it. Her mother had been a quadroon woman and a slave. Papa had told Elise the entire story but had waited until her wedding day to do so. She had known nothing until that day. She had been raised a white female among the gentry, though her father was bankrupt more often than not. He had fallen in love with Claire in New Orleans and had helped her escape to Pennsylvania, where they married and where Elise was born. Papa said Claire could pass for white by claiming to be of French extraction, and she did so until her untimely death. It had then been an easy matter for him to continue the ruse. Elise looked as white as Mother Hearne herself except for her hair, which was the color of a lump of coal, and her rich chocolate brown eyes. Papa said her eyes were just like her mother’s. And if so, the portrait would surely reveal that the woman in it was indeed Elise’s mother.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” Mother Hearne said, full of accusation. Her eyes were narrow and incisive, showing no hint of a willingness to forgive. “Don’t deny it, girl! I see it in your face. You have deceived us—you . . . you nigger!”

  “Mother!” exclaimed Kendell, rousing as if from a stupor. Poor Kendell. His face was ashen, his lips trembling as he fought to hold his composure.

  Elise’s own emotion broke at last, and tears spilled from her eyes. “Please . . .” Denials were no use now, not after seeing her husband’s agony. She owed him the truth. “Forgive me. . . .” Her sobs made further speech difficult.

  “No . . . it can’t be. . . .” Kendell murmured.

  “You must let me explain,” Elise managed to say.

  “There can be no acceptable explanation,” Daphne said. “You have disgraced this family. We will never be able to hold up our heads in society again. Our son has married the child of a slave—she is a slave herself for that matter. Our granddaughter is—” But as Daphne spoke, the full import of what she was saying hit her, and she was stricken momentarily to silence. “I . . . I think I shall faint. . . .”

  “I didn’t know,” Elise blurted through her tears. “That is”—she focused imploring eyes upon her husband—“my father told me the morning of our wedding. I was confused and afraid.”

  “And you think that is reason enough to have deceived us?” William challenged.

  “I didn’t know what to do. . . .”

  “We will never believe another word you say!” cried Daphne, who had not fainted and in fact had never fainted in her life. “You knew what shame such a thing would bring upon your husband and his family. That is why you kept it a secret.”

  “I thought love would be enough—”

  “Don’t speak that word. It is a foul obscenity from your lips. You know nothing of it. I doubt you are capable of love. I feared when you married—and I am certain of it now—that you married Kendell for money and security only.”

  “It’s not true!”

  “You lying wench.”

  “Kendell, you know I love you.”

  Kendell looked away from Elise, and she knew in that dreadful moment she would find no mercy, no forgiveness from him. If her husband turned away from her, all was hopeless. What would happen now? The question echoed in her mind, but she could not voice it. She was not surprised that it was the level-headed, shrewd William who broached the subject.

  “Before we called you,” he said, “Kendell, Mrs. Hearne, and I discussed what we ought to do if these allegations were true. This is not easy for any of us. In the last year we have accepted you as part of our family. Indeed, we have grown fond of you—” A loud harrumph from Daphne clearly indicated what she thought of that statement. Casting his wife a quick glance before giving a lame shrug, William went on. “Well, anyway, you have taken on our name and given birth to our blood. We have accepted you and lavished upon you all the finest comforts, yet you have repaid us with the most heinous of deceptions. There can be no way for life to continue as it was. There is no way our son can continue in a marriage to one such as you.”

  A sob escaped Elise’s lips before she could rein it back.

  “The state of South Carolina,” William continued, ignoring Elise’s display of emotion, “does not recognize divorce. At twenty-two, our son’s life is ruined because of you. He can never marry again. . . .”

  “Please!” Elise begged. “We can go far away from here where no one knows us. We can have a life together. We could be happy—”

  “Do you think our son wants to spend his life with a nigger, raising little pickaninnies?” Daphne scoffed. “You foolish woman!”

