Miss Katie's Rosewood Read online

  Miss Katie’s Rosewood

  Copyright © 2007

  Michael Phillips

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  www.backerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-1133-0

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Cover design by The DesignWorks Group

  Cover photography by Steve Gardner, PixelWorks Studio

  To courageous, bold-thinking Christians . . .

  —and our many loyal readers through the years who have written to express their appreciation for the ways in which my books, and those of George MacDonald, have helped them think and pray more expansively about the nature and character of God and His work.

  In a world where perceived “doctrinal correctness” exerts an almost pervasively overpowering influence in the church, not all Christians appreciate bold and honest challenges in faith. Most are content to dwell in the comfort zones of safe theological harbors where every question has a predetermined response, passed down through the years by the accepted “traditions of the elders.” For those finding themselves in such an environment who choose to launch out into deeper scriptural waters, the spiritual journey can be a lonely one. Though there are a few exceptions, to whom the body of Christ owes a great debt, the courage to examine status-quo doctrines more carefully than is customary is neither honored nor encouraged by many pastors, priests, leaders, teachers, publishers, or evangelists. Those who attempt to explore such deeper waters usually find themselves swimming upstream against a tidal deluge of proof-text theology (with little fresh thought included) massed against them. Yet they are driven on in their quest. They hunger to probe the far-reaching themes of Scripture and thus to know the Father-heart of God more intimately.

  It has been to encourage you—and you know who you are—in that quest that I write. Your responses have confirmed that it is an adventure—a difficult one—that we have shared, and continue to share, together. And we must all take heart to continue! Because in no other way than by probing the Scriptures prayerfully and expansively can we learn to know God the Father as Jesus did.

  To know God aright, not by doctrine but by the high Logos truth of His nature as revealed by His Word, and then to obey Him in Not my will Christlikeness, is the one true goal of spirituality. This book and the journey herein depicted is dedicated to you who have made that right knowing, and the prayerful desire for Christlike obedience that of necessity proceeds out of it, the deep cry of your heart and the focus of your life’s pilgrimage. From the bottom of my heart I thank you for your encouragement and support in my quest. And I encourage and honor you in your own!

  CONTENTS

  * * *

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1. Midnight Warning

  2. Tragedy

  3. Pursuit

  4. Watch

  5. By the Stream Bank

  6. Apprehension

  7. Reflections

  8. In the Country

  9. The Cell

  10. Witness

  11. The Beginning

  12. Scaffold

  13. Train

  14. Separation

  15. Forever Changed

  16. On the Train

  17. Philadelphia

  18. No Trace

  19. Rosewood

  20. Katie’s Bold Decision

  21. Peculiar Rescue

  22. Getting Worried

  23. News and Secrets

  24. Visitor to Bingham Court

  25. A Quiet Talk at Dusk

  26. Fateful Visit

  27. I Take Matters Into My Own Hands

  28. The Wind in the Horse’s Head

  29. New Friends

  30. Perfume and Problems

  31. On the Trail of the Kidnappers

  32. Too Late

  33. Stranger in a White Neighborhood

  34. Near Wolf’s Cove

  35. Rescue

  36. Waiting

  37. Sunrise Thoughts

  38. Rosewood’s Three Men

  39. Reunion

  40. The Old Farm

  41. Baltimore

  42. Good-bye to the North

  43. Harvest Time

  44. More Surprises

  45. A Talk About the Future

  46. Cotton and Omens

  47. Seeds

  48. Sam Jenkins

  49. Herb Watson

  50. Mr. Watson’s Offer

  51. Rosewood’s Owners Talk It Over

  52. Final Determination

  53. The Warning

  54. The Decision

  55. Good-bye

  56. Standoff

  57. Campfire Reflections

  58. North

  59. New Rosewood

  60. New Beginnings

  61. The Rest of Our Lives

  Epilogue: Remembering

  More From Michael Phillips

  A Personal Closing Message From Michael Phillips

  About the Author

  Other Books by Author

  Back Ads

  PROLOGUE

  We’d been through a lot together, Katie and me. First we were strangers. Then we began thinking of ourselves as sisters trying to survive together. Then we found out that we were actually cousins.

  But mostly we were friends. And that made all the difference in the world.

  And now these two friends, Kathleen Clairborne and me, Mary Ann Daniels—Katie and Mayme as we called each other—were just about grown-up young women. It was hard to imagine, but I was twenty and when you get to be that age you look at things a little differently than you do when you’re fourteen or fifteen. That’s how old Katie and I were in the spring of 1865 when we met just after the war ended. Now it was 1870. The South had changed and things were dangerous.

