Mercy

  MERCY

  BY RICHARD TURNER

  Copyright ? 2016 by Richard Turner.

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  1

  Louisiana

  September 19, 1865

  Roy Stone shuddered. The night had never seemed so cold and dark. He watched as a thick fog rolled up from the river, blanketing the wet ground. The only thing going in his favor was the rain had finally let up.

  Stone was a tall, strong man. He was wearing a long coat and black hat as he strode through the underbrush. In his left hand was a lantern; in his right he carried a shotgun. Just ahead of him was a row of men, some black, some white. No one said a word as they walked through the knee-high grass. Most held a lit torch in their hands. A couple of old trackers gripped the leashes of several bloodhounds, whining to be let loose. Stone glanced up at the heavens just as the dark clouds parted. For a few seconds, the silvery light of a new moon shone down on the clearing. They had been pushing through the brush since just before sunset. No one complained nor asked to turn back; finding the two missing youths was all that mattered.

  "Mister Stone, sir, I think I found something," called out one of the men.

  Stone ran to the man's side. In the black man's hand was a torn piece of clothing. Stone took it from him. Right away, he saw there was fresh blood on the dirt-stained gray cloth.

  "Miss Willow's dress?" said the man. It appeared to be the type of fabric used to make the garments worn by the colored women who lived and worked at Mercy Plantation.

  "I think you may be right, Thomas," answered Stone. Deep down, he wished he was wrong.

  Thomas pointed at the ground. "Sir, their tracks lead deeper into the woods."

  Stone gritted his teeth. The forest, especially at night, was no place for a pair of rash young people to be in. Earlier in the day, he had learned of a foolish plan by his love-struck nephew, Andrew, to run off with Willow, a sixteen-year-old black girl who was the daughter of the family's cook. When he confronted Andrew, the conversation turned heated and words were exchanged, which only helped to make the situation worse. Andrew stormed off, telling Stone he wasn't his father and couldn't tell him what to do with his life. The naive young man swore he would do as his heart demanded of him. Now Roy Stone was tracking them both through his sister's vast plantation, trying to bring them home before they ran into trouble. With gangs of demobilized Confederate soldiers prowling the countryside, it wasn't safe for a young white boy with a freed slave girl at his side to be on their own.

  When they reached the edge of the thick forest on the skirts of the plantation, the dogs started to bark and pull at their leashes.

  "Sir, the dogs, they've got a whiff of something real close," said one of the handlers.

  "Let them go," ordered Stone.

  The instant the hounds were released they ran off into the woods, barking and yelping as they chased after the scent.

  Stone waved for everyone to follow him. As he stepped into the thick woods, the temperature seemed to drop. A chill ran down his spine. Stone wasn't a superstitious man, but something didn't seem right. Raised a Catholic, he crossed himself and said a quick prayer under his breath.

  "Sir, their tracks have changed direction," called out one of the trackers. "I think they're heading toward the old storehouse on the river."

  "Follow their trail and whatever you do, don't lose it," replied Stone.

  Within minutes, the search party strode out of the woods into a small glade. Off to their right was the Mississippi River. In the dark, the water looked ink black.

  Stone held up his torch and looked over at the dilapidated ruins of what had been the plantation's main cotton storage barn. Shipped downriver on barges, the cotton used to be sold in the markets of New Orleans. But that had all changed when Union troops arrived in 1862. As the plantation was owned by a Confederate colonel, they burnt the cotton and tore down most of the building.

  "Spread out, and remember no shooting. They're our kin we're looking for," called out Stone. He was about to take a step forward and join the search when he realized that the world around them had turned deathly quiet. Not a single animal or insect made a noise. He held his shotgun tight in his hand as if to reassure himself everything was going to turn out all right.

  A shot rang out startling Stone. His heart jackhammered wildly in his chest. He turned to face an old plantation hand holding a shotgun in his hand. "God damn it, Horace, I said no shooting."

  "Sorry, sir, I done thought I saw something in the woods," replied Horace, avoiding eye contact with his boss.

  Stone fought to control his growing anger. "Don't be sorry, Horace, be careful. I need you to pay better attention to your surroundings. We didn't come all this way to shoot one of our own by accident."