  “Mrs. Hearne,” William said, “I don’t believe Elise yet fully understands the implications of her plight. Even if we were to permit Kendell to stay with you, even if he wanted to do so, it is not our decision to make. Your mother was the property of Maurice Thomson. She was never a free woman but always a fugitive slave. That means she and her offspring are Thomson’s property. You are Thomson’s slave.”

  “No!” screamed Elise.

  “If Kendell would help you run away, he would be a felon himself. But he would never do that because he has too much respect for the system in which he was nurtured.” William gulped down the bourbon he had ignored until now. “Thomson’s lawyer will be here in a few days to verify his claims and to collect his . . . property.”

  “You can’t do this!” Elise jumped from her seat and threw herself at her father-in-laws feet. “I beg you. Think of your granddaughter . . . for her sake, please don’t do this!”

  “You belong with your own kind,” William said coldly.

  Elise then went to her husband and fell on her knees before him. “Kendell! You could not be so cruel. Our baby . . . what will become of her . . . of me? Has your love grown cold so quickly? I know you must still care. Have mercy on us!”

  He turned his back on her. And in that moment, there on her knees before a rich white planter, she truly felt who she was—a despised slave, and nothing more.

  CHAPTER

  3

  A BILLOWING CLOUD OF DUST ENVELOPED the wagon, blurring the eyes of the passengers, choking their throats, and dampening their spirits. Benjamin Sinclair, seated next to the driver of the wagon, was thirty-three years old, tall, lean, and, despite his well-muscled body, appeared unsuited to travel upon a trail in the wilds of America. His handsome, clean-shaven face, though covered with grit now, had an intelligent, scholarly look that fit more with his gentlemanly garb of corduroy trousers, black serge coat, waistcoat, and silk cravat than with his surroundings. His blond, baby-fine hair further softened the initial impressions his physique might lead one to form of this man. Only his eyes, a vibrant blue, almost turquoise, hinted of a fire, an inner grit matching that of the wilderness trail.

  At the moment, however, even that fire was dimmed. He longed for the sights and sounds of civilization after so many weeks of travel through the wilderness. Then he silently scolded himself for dwelling too much upon temporal comforts, placing them above that of his holy calling.

  He had known from the beginning that his mission to the wasteland of Texas would not be easy.

  Unfortunately, the endless days upon the trail—the hardships, the fear of molestation by Indians, wild animals, or highwaymen—had dimmed his vision. Moreover, it had been difficult watching his family suffer. Benjamin had not the funds to purchase steamboat fare, so they made their way on the hard trail. The trip had taken its toll on his wife, Rebekah, who was several months advanced with child. She had eaten little food and was now so weak she could barely sit upright in the back of the wagon where she was wedged in with the children, their belongings, and a load of supplies their guide had brought.

  Benjamin wondered many times during the long days of travel if he had made the right decision, if he truly had heard the voice of God calling him to minister to the heathen wilds of Texas. When he wasn’t occupied with the labors of survival, he was on his knees beseeching God’s reaffirmation of his call.

  “Are we almost there?” a whining voice called out.


  Benjamin turned in his seat next to the driver to meet the questioning gaze of his twelve-year-old son. “Be still, Micah,” Benjamin said.

  “Your complaints will not hurry this wagon along.”

  “Another hour or so will get us to Natchez,” interjected the driver.

  Benjamin shot the man a cross glance. Tom Fife, their guide, had been an unsavory companion for the last week, but Benjamin tried to be patient. After all, the man had rescued them when their previous guide had left them stranded on the banks of a swollen river far from their destination. The scoundrel had stolen their horses, leaving them only a wagon with a broken axle. Fife, driving a wagon drawn by two huge mules and loaded with furs and other trade goods, happened along and showed them a better crossing. He then offered them passage and agreed to guide them to Natchez. It had been a hard blow to leave his costly wagon behind, but Benjamin thanked God that at least their belongings could fit onto Fife’s conveyance.

