The River Palace: A Water Wheel Novel #3 Read online

  The River Palace, Digital Edition

  Based on Print Edition

  Copyright © 2013 by Gilbert Morris

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America

  978-1-4336-7319-1

  Published by B&H Publishing Group,

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Dewey Decimal Classification: F

  Subject Heading: STEAMBOATS—FICTION / LOVE STORIES HELPING BEHAVIOR—FICTION

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Tweleve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Gypsy Glossary

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Looky there at them stinkin’ bluebellies, Gage. Ain’t they disgustin’? They got on new uniforms and most of ’em is fat as sucklin’ pigs.”

  Gage Kennon, standing next to his friend Ebenezer Jones, studied the Union troops bringing the supply wagons into their camp just across the river from Appomattox Court House, Virginia. He took in the unfaded blue uniforms, the shining brass buttons, the glittering gold braid of the officers, the polished sword hilts, the mirror-shined boots. In contrast, the Army of Northern Virginia was scarecrow ragged and thin. Many of them had no shirts, only blankets thrown over their shoulders. His friend Eb had no shoes; his feet were wrapped in green cowhide strips.

  Still, Gage felt a moment of pride. We’re still dangerous, he thought, his brow lowering. Like half-starved wolves or cougars. But he merely agreed in his low voice, “You’re right, Eb. They are right pretty.”

  “I’ve a mind not to eat their rations. Gits my craw to take charity from them,” Eb complained.

  “They’re probably our rations,” Gage said. “I heard they took our supply train that was on the way to Lynchburg. Besides, if we don’t eat them, the bluebellies will, and they’ll just get fatter and more rosy-cheeked than they already are.”

  “Hmph!” Eb grunted. “Then I’m gonna eat till I’m bursten!”

  The previous day their beloved leader General Robert E. Lee had returned to the remnants of the Army of Northern Virginia, now in April 1865 a scant twenty-seven thousand men. He had surrendered to General Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox Court House. General Lee had dressed immaculately for the sorrowful occasion, wearing a brand-new gray uniform, boots with decorative red stitching, spotless white gauntlets, and a sword with a bejeweled hilt. The men had crowded around him and his beloved horse, Traveler, sometimes gently touching the horse, murmuring words of comfort and support. Many cast themselves to the ground and wept unashamedly.

  General Grant’s terms of surrender were generous, indeed. No Confederate soldier was to be imprisoned or prosecuted for treason; they were free men. All who had their own personal mounts were to keep them, for General Grant had understood that most of the men were farmers, and he was anxious for them to return to their homes and begin their pastoral life again with their draft animals. Admitting to General Lee that General Sheridan’s U.S. Cavalry had captured their wagon train, Grant had ordered thirty thousand rations for the defeated army.

  The Rebels stood watching the long line of wagons, escorted by cavalry, file into the valley and begin to line up at the edge of their camp. The Union soldiers curiously looked over the sea of men, standing with shoulders thrown back and arms crossed defiantly. Some of them particularly noted Gage Kennon, for he was six feet tall, head and shoulders above most men. He was one of the few that still wore a Confederate uniform, a gray shell jacket with sergeant’s stripes on the sleeves and trousers with the blue ribbon of the infantry down the side, tucked into knee-high cavalry boots. His friend Eb was only five-five, tough and leathery, dressed in humble butternut homespun, and he stared back at the Union soldiers with contempt.

  There was no stampede to the longed-for food. The men waited until the quartermasters were ready with the rations, and then filed along to get their salt pork and hardtack quietly, in good order. When the Union cook handed Gage his ration wrapped in a muslin rag, Gage quietly said, “Thank you, Private.” The man was too surprised to reply.

  Eb and Gage returned to their tents and sat together on Gage’s oilcloth poncho to eat. It had rained during the night, and their camp was a sea of stinking mud. The dawn was dismal and chilly, with low dun-colored clouds hiding all traces of the sun. Despite the vast crowd of men in gray and blue in the wide valley, it was quiet. The Confederate soldiers said little, and when they did talk their voices were low. The Union soldiers also spoke in murmurs, even the officers giving their perfunctory orders quietly.