  Stone was the first man to reach the ruined barn. He stepped inside and raised his lantern high above his head so he could look around. Dark shadows hid most of the interior. He went to take a step but hesitated. On the floor was a dark pool of blood. There was even more blood splattered on the wall beside him. His chest tightened. He feared for the lives of the missing youths.

  Outside, Thomas called out, "Mister Stone, I think I found something!"

  Stone's heart began to beat faster. He rushed out of the barn and came to a sudden halt when he saw a dark smear of blood on the grass. "Jesus, what the hell happened here?"

  Thomas brought his hands up to his mouth and yelled, "Master Andrew . . . Miss Willow, it's Thomas, please show yourselves."

  Silence answered the call.

  "Andrew, it's your uncle here," said Stone. "There's no need to keep on hiding. If you're here, please call out. You're not in trouble. We just want to take you both back home."

  Not a word was said in reply.

  "Sir, over here," yelled a man. His voice was tense.

  Stone and Thomas ran toward a group of men standing in a semi-circle at the far end of the dilapidated barn.

  "Have you found something?" asked Stone.

  "I'm sorry, sir," said Horace as he lifted his torch over his head.

  "Oh God, no," mumbled Stone when he saw what the men had found. Andrew's naked body lay on the ground. There was a deep gash from his neck to his groin. The pale skin had been peeled back. A quick glance told Stone most his nephew's internal organs were gone. The sight of his nephew staring wide-eyed at him shook Stone to the core. He bent down and closed the boy's eyes. Stone removed his jacket and draped it over Andrew. He and his nephew had never been close, but he was his sister's son. He dreaded the thought of telling her that her only son not killed during the war was dead.

  Pastor Melancon, the local Baptist minister, dropped to his knees beside the body and began to recite a prayer.

  "Find Willow. I'm not leaving until we find her," ordered Stone, finding his voice once again.

  The search party spread out into the woods, calling out her name. No one said it but with Andrew dead, no one expected to find her alive.

  A minute later, one of the dog handlers shouted, "Over here. I think I found her
!"

  Stone and Thomas ran to the man's side. When they arrived, they found the old tracker bent over examining something with his torch. Stone pushed the man aside and looked down. In an instant, he felt his stomach turn. At his feet was an arm. Stone took a deep breath, removed his hat, got down on one knee, and carefully picked up the bloody limb. He shook his head when he recognized the small gold ring on the hand as one Andrew had given to Willow last Christmas. Stone felt his heart grow heavy. He placed the hand back down on the ground.

  "Looks like the arm was torn from the poor girl's body," said the dog handler. "I bet whoever killed Master Andrew turned their dogs loose on her."

  "That ain't no way for a young lady to go," said Thomas as he removed his hat.

  A young black man called out, "Sir, please come here."

  Anger and hate welled up inside Stone as he walked over to the body lying on the ground. The sight that greeted him was horrific. Willow's throat had been torn out. Her stomach was a bloody mess where an animal had gnawed at her innards.

  "As God is my witness, whoever did this will pay with their life," vowed Stone. He turned and looked into the faces of the men huddled around, staring wide-eyed at the remains. "Spread out and find the murderer's tracks."

  As the men combed the muddy ground, Thomas removed his long jacket and laid it over Willow's body. Stone got down on his knees and prayed in silence for Willow and Andrew's souls.

  "Sir . . . sir, I think I found something, but it don't look right to me," said one of the trackers.

  Stone joined the man and looked down at a set of tracks in the mud. The old man was right; the footprint didn't make any sense. It was long and appeared to have a man's heel, but the toes looked like that of a large animal. "You ever see anything like this before?" he asked.

  "No, sir. I've been hunting all my life and I ain't never seen a track like that. It ain't natural."

  Stone looked into the woods. A shiver ran down his spine. For a moment, he had the feeling he was being watched. He shrugged it off as nerves and turned to face Thomas. "Have the men pick up the remains. We're going home."

  Roy Stone had stayed neutral during the war. He had worked hard to keep what was left of his sister's family safe from the turmoil brought about by the end of the conflict. As a man walked past him carrying Willow's body, he knew nothing was ever going to be the same when the sun came up in the morning.

  2

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  November 7, 1865