Chapter 8

Montgomery, Alabama January 1861

Secession fever spread through Alabama like a virulent disease. Edmund Devereaux beat the drums as loud as anyone. Numerous meetings with Governor Moore, legislators, lawyers, and planters kept Edmund away from the Plantation. He achieved his dream on January 11, 1861, when Alabama declared itself a "Sovereign and Independent State," the fourth state to secede from the United States of America. That fact that Edmund would become an influential officer was a foregone conclusion. His blood boiled for action as war fever swept through Alabama and the deep south. Streams of men, young and old, flowed into Montgomery, looking to enlist or to secure a commission.

His time back home to organize the plantation functions during his looming departure left Devereaux fuming.

"Goddamn! War's gonna be over before they send me my commission." Devereaux paced the parlor of the Big House with Beatrice, Wilson Clinton, and Leonard Peebles.

"I'm gonna need you to stay here, Peebles. Help Bea run the Plantation. Doubt ya wanna go off to war anyway," Edmund said.

"I'll stay," Peebles agreed.

"What about you, Clinton? I could use a good Lieutenant."

"I wouldn't miss it. About time them Yankees learnt a bit about the southern man," Clinton answered.

"Take Snavely with you," Beatrice advised. "I don't want him here while you're gone."

"Snavely stays. I have over 200 slaves to keep in line. They fear Snavely," Edmund said.

"And our boy? Is Clayton marching off to war as well?" Beatrice asked. Edmund nodded.

"He's coming with me. War may make a man out of him. Don't worry, Bea. The war will be over soon," Edmund said. "I spect we'll be back in time for the cotton harvest."

In the slave quarters, Naomi walked on water. She lived and worked in the Big House, but joined the cotton harvest every fall. Her presence in the fields spurred changes that made their hard lives a bit more pleasant. Naomi's inclusion in the business end of cotton picking resulted in fewer whippings and tolerable work conditions. Between harvests, Naomi spent evenings amongst her community. On her birthday, there was cake in the Big House kitchen, but there were no debutante balls for slave girls turning sixteen.

Lean and graceful, trending toward beautiful, Naomi's single dimpled smile became a legendary feature, which was sought out in the darkness of a slave's life. But it was not her beauty that endeared her to her people. She gave them hope, pride, and dignity. Naomi entered womanhood as a valued piece of Edmund Devereaux's property. She learned just how valuable one evening. A slave trader named Bernard Crumpwell came by the Palmetto Plantation with a coffle of nineteen slaves chained together. While not unusual for slave traders to visit plantations, Devereaux normally did not buy and sell his slaves from traders. And never had he invited a trader to dine in the Big House. But Crumpwell had a light-skinned fifteen-year-old girl for sale, and Edmund needed someone new in his bed.

Clinton, Devereaux, and Snavely looked over the coffle. There were a few young and strong bucks that looked like workers. Snavely suggested buying two of the slaves for working in the fields, but Devereaux only had eyes for the girl. He had Crumpwell un-chain her and pull off her ragged clothing. Devereaux looked her over carefully, feeling her muscles and touching intimate places.

"Her name, Lizbeth," Crumpwell stated. Crumpwell was a man in his mid-thirties, thin, pasty-faced, no beard, wearing a dusty black suit with a black stovepipe hat.

"How much you want for this'n and those two bucks?" Edmund asked, pointing to the two Snavely identified. Crumpwell hemmed and hawed, confident he was going to outwit Devereaux.

"Let's say bout $750 for each of the bucks, $950 for the wench. She a virgin. I kin prove it," Crumpwell said. "Fifty dollar off if'n you buy all three, say $2400 total." Edmund lasered Crumpwell with his snake eyes. He turned to Snavely.

"Mr. Snavely, please escort the gentlemen and his property to the gate." The lasers returned.

"I will not be insulted on my own land, Mr. Crumpwell," Edmund ordered. Crumpwell put his hands out, palms up and open.

"Now jus wait a second. I din't mean no disrespect. My 'pologies suh," Crumpwell said.

"I can see you a wise businessman. I'm willin to 'gotiate the terms." Edmund looked Lizbeth over again. He did need someone to attend to his needs while at war.