  Eb said, “These here ain’t our rations. Marse Robert woulda got us some cornmeal to make hoecakes, instead of these sheet-iron crackers.”

  “They didn’t have to give us anything at all,” Gage said mildly. “Look at the bright side, Eb. All these weevils in the hardtack are extra meat.”

  Soon it was time to break camp for the last time. The men folded up their tents and gathered their rucksacks as if they were precious jewels, then slowly formed ranks for their last dread duty as Confederate soldiers: giving up their arms. They marched with their old swinging, swaggering step to an unnamed road, little more now than a mud wagon trail. Across it stood the Federals, a sea of dark blue. Eb and Gage stood side by side with what was left of their company, the Sons of the South Sharpshooters. Their commander, the dashing and fierce General John B. Gordon, rode at the head of the column, with rounded shoulders and downcast face.

  Then suddenly the commander receiving the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia, Brigadier General Joshua Chamberlain, gave an order in a clear clarion call. “Carry arms!” Bugles sounded, and the distinctive susurration of shifting arms sounded on the clear air. General Gordon looked up in wonder; their enemies were saluting them. With a steely ringing sound he drew his sword, then touched it to his boot toe, honor answering honor.

  Two days later General Chamberlain wrote:

  Before us in proud humiliation stood the embodiment of manhood; men whom neither toils nor sufferings, nor the fact of death, nor disaster nor hopelessness could bend from their resolve; standing before us now, thin, worn, famished, but erect, and with eyes looking level into ours, waking memories that bound us together as no other bond;—was not such manhood to be welcomed back into a Union so tested and assured?

  Eb and Gage laid down their rifles, threw down their cartridge boxes, and went to the corrals where the horses were. Mounting in silence, they rode away from the forlorn valley.

  ABOUT TWO MILES BACK east, as the army had been making their last desperate run to escape the encircling Federals, Gage and Eb had blundered through an almost impenetrable pine thicket about thirty yards wide. At the base of a tall skinny pine tree they had buried their rifles in Eb’s oilcloth. As they resumed their running fight, they took two rifles from dead Union soldiers that hadn’t been retrieved from the field yet.

  Gage went in an
arrow-straight line to the thicket and found the tree. Soon they had retrieved their precious Whitworth rifles, the top-of-the-line weapon for sharpshooters. Gage had also buried his M1841 Mississippi rifle, the first gun he had been issued when he had joined the Confederate Army. He hadn’t used it very much.

  The time came for the two men to part, and the hardship showed on both of their faces. Gage stuck out his hand and Eb took it, and they shook, hard. “Ebenezer Jones, it’s been a privilege and an honor to serve with you,” Gage said quietly. “God bless you, keep you, and prosper you and yours, my friend.”

  Eb was choking back tears, but he managed to say, “And to you, my good friend.”

  Ebenezer Jones rode west. Gage rode east. Neither of them looked back.

  GAGE KENNON WAS A solitary man.

  The Union Army had offered to let the defeated rebels use the railroads to return to their homes. Gage could have chosen any of a dozen railroad lines to take him east and south, but he didn’t. Instead he chose to travel the entire distance, over a thousand miles, down country on horseback. For the last four years he had been in the company of thousands of men, eating with them, marching with them, talking to them (somewhat), listening to them (continually), sleeping with them, and awaking to them. He longed to be alone, truly alone, as deeply as a thirsty man desires water. Instead of taking a couple of weeks by train, he knew it would take him a couple of months to reach New Orleans. As he rode out of the Appomattox River Valley, for the first time in many long months his heart was lifted up, and he looked forward to the coming days of seclusion and privacy.

  He patted his horse’s neck. “How ’bout it, boy? We’re finally going home. It’ll take us awhile, but I’ll bet you in the next week or so we’ll be out of this desert and we can find you some real forage.” Normally southern Virginia and northern Tennessee could hardly be characterized as a desert, but the countryside had been ravaged by the war. Farms were stripped of crops and animals, pastures were bald, even most of the woodlands were sparse as the armies had cut down thousands of trees to make videttes or crude log huts for the long winter camps. The horse snorted disdainfully in agreement with Gage.