  As I said, I was twenty and Katie was nineteen. We loved our North Carolina home, the plantation called Rosewood in Shenandoah County, but my father and our uncles (Templeton Daniels was my father, Ward Daniels was my uncle, and they were both Katie’s uncles) had been encouraging us to think about our future. Their sister, our aunt Nelda, had visited Rosewood a while earlier and had invited us north for a visit. She had written a few times since too, telling us about a girls’ school for young women in Philadelphia where we could get more of an education than either of us had ever dreamed possible.

  It wasn’t that my papa or Uncle Ward were anxious to see us leave Rosewood. If they could have had their way, they would keep us there permanently. But they wanted what was best for us, even if it meant leaving for a while to attend school in the North. They recognized that things were changing for women as much as for Negroes. They wanted to give us every opportunity to do as much with our lives as possible.

  The idea of being separated wasn’t one any of us liked. But Katie and I gradually realized that maybe my papa and Uncle Ward and Aunt Nelda were right, and that we needed to see what schooling might offer two girls like us who weren’t really girls anymore. If we didn’t take advantage of schooling prett
y soon, it could be too late. That’s not the kind of thing you can do after you start a family.

  My beau, Jeremiah Patterson, was in the North, and not so very far from our Aunt Nelda’s in Philadelphia. That gave me another reason for looking forward to the trip. I hadn’t seen him in over six months, since just after his daddy Henry’s marriage to Josepha, our cook and friend. And Robert Paxton, Katie’s young man friend, had just moved to Hanover, Pennsylvania, also not so very far away from Philadelphia.

  So we decided to take the train north to visit Aunt Nelda for three or four weeks, to visit the school in Philadelphia and see if we liked it there. And also hopefully to arrange a visit with Jeremiah and Rob.

  We planned to go north in May.

  Even without Jeremiah’s help, the six of us at Rosewood (my papa and Uncle Ward, Henry and Josepha, along with Katie and me) had got the fields ready and the year’s cotton crop planted. We’d even managed to get ten more acres planted than the previous year. So it would be a good time for us to be away. The weather would be good, the cotton would keep growing, and we’d be back in plenty of time for the harvest. And we needed a good harvest too, because a few debts had piled up over the past year or two.

  At least that’s how we had it planned.

  But one thing about plans . . . you never know when something’s going to come along and upset them.

  MIDNIGHT WARNING

  1

  A LONE RIDER GALLOPED THROUGH THE NIGHT.

  Luckily there was enough of a moon for his horse to see its way along the deserted dirt road. He could not slow down or it would be too late. Many lives, and his own future, could depend on his getting there in time.

  He had his own sleeplessness to thank that he had gotten wind of the plot at all. Otherwise he might have slept through the whole thing.

  Something had awakened him shortly after midnight—fate, an inner premonition, maybe the voice of God telling him to wake up and sound the warning. Whatever it was, suddenly he was awake in his bed, with blackness and silence around him.

  He rolled over, groped for his nightstand, struck a match, lit a candle, then looked at his watch where it lay at his bedside.

  Twelve twenty-three.

  He sighed and lay back down. This was no time for sane men to be awake. Yet some inner sense told him that he ought to get up and have a look around. He crawled out of bed, pulled on his trousers and boots, picked up the candle lamp, and went downstairs.

  What he was afraid of, he wasn’t sure. There had been some petty thievery in town. Deke Steeves and a few of his cronies were always up to no good. But what could they steal from his place?

  Unless . . .

  His mind clouded with dark forebodings.

  The warnings that had been given him were threatening enough. Were they perhaps not going to wait to see if he complied? He had been sure they would do nothing unless he crossed them. Even then, he had doubted they would try anything serious. Their own livelihoods were too dependent on him.

  But had he misjudged their intentions?

  His heart beat rapidly. Thinking something was afoot against him, he hurried into the night to inspect the mill and warehouse.

  A hurried walk throughout the premises, however, revealed nothing. The whole town was quiet except for the occasional bark of a dog. He tried to tell himself that he was letting his imagination run away with him. Everything was fine.

  He turned and made his way back toward his house.

  Suddenly a noise disturbed the quiet of night . . . booted feet clumped along the street half a block away.

  Quickly he blew out his candle and crept back against the wall of the warehouse.

  Whoever it was, they were coming this way. It sounded like there were two of them. He waited in the shadows.

  “. . . said they’d meet us at one . . .” whispered one of the men as they drew closer.

  The listener recognized the voice instantly. He knew practically everybody in town, but he hadn’t known he was involved. This thing was more widespread than he had imagined.

  Cautiously he slipped out to follow them, straining to listen to the subdued conversation ahead of him. “. . . why tonight?”

  “They been given enough warnings . . . time for action . . .”

  From somewhere a third man joined them. Under his arm he carried something white.

  “. . . the horses?”

  “McSimmons is bringing enough from his place. Didn’t want to wake up the whole town.”

  “. . . meet on the north end of town.”