  Now Benjamin’s forbearance of the man was wearing thin. Fife’s foul tongue, his crude manners, and his constant interference in matters involving Benjamin’s family were trying even Benjamin’s vast reserve of Christian tolerance. After two days on the road, he had forbidden his family to have any contact with Fife. Micah had taken a liking to the trapper and spent the days after Benjamin’s edict sulking. It didn’t help that Fife constantly defied Benjamin by continuing to socialize with the children, telling them stories, giving them treats, or performing other indulgent acts.

  No, it had not been easy following God’s will in uprooting his family and transporting them hundreds of miles from their civilized home in Boston to this wild, godless land. Some had called Benjamin crazy or even heartless to impose such a fate upon a genteel woman and two helpless children. But God must always come first, and His will must always supersede the desires of the flesh.

  Nevertheless, Benjamin would never reveal to another human, not even his wife, that he often feared what lay ahead and was sickened at the thought of what he had left behind—a comfortable frame house, a pastorate in a small but fine church, his ailing parents, whom he knew he would never see again. And yes, in the privacy of his prayer closet, he even at times doubted the very calling of God.

  Benjamin glanced covertly back at his family huddled together on the hard wagon boards with only a few blankets to pad them against the bouncing and jolting. The children, even Micah, were clinging to their mother. Five-year-old Isabel looked especially helpless, but she had always been a frail child.

  Rebekah, thank God, was asleep, but her eyes fluttered beneath the thin, pale lids. It was almost impossible now to see through her weari.ness the lovely woman she was. Creamy skin with a small smattering of freckles across her nose was the inevitable legacy of her voluminous auburn hair. It had always given her such a vibrant appearance, but now it only emphasized frailty. She had never supported her husband’s caprice, as she often called it. She tried to tell him that one did not have to go to the wilderness to serve God. There were sufficient sinners in Boston to keep a man of God occupied honorably. She had wept every day for two weeks before their departure. She had several sisters with whom she was quite close and a younger brother whom she adored, not to mention parents she loved. Then there were scores of friends and a pleasant life filled with social gatherings, ministrations to the needy, sewing circles, and the like. She had been a minister’s wife to be proud of, happily active in the church, submissive to her husband, and beloved by her children.

  Benjamin knew more than ever that because of her sacrifices, he must never allow his fleshly doubts to surface. He had to ignore them and stand firm in his convictions. She must never know that he wavered at times.

  In that spirit, he turned his face forward again, setting his jaw, gathering his resolve around him like a shield. He had always lived by the strength of his convictions, so why should now be any different? He was wearing the mantle of God, and that mantle was large enough to cover his family as well.

  Natchez, located on the Mississippi River, on the border of the states of Louisiana and Mississippi, was a thriving port town of several thousand inhabitants. Here the Sinclair family would take passage on a riverboat, which would transport them to New Orleans. From there it was but a five. or six-day sea voyage to Texas. With the end of the long journey finally within sight, Benjamin was feeling hopeful once more.

  “Rebekah,” he called to the back of the wagon, “we have come to a city at last. We shall rest a night here in a hotel on a real bed.”

  Rebekah wearily pulled herself up so as to peer over the sideboards of the wagon. She nodded her head without enthusiasm. “As you say, Benjamin.”

  Benjamin was silent. He did not wish to rebuke his wife in front of the children or their heathen driver, but he would speak to her privately later regarding her attitude. Her negativity was affecting the children and making it difficult for him to hold to his vision. It was difficult enough for him to present an optimistic front, especially as he began to observe the town of Natchez more closely.

  It hardly warranted much enthusiasm. Nearing the docks, he viewed a squalid and unsavory expanse of saloons, crowded even in early afternoon. Dirty, foul-mouthed dock workers and disreputable women roamed the streets, as did characters who looked like the very highwaymen Benjamin had feared on the trail.

  “This ain’t no city,” Micah piped up sourly. “The slums of home looked better’n this.”

  “Hold your tongue, Micah.” Even if Benjamin agreed with his son, he would not abide such insolence and had no qualms about rebuking his son in public when it was deserving. How else would the boy learn humility?