  Gage had named his horse Cayenne, for he was such a bright chestnut he was almost as red as the pepper. A tall horse, he was over sixteen hands, which was good for Gage, who had long legs. Cayenne had beautiful glossy black points, stockings and mane and tail, and he was a sturdily built horse, though not heavy-limbed. Now after four years of war, his ribs showed and his coat was dull, but he still had stamina and strength. Gage reflected acerbically that Cayenne’s was the only company he could enjoy just now. Their temperaments were much alike. Cayenne was a calm, composed, easygoing horse.

  He skirted the Cumberland Mountains, heading for the Cumberland Gap. It took him sixteen days to reach the tiny village named for the pass. It was April 26, 1865, and Gage had missed going to church on Easter Sunday, which had been on the sixteenth. On that day he had been six days from Appomattox, in a scanty pine wilderness at the foot of the mountains. Now, even though it was a Wednesday, Gage thought he might find a little church in the outpost and pray for awhile.

  The town of Cumberland Gap had a post office, a saloon, a mercantile store, a church, and a huddle of perhaps two dozen log cabins. Gage went first to the mercantile store to get some supplies, hoping they might actually have some. Although the Gap was of great strategic importance as an east-west gateway, there had been only minor skirmishes there in the war, and it had never been occupied by either army.

  Some men were on the single main street, but no horses or buggies. Gage hitched Cayenne to the post in front of the general store and went in. Several men were seated and standing around a potbellied stove that had a low fire. They were talking loudly, then grew quiet when Gage entered. He touched his hat and said, “Good day, gentlemen. Looking for some supplies, if you’ve got any on hand.”

  The storekeeper, a short bald man with a snowy white apron, came forward to shake his hand. “Good to see you, Sergeant. You from these parts, are you?”

  “No, sir, I’m on my way home.” Gage looked around the well-stocked shelves, the barrels of crackers and pickles, the joints of meat hanging along the back wall. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen this much tucker all in one place. There’s a couple of things I sure could use, and I bet you’ve got them. Coffee, cornmeal, any vegetables I can get my hands on, and oats and molasses for my horse.”

  The storekeeper went around the counter and started gathering the items Gage had named. “Er—Sergeant, the Yanks have already been here and told me that our Confederate money is outlawed, so—er—that is—”

  “Don’t worry, sir, I’ve got coins,” Gage said.

  The storekeeper brightened considerably. “Well, that’s good news. And I’m glad you’ve come now, Sergeant, because I expect any day now there’s going to be patrols out hunting you boys down one by one, the country’s in such an uproar.”

  Gage frowned. “What are we in an uproar about now?”

  A low murmur sounded from the men around the stove. The storekeeper answered, “You haven’t heard? Abraham Lincoln was shot. Killed dead by a Confederate sympathizer, some crazy fool of an actor. Back on Good Friday, it was, April 14.”

  “What! Oh, no,” Gage groaned. “Crazy fool’s too good a name for him, cowardly madman sounds more like it to me.”

  The storekeeper nodded in agreement. “They’re blaming us, you know. Every last man of us. Like we knew that lowdown snake, like any honorable gentleman would put a bullet in the president’s head. He was just watching a play, and that varmint sneaked up behind and shot him in the back of the head, right in front of his wife! Even though we thought he was our deadliest enemy, no son of the South could think of such a terrible thing. Anyway, Sergeant, if you’re traveling, and especially if you’re armed, you’d better keep a sharp lookout for any Yanks buzzing around. They’re mad as hornets and looking for trouble.”

  “Can’t say I blame ’em,” Gage said regretfully. “Thanks for the warning, sir. I’ll take the back roads from now on, for certain.” Gage gave the man the one dollar and eleven cents he owed.