  “. . . Sam said . . .”

  “. . . same thing I heard . . . through fooling around . . .”

  “. . . blood spilled tonight . . . before morning . . .”

  “. . . that plantation house . . . smoldering cinders . . .”

  The listener had heard enough. He hurriedly retraced his steps to his own place. He knew well enough what plantation house they were talking about. Whether he could get there in time to save it and prevent bloodshed, he didn’t know.

  But he had to try.

  Five minutes later, after hastily gathering a few papers from his office, he was saddling his own horse in the darkness. He would leave town by the southern road, then circle back around, hoping the others wouldn’t hear him.

  On he rode in the night.

  By his reckoning he had left town somewhere around twelve-forty. That gave him at least twenty minutes on them, though organizing a group of fifteen or twenty would take some time. A few would probably be late. The six-mile ride would take them longer. They would have more reason for stealth than haste. He would probably gain a forty-minute lead on them, maybe an hour at best.

  How to wake up his friends without getting his head blown off was a question he had not thought about until he neared his destination.

  As he considered it, he realized there was no need for delicacy or quiet. The situation was desperate. Every second counted. He needed to get them out of their beds and gone as quickly as possible. He might as well go in with gun blazing!

  He reached the plantation and slowed. There wasn’t a sound or a light anywhere.

  Well, he thought, I’ve come this far . . . there’s no turning back now.

  He rode into the yard between the house and barn, then pulled out his rifle and fired two quick shots into the air.

  As the echoes died away, amid the howls of a couple dogs and a few whinnies and bellows from the barn, lanterns were lit and yells of alarm sounded throughout the house.

  “Inside there,” he called up toward the second-floor windows where the reflection of a few lights had appeared. “Hey, wake up . . . it’s Watson! Templeton . . . Ward . . . I’ve got to talk to you!”

  A window slid open. Ward Daniels’ face appeared along with the barrel of a rifle.

  “Who’s there?” he called down.

  “Daniels . . . it’s Herb Watson!” shouted their visitor. “Get down here, both of you—I’ve got to talk to you. Now! Be quick about it. They’re coming . . . they’re coming tonight!”

  Ward pulled his head back inside and shut the window. A minute later both brothers appeared on the front porch, Templeton coming from the barn and carrying a lantern, Ward with his rifle still in hand.

  “What’s it all about, Herb?” asked Templeton. “You’ll have everyone in a tizzy, shooting off guns in the middle of the night.”

  “Yeah, that might have been a mistake,” said Watson. “I hope they’re far enough away and didn’t hear it. But I had to get you out of your beds—there’s no time to lose . . . they’re coming. They’re on the way. We’ve got to act fast. You’ve got to get out of here, all of you.”

  “You think it’s that serious?” asked Ward.

  “I overheard a few of them as they were going to join Sam and Bill and the others. They’re determined to kill someone tonight, and burn this place to the ground. They said that blood would be spilled and your house in cinders before morning. They said that Sam had ordered it—that he w
as through fooling around with warnings.”

  The two brothers glanced at each other. They could tell from the urgency in his tone that their friend had never been more serious in his life.

  “What about what we talked about before?” asked Templeton. “Now there’s no time. We can’t just run out—where will that leave you? They’ll just burn the place anyway.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it riding out here,” said Watson. “If you’re willing, we could arrange it now. As long as we all sign, it will be legal. I brought some preliminary papers. You’ll have to trust me that you’ll get what’s coming to you. We’ll have to arrange for that later, after I’ve got your harvest in.”

  Templeton thought a minute, then sighed.

  “We trust you, Herb,” he said. “I don’t suppose we have much choice. But even if we did, we’d trust you. You’ve proved yourself a good friend and a man of honor. Besides that, you may just have saved our lives and put yours in danger coming here like this. So maybe you’re right . . . maybe the time has finally come.”

  “It has, believe me.”

  “I don’t like the idea of leaving you to face them alone. We’d have a better chance if we all—”

  “Look, Templeton—if they see any of you, none of us will have a chance. The only way there will be any chance of saving Rosewood is if you are all gone when they get here. Don’t even think of trying to fight. There are too many of them. They would surround us and have the barn and house in flames in five minutes.”

  “We could hide out in the woods.”

  “That’s the first thing they’ll think of. They’ll search the place before they’re going to believe me. Come on, make up your minds—they’re on the way, I tell you!”

  Templeton looked again at his brother. As he did, two young men walked quickly toward them from the direction of what had once been the slave cabins. One was black, the other white. The latter had a Colt 45 in his hand. They had heard the shots, assumed danger, and had come running.

  “It’s all right, boys, it’s Mr. Watson.”

  “Jeremiah—good to see you,” said Watson, extending his hand to the young black man.

  “Mister Watson,” said Jeremiah as they shook hands.