  “Are we gonna live in a slum, Papa?” Isabel asked in a tremorous voice.

  “I will tolerate no more impudence from either of you children. Say no more until I give you permission to speak.”

  “I reckon the young’un asked a fair question,” Fife said.

  “No one asked you, sir,” Benjamin barked.

  “Well, I don’t need no permission to talk, Reverend,” Fife sneered, his curling lip revealing yellow and rotten teeth. “And I says ’tis a fair question, especially from someone who’s only knowed the likes of civilized Boston. But this is a long way from Texas, Issy,” Fife added pointedly to Isabel in a more tender tone. “And you can be thankful this ain’t your final abode.”

  Benjamin was perturbed that he had to agree with Fife. “That is true, Mr. Fife, but it is the very sin and immorality here that confirm the urgency of my calling.”

  Fife shrugged but said nothing. Benjamin knew the man was avoiding a discussion of spiritual matters. They had already engaged in several such discourses while on the road. Benjamin had made faithful attempts to convert the driver’s godless soul, but to no avail. Knowing such a debate would be useless, Benjamin fell silent also. No use wasting his breath. If Fife burned in eternal damnation, it could not be laid to Benjamin’s account.

  Five silent minutes later, Fife said, “I reckon I’ll take you to one of the steamship company offices where you can find out ’bout buying tickets.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fife. That is most kind of you.” Benjamin spoke stiffly but politely, for he had yet another request to make of the driver.

  “Could I impose upon you to take me and my family from the office to a suitable hotel?” At Fife’s momentary hesitation, Benjamin added, “I know you are anxious to take your leave from us, but it should only mean another half hour of your time. I would not ask, but in a place like this it is difficult to know whom to trust.”

  “I’ll do it for the lady and the young’uns, but if ’n it were just you, Reverend, nothing would get me to go another mile with you! I would’ve deserted you like the last man if ’n it weren’t for your family. When I first heard what that feller done I was steamed, but I know now he just couldn’t take another minute of your uppity holy attitude, not to mention your durned—”

  “Please, Mr. Fife, watch your language in the presence of a woman an
d children!”

  “You drive me to it, Reverend! I been a patient man because I had no choice, but now I’ll tell you what I really think. You treat them sweet children like they was criminals. I ain’t seen you smile at them since we started. And that poor sufferin’ woman! What would possess a man to drag her away from home and hearth?”

  “Stop this wagon immediately!” Benjamin shouted. “I’ll hear no more of your abuse. You have no idea of what you speak. You are a godless fool and have no right to judge a true man of God.”

  “I said I was gonna take you to the steamship office and then to the hotel—and that’s what I’m gonna do! But before I do, I’ll say one last thing. I may be ignorant and no highfalutin eastern-educated minister. And I may be ten kinds of fool, but I ain’t godless, and I’ll not be accused of being so by anyone!” Fife took a sharp breath, then snapped his mouth firmly closed, jerking his gaze forward and urging the horses on at a faster pace.

  Benjamin focused his eyes stubbornly forward also. The man had incredible nerve. If he were a Christian man as he claimed, he would not treat a servant of God in such a manner.

  A few minutes later the wagon came to a stop before a building with a sign over its door reading St. Louis Steamship Company.

  “Here we are,” Fife announced tightly.

  Benjamin went inside and made arrangements for passage on a riverboat, which would be departing in two days. Benjamin was disappointed at the delay, but he supposed Rebekah could use the extra rest. He returned to the wagon and unloaded the goods that would be stored at the office until departure. Then Fife drove them to an inexpensive but respectable-looking hotel.

  After a room was reserved, Benjamin returned to the wagon and reached into his coat pocket, withdrawing his wallet and counting out ten dollars, the amount he and Fife had agreed upon at the beginning of their journey together.

  Fife looked at the money Benjamin held out but made no move to take it. “Never mind that,” he said instead.