  The storekeeper stared down at the coins in his hand. “Didn’t know any of you poor boys had any money left a-tall,” he murmured. “Most of us surely don’t.”

  “Had it when I joined up,” Gage told him, “and somehow I couldn’t find much I cared to spend it on in the last four years. Thank you again, sir.”

  Gage was very glad now that he’d decided not to take up the Yankees’ charitable offer of the railroad travel. He figured all that Federal goodwill was gone for good now. Even though he hadn’t planned to visit any of the larger towns and cities on his way, he now decided to give them all a wide berth.

  In ten more days he was on the outskirts of Nashville, and he made a long circle around the city. On the far outskirts he saw only ragged farmers on foot or in shabby wagons with skinny, tired horses. At the south of the city he breathed easier for the first time since Cumberland Gap. He was at the north end of the Natchez Trace, the old road that led from Nashville down to Natchez, Mississippi. All four hundred forty miles of the wide path had first been cleared by Native Americans—mostly Choctaw and Chickasaw—who first followed the bison and deer as they made their way from the Mississippi Delta north to the salt licks in Tennessee. Then the Indians began using it as a trade route, then were joined by the European settlers, and at the beginning of the century the United States Army began blazing the trail because of the success of the booming trade route. Finally the “Kaintocks” came, farmers from Kentucky and Tennessee, who floated their goods on flatboats down the northern rivers until they reached the Mississippi. In Natchez and New Orleans they sold their goods, including their wooden rafts, and walked back north up the Trace.

  But by 1815 to the west, Memphis had developed its own roads and railroads to the Mississippi River, and to the east Nashville had done the same. Instead of wooden rafts, great steam
ers carried freight on the river. The Trace had returned to the woods it had been ages ago, although it was still a passable wagon track. But what Gage loved about it was that because all of the transportation was concentrated to the east and west, the Trace had been virtually untouched during the war. The woods were thick and green, the clearings had verdant grasses, the thousands of streams and brooks were clean and sparkling and had known no blood-currents from men in blue and gray. The hunting was easy pickings; Gage could take his choice of wild turkeys, deer, rabbit, squirrels, quail, and any kind of fish he had ever heard of. In the weeks he followed the Trace, both he and Cayenne put on weight and muscle. As they steadily went south and it grew deliciously warm, Gage was able to take all the baths he wanted in the icy springs and brooks along the way; his fine blond hair grew thick and strong again, and Cayenne’s mahogany coat and sable points gleamed in the occasional shots of sunlight through the green-shadowed roof of trees. Gage started remembering that he was a young man of twenty-five, instead of a tired old man twice that age.

  He reached Natchez, Mississippi, at the end of May. He’d heard no news since the middle of April, and he still didn’t want to. He skirted Natchez and started south on the myriad of roads that ran along the Mississippi River, choosing the one that seemed to hug Ol’ Miss closely but still went due south. When he was about fifteen miles south of Natchez he decided to find a good camping spot and maybe stay for a day or two. It was a humid bright morning, and again Gabe blessed the warmth. The winters in Virginia had been long and cruel, and he wasn’t at all acclimated to cold weather. New Orleans was rarely, rarely, cold. Gage hoped he would never again know a cold, bitter night.

  The road Gage was following was a narrow but well-traveled track of red dirt with mostly pine forests on either side. Occasionally a wagon road turned off to an unseen farm or plantation. But he had seen no other traveler on the road for two days.

  As he topped a small rise he saw a curious sight ahead. Gage’s eyesight was preternaturally keen, and though the figure was many yards in front of him, Gage could tell that it was a man walking along the side of the road. But he appeared to be all dressed in white, which was odd. And he was making his way very slowly, in an uneven gait. As Gage neared him he saw that the man was wearing small clothes, a white undershirt and white cotton underpants. He was barefooted. The only things he had were a blue kepi cap on his head and a canteen slung at his side. He moved very slowly; and now Gage saw a lurid red blood stain on the left side of the back of his undershirt. Though he surely must have heard Gage’s approach, he didn’t turn around.