"It's late. Perhaps I overreacted," Edmund said. "If you're here to make fair and honest trade, why don't you join me for supper, Mr. Crumpwell. I will ponder a reasonable offer meanwhile," Edmund said.

"Well, thankee. I'd be right honored to have some supper," Crumpwell said relieved.

"Snavely, get Mr. Crumpwell's property fed and bed them down in the stable. But bathe the girl and keep her nearby." Edmund looked to Crumpwell.

"Come with me, Crumpwell. I need a whiskey." Crumpwell followed, but not until he had scanned the grandeur of the Big House.

"Mighty fine abode, Mr. Devereaux. Finest I ever seed in Alabama, fo sho," Crumpwell said. Joseph opened the door and stood at attention as Devereaux entered and led his guest to the den. Crumpwell's stomach rumbled as he inhaled the aroma of frying chicken and baking bread.

"Get us whiskey," he ordered. "And find Naomi. Git her to play that piano fer our guest." Joseph poured the whiskey first and then sent Trudy to fetch Naomi. Beatrice appeared and frowned.

Naomi was quickly seated at the piano and began playing scales, warming up.

"Edmund, may I have a word, please?" she said. Edmund rolled his eyes, grinning at his guest and he shrugged his shoulders.

"Be right back, Crumpwell," he said. Beatrice had already left the room, headed toward the parlor. Edmund's temper sparked.

"That was rude, Beatrice. I have a guest," he said.

"Yes, well, for one thing, your guest smells bad, Edmund. What is he doing in my house? He's a slave trader?"

"Yes, Beatrice. He's a slave trader. I mayhap do some business with him. For now, he's my guest. And where's Clayton? He needs to learn this part of the business."

"Clayton's in town, getting drunk, like most every night. He hasn't learned anything new in years. I'm at a loss why you would expect him to learn anything new. Although buying and selling human beings might just be his talent. One never knows," Beatrice said angrily.

"Well, I got a guest," Edmund said.

"Your guest Edmund. Not mine. I'll eat in the kitchen tonight." Beatrice spun around and walked off. Edmund shook his head and looked to the heavens. He turned to Naomi.

"Play some of your fancy music for my guest," he ordered, returning to the den. Naomi began with Chopin, moved to Bach, and then soothing nocturnes. In the den, Edmund and Crumpwell sipped whiskey.

"Mighty fine piana playin," Crumpwell said. "Is that your wife or daughter playin?" he asked. Edmund arose.

"Come see," he said. Crumpwell entered the parlor and was stunned to see a beautiful young woman, a slave, creating the most satisfying music on the Steinway. His eyes grew wide.

"Your slave?" he croaked.

"One of the best pianists in Alabama, or so I hear," Edmund said pridefully. Naomi gave her Master a Level 2 smile and continued to play. Crumpwell stared lustfully at Naomi, his mind churning. He had to acquire this girl.

Dinner was served in the dining room. Devereaux sat at the end of the elliptical table with Crumpwell at the opposite end. Mabel served corn chowder as the first course. Crumpwell slurped his soup loudly, trying to figure how to approach Devereaux on purchasing Naomi. Joseph entered with an announcement.

"That girl, Lizbeth is bathed and on the porch, Master, sir."

Crumpwell picked his moment.

"So, Mr. Devereaux, suh, would you consider selling that wench playin the piana?" Devereaux did not look up. Crumpwell slurped again.

"This is crazy, but I'd be willin to offer two-thousand dollars for her. Or, if you prefer suh, I'd trade the two bucks and Lizbeth for her, straight up."

Naomi, between pieces, overheard the conversation. A stab of fear paralyzed her. Would the Master sell me? Beatrice noticed the pause in the music and entered the parlor. Naomi looked at her, eyes pleading. Naomi put her finger to her lips and a hand to her ear. Beatrice nodded. They both listened.

"Never really thought bout selling her," Devereaux said.

"Mayhap you'd be willin? for the right price," Crumpwell asked hopefully. Devereaux did not respond.

"Ya wanna check Lizbeth out again?" Edmund looked up, his eyes black and cold.

