Dark Chaos (# 4 in the Bregdan Chronicles Historical Fiction Romance Series) (35 page)

             
Abby gasped as Michael pulled out a long whip and snapped it over the horses.  “Get up!” he yelled.  “Get down in the seat!” he hollered to Abby as the carriage sped forward.

             
Abby looked back once and saw a sea of people pressing down on them, anger boiling in their faces.  Thinking quickly, she reached behind the seat and found the extra buggy whip drivers usually carried with them.  Steadying herself, she uncoiled the whip and then grabbed one side of the carriage. 

             
A man lunged out at them from the side of the road and reached for the horses’ bridle in a wild attempt to stop them.  Michael cracked the whip over the horses again, which made them run even faster.  At that exact same moment, Abby leaned out and snapped the whip at the approaching man. She felt grim satisfaction when the tip of the lash raked across the man’s arm.  The man screamed a curse and fell back, stumbling and landing in a pile in the dusty road.  Two men following his example crashed on top of him. 

             
“Way to go, Aunt Abby!”  Michael cried in admiration.

             
The last of the crowd melted away before the careening carriage broke out into an empty street.  Michael kept the horses running for several more blocks before he slowed them and looked back.  “We’re out,” he said in a relieved voice then turned to Abby.  “Where did you learn to handle a whip like that?”

             
“Just luck,” Abby smiled, her hands shaking now that the crisis was past.  “I’d never touched a whip in my life.”

             
Michael laughed, shook his head, and kept going.  “Mother and Father will be glad to see you.  I’m afraid you won’t be able to catch your boat out, though.  I know you planned to leave today, but no one can get through the streets.”

             
“I’ll get home eventually,” Abby said calmly.  “You know, there’s something about almost losing your life that gives you a new perspective on things.  Whether I get home in a few days - or a few weeks, I’m just glad I’m alive to get home.” 

             
Four days later Abby hugged her friends good-bye and stepped onto the boat that would take her to Philadelphia.  She stared out over the harbor sadly as it steamed away from the dock. Thousands of New York militia had finally regained control of New York City streets.  Large areas of the town had been burned and destroyed.  Looters had wreaked havoc in numerous shopping districts.  Bridges had been burned and transportation cars damaged.  Hundreds of people - mostly blacks and police - had been killed or wounded.   Order had been restored, but a sullen heaviness pervaded the air, and a kind of shame hung over the city. 

             
The loss of life and property made up only a small part of the riot damage.  Once again families were torn apart, and business relationships just beginning to prosper were soured.  Hope was blasted while confidence was destroyed and insecurity fostered.  The dark clouds covering America were relentless in their pursuit of innovative ways to darken men’s hearts and pull the worst from them. 

             
Robert finished another letter to Carrie, stuffed it in an envelope, sealed and stamped it, then stood to stretch.  A large pile of similar letters rested next to him.  He added the last one to the accumulation.  He had no idea when, or even whether, the letters would make their way to her, but he was being faithful.   Captain Shoemaker had promised to do all he could to see they arrived. 

             
Robert strode to the deck of the ship forging through the waters of the Atlantic and scanned the horizon to see whether he could catch a glimpse of land.  The captain had promised him they would land in London today.  He had gotten up early so he could watch England come into view.  He had enjoyed his trip for the most part, but he was eager to be on land again.  He had found the ship both confining and boring.  The endless expanse of blue possessed a certain beauty, but his staring at the same thing day after day had wearied him. 

             
“Anxious to be in London, Mr. Borden?” an amused voice asked. 

             
Robert nodded, not taking his eyes off the horizon.  “That I am, Mr. Olsen.  That I am.”  He knew Olsen would not be offended by his not turning around to speak to him.  The older gentleman was his senior by almost a half century, but the two had developed a comfortable friendship from the first day of the journey.  Neither was open about the reason for traveling to Europe during the middle of a war; both instinctively knew their reasons were important to the Confederacy.  That was enough.  Details in such a time as this were simply not important. 

             
“I’ll be glad to be back in the old city,” Olsen said fondly, tapping his cane against the railing and adjusting his high hat.  “I’m afraid I will find it much changed after almost fifty years, however.”

             
Robert glanced at him in surprise.  In all their conversations, Olsen had not mentioned being in London before. 

             
“I was here for a year,” Olsen said in response to Robert’s look.  “When I was your age.  My father thought it would do me good to expand my horizons, so I came to study.”  He grimaced.  “Can’t say I was too fond of it at the time.  After twenty years on my family plantation, I found the city both confining and dirty.  If it wasn’t blanketed in fog, it was blanketed in coal smoke and residue.”

             
“You don’t paint an appealing picture,” Robert said.  “Surely there was something about the city you liked.”

