It is said that some lives are linked across time, connected by an ancient calling that echoes through the ages.
—Prince of Persia
1867
Heat seared his lungs and scorched his skin. Flames leaped and clawed. His shirt melted against his back. He coughed, once, twice, as hot tears rolled down his face.
Amelia! Grace! Where are you? Their names stuck in his throat, burned shut by the hungry flames.
“Sir! Wake up. You’s havin’ a bad dream.”
Thaddeus Eriksson opened his eyes with a start. A broad black face, as dark and shiny as a coat button and most certainly not his wife or daughter, stared down at him. Thad sat up straighter, reorienting to the inside of the Tennessee passenger train. The metallic click of the tracks rumbled below him. Smoke puffed past the windows. He was on a train bound for southern Tennessee, not in the burning house in Ohio.
He dragged a shaky hand down his face. “I was dreaming.”
He’d not had the dream in weeks. The engine smoke must have set him off.
“Yes, sir. You sure was. You all right now?”
Thaddeus saw kindness in the obsidian eyes of Abram, an ex-slave, fit and strong like a field-worker, not old but old enough to be on his own on a southbound train, though from the haughty glances and grumbles, there were plenty on board who disapproved of his presence. The slaves were all free now that the war had ended and a bumpy kind of peace had descended on the country. Still, a black man alone on a train was taking a risk.
From the moment Abram had boarded the train, Thaddeus had kept a watchful eye until fatigue and the train’s rhythm had lulled him to sleep. He hadn’t intended to doze. A former Union soldier and a freed slave on a Southern train weren’t especially welcome, and he knew better than to let down his guard. He tried to keep his voice low to hide the Ohio accent, but Abram couldn’t hide who he was.
Surrender may have come, but the nation was far from being united.
Even now, a rotund man with a cigar squinted at them in hostile speculation.
The scarlet padded seat gave as Thaddeus twisted toward the friendly freedman. Abram sat behind him, but they’d exchanged a cordial conversation on the long ride. No one else seemed inclined to pass the time.
“I’m obliged you woke me.”
He’d slept for five nights on a series of conveyances on his way from Ohio to Honey Ridge, Tennessee. The train cars were noisy, dirty, and the interruptions unpredictable but the ride was still a luxury considering the miles he’d marched and places he’d slept during the war.
Like most of the South, railroad service had yet to fully recover, and the flood of Northern profiteers into the South had raised the hackles of former Confederates.
“Bad dreams can be an omen. That’s what my mama always said.” Abram’s rough, weathered hands gripped the seat back as he leaned forward, speaking low. “You were hollering out to somebody named Amelia.”
Sometimes bad dreams were reality. The hard knot of pain tightened in Thad’s gut. “My wife. She died.”
Even after a year, the words shocked him.
“Now that right there is a pure shame, Mr. Thaddeus. I sho is sorry for yo’ loss. Do you have any chilren?”
“Grace. She died, too.” He was the only survivor of the fire that had taken his home and family, and Thaddeus knew he should be thankful to the Almighty for sparing him. But after a year alone, a year of strangling grief and regret, he often wished he’d died with them. “What about you, Abram? You got a wife and children?”
“No, sir. I had me a sweetheart once, but the masta’ sold her off somewhere when the war started. My mama and brothers, too. Pappy, he died in the fightin’.”
Abram’s words were a useful reminder that others had lost as much or more in the long, painful War Between the States, a struggle he still believed was righteous.
“That’s a shame.”
“Yes, sir. I’m gonna find them, though.”
“Is that where you’re headed now?”
“Uh-huh. Chattanooga. Miz Malden, she couldn’t pay us no more after Mr. Malden passed. The war done took everything.” He laughed softly. “Even us workers, thank the Lawd. But she looked in Mr. Malden’s book, and told every one of us where our families was sold off to.”
“Kind of her.” Thad’s heart had returned to a steady rhythm as the dream faded. He was grateful for Abram’s distracting conversation. “You think your family is still there?”
“Yes, sir. Hoping so. My mama and my brother, Jesse.”
Since emancipation former slaves were scattered, searching for one another and for a new start to a way of life few of them understood. There was no telling where Abram’s family was now. But Thaddeus didn’t have the heart to steal the man’s hope.
“Chattanooga sounds like the place to start.”
“Won’t be long now.”
Thad removed his pocket watch, a timepiece he’d carried since before the war. A long-ago Christmas gift from Amelia, it was his most treasured possession. Even as the polished silver glinted in the sunlight, he recalled her smile, her joy at presenting him with such a fine watch. The memory both hurt and comforted.
“Ought to be coming up on my stop soon and then Chattanooga not long after.”
He’d no more than spoken than the train began to slow and the brakes squealed. A shrill whistle nearly split his eardrums.
“This yo’ stop right here?”
“This is it.” A water stop for the train, and a place for passengers to disembark or board that wasn’t much more than a handful of clapboard buildings. “I hope you find your family, Abram. If you ever get up around Honey Ridge, stop in and say hello.”
Thaddeus hoisted his satchel and rose, turning to offer a hand to Abram. The ex-slave seemed momentarily taken aback before he clasped Thad’s hand with a grin. “Good luck to you, Mr. Thaddeus.”
Steam smoke swirled around Thad’s face as he disembarked, and the strong odor made him anxious. He knew the scent came from the train and yet the memory of the fire that had stolen too much haunted him more than the years of unrelenting battle.
He glanced around at the tiny town, then toward the rising blue haze that would be the Smokies to the east and the rolling countryside that spread in every direction in undulant shades of green. The landscape across Tennessee was beautiful, even though too many burned farms and ravaged villages littered the countryside like the dead Confederacy.
Weary but hopeful, Thad aimed toward a sign proclaiming General Store in search of information. If he was fortunate, someone would share an easy route to Honey Ridge. If he was very lucky, he might even find a wagon headed in that direction.
His boots echoed in the hot afternoon as he stepped through the doorway into the tiny store. The inside was dim and smelled of coffee and leather and hog grease. Shelves stuffed tight with an array of goods lined the walls of the narrow room, a promising sign. Three men stood talking around a spittoon, while a white-haired merchant wrapped a length of brightly printed calico in brown paper.
Thaddeus approached the merchant. “I’m headed for Honey Ridge. Might you direct me toward the best route?”