"I ain't plannin to sell her. She's not for sale."

"Twenty-five hundred dollars, suh. Plus, I throw in Lizbeth. Best I kin do," Crumpwell persisted. Beatrice had heard enough. She glided into the dining room.

"Mr. Crumpwell, you've overstayed your welcome. Gather your property and please leave," she said, iron in her voice. Crumpwell looked to Edmund for an overrule. He did not receive it.

"Best you go now. Naomi is my daughter. She ain't for sale at any price. Now you git," he commanded.

"Sorry suh, din't mean to offend. I'll be on my way." Crumpwell grabbed two pieces of fried chicken, stuffed them in his pocket, took one quick peek into the parlor. Joseph was quickly at his side.

"This way, please suh." Beatrice wiped a tear that escaped her eye. This was the first time Edmund admitted to being Naomi's father. For a fleeting moment, she felt a pang of fondness for Edmund. Mabel brought Beatrice's supper plate into the dining room. Edmund said no more. Naomi entertained with Edmund's favorite song, "Dixie." And Beatrice smiled.

"What are you smiling bout?" Edmund asked.

"You know damn well what I'm smiling about, Edmund. I'm...I'm strangely proud of you."

"Wadn't nuthin to get all teary-eyed bout," Edmund said.

Outside, Joseph looked like Tiger Woods winning the US Open. His fist pumps would have been legendary had ESPN been around to film him. Inside, Trudy wept softly in the kitchen, tears of relief.

Edmund's commission arrived two weeks later. He was to join the 10th Alabama Regiment as a Major under his friend, and former Alabama House of Representatives member Colonel William Forney. Clayton was to be commissioned a Second Lieutenant, Clinton, a Captain. Forney delayed mustering the regiment until a President of the Confederacy was selected at the Provisional CSA Capitol in Montgomery. Forney needed Devereaux's support for his candidate.

Chapter 12

Remington Lodge, Sugar Mountain, NC. September 2031

Master Sgt. Sam Z. Jacobs, USMC, Ret., drove his rental Jeep from the Charlotte Airport to the designated address on his orders. Officially retired, Z wasn't supposed to be receiving orders, but these came from high up. Sam had never visited the beautiful Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina. The day was crystal clear and the traffic light, once Sam got through the construction and off of I-77. He stopped for coffee in Blowing Rock, sipping the brew overlooking a mountain stream rolling through rapids below. A sense of peace came with the flowing waters. Sam absorbed the serenity, wondering if it would last.

Sam found the lodge down an isolated and long narrow path on the backside of Sugar Mountain, away from the ski resort. The leaves were just beginning to change color on the mountain. The vista views on the hairpin turns were breathtaking, and Sam stopped several times to soak in the beauty. There were no other properties visible when he pulled into the circle drive. The lodge looked new, a large timber frame structure with a stone and log exterior. A soaring second floor featured an enormous "A" frame window that looked over the valley below. There were no other vehicles present. Sam walked the flagstone path, his spidey sensors tingling, too quiet. Sam rang the bell, not expecting an answer. The lodge seemed empty. Sam had a sense when a building was occupied, like a subtle vibration. He felt none. He was about to turn when the door opened. A woman. His first impression was of a plain-looking woman with no striking features. She was tall and lean, brown-skinned. She wore glasses and a shapeless beige shift that extended to her ankles. Her auburn-colored hair was straight, parted in the middle, and fell to her shoulders. Her eyes were dark, and she wore no makeup. CIA or State Department Bureaucrat, he thought. More trouble from the Iran mission?

"Sam, thank you for coming." She knew who he was, smiled warmly, changing his impression. She radiated. Sam couldn't describe the way in which she projected...feelings...or was it something else? In the instant after she smiled, Sam felt a glow, a pleasant warmth inside of his...what...soul? He relaxed.

"Welcome, Sam. Please come in," she said. Sam realized she was anything but plain. Certainly not CIA. Sam took a step into the lodge. She held out her hand.

"My name is Hope," bigger smile. Sam took her hand. A jolt shot through him, no not a jolt, a surge