             
“Certainly,” Olsen agreed instantly.  “My father was right - it certainly expanded my horizons.  I learned to see the world through more than just the eyes of a plantation brat.  I learned to appreciate politics, art, the theater.  Most importantly, I learned to appreciate the freedoms we have in America.  Excuse me,” he added.  “The ones we did have.”  His words weren’t bitter, just matter-of-fact.  “I’m afraid our country has changed dramatically since then.”

             
Robert said nothing.  They had spent hours discussing the state of affairs in America.  He wasn’t exactly tired of it, but he was anxious to get on land and get involved in resolving them.  The forced inactivity was wearing on him.  Discussion was fine - as long as it was accompanied by action. 

             
Olsen was quiet for several minutes then cleared his throat.  “Neither of us has talked about our reasons for going to England – for daring to run the blockade.”

             
Robert glanced up.  Was Olsen going to confide in him?  Part of him was curious to know why the old gentleman was undergoing such an arduous adventure.  Another part of him rebelled against knowing - against feeling he should reciprocate the confidence.  He had appreciated Olsen’s company for the last two weeks.  Robert had feared the same boring companions that had accompanied him on the Phantom.  The two men were indeed on the ship, but they kept to themselves.  Olsen had sought him out at the first meal.  In spite of the difference in their ages, they had found much in common.

             
“I’m afraid that whatever our missions are, they are hopelessly futile,” Olsen said heavily.  “I’ve come, carrying hope in my heart, but the closer I get to London the more futile this whole escapade seems.  So why did I come?” he chuckled humorlessly, shaking his head.  “Maybe to have one last grand adventure before I die.”  His voice grew serious.  “Our country will never be the same, Robert.”  He shook his head.  “We’re putting up a great fight, but in the end we will lose.”

             
Robert looked at him sharply.  “The Confederacy has won the last big battles,” he countered.

             
“As far as we know,” Olsen reminded him.  “A lot could have happened since we’ve been gone.  But it’s no matter.  The South simply has neither the industrial strength nor the manpower to conquer the North.  It’s really just a matter of time.”

             
“If you believe that, then why are you here?”

             
“Like I said, maybe it’s just to have one last grand adventure.  I’m old.  I’m going to die soon.  I wanted to once more see the country where I learned to look at life differently.  Oh, I have a mission - the same as you - or I wouldn’t be here - and I’ll try to perform it - but I hold little hope it will make much difference in the end.”

             
Robert stared at the old man while he decided what to say. 

             
Olsen laughed lightly.  “Don’t search your mind for a way to respond, Robert.  I’m not looking for one.  I simply feel the need to express myself this morning.”  He turned to stare out at the sea, his silver fringe fluttering in the breeze.  “Things change when you get older.  I used to insist on seeing the world through idealistic eyes.  I scorned those who tried to dissuade me with realism.  Then one day I woke up and realized the world would never be the way I dreamed it would be because it was peopled with those who were human just like me.” Olsen tapped his cane against the railing.  “Don’t misunderstand me, however.  My realization didn’t turn me into a cynic.  It gave me more compassion and patience.  I have spent my life trying to make a difference where I can, but I no longer feel I have failed if the results aren’t perfection.”

             
“But if we lose the war, we’ve lost everything,” Robert protested, wondering even as he spoke if he really believed that anymore.

             
“Have we?”  Olsen asked.  “We may have lost the way of life we have cherished, but we won’t have lost our souls.  We won’t have lost our ability to love and laugh.  We won’t have lost our ability to learn and grow.”

             
“Then why are you working for the Confederacy?” Robert asked, confused.

             
“Because I believe in our right to make our own decisions.  I don’t believe the Federal government should dictate what we do.  Even if what we’re doing is wrong.”

             
“Excuse me?”

             
“Slavery, Robert.  I believe slavery is wrong.  I gave my slaves their freedom long ago.”  His voice grew firmer.  “There are people who feel they are fighting just for slavery.  Ownership of another human being would never give me the motivation to engage in the struggle we find ourselves in now.  No, I’m living the last years of my life in support of the Confederacy because I believe in states’ rights.”

             
“I own slaves,” Robert confessed.  “At least I did before the war started.  I haven’t been near my plantation since the war started.  For all I know, they’ve all run away.”

             
“You don’t sound like you would be very distressed.”

             
“I wouldn’t.  I’ve changed how I feel about it.  I don’t believe in slavery anymore.  I’ve discovered blacks are people just like me.”  He paused.  “I was almost killed at Antietam.  A black fellow who I will probably never know saved my life.  It was a black family that took me into their home for seven months while I healed.  Living with them changed my life.”

             
“Yet you are still fighting for the Confederacy?”

             
“I’m fighting for my home.  For my wife.  For my right to make my own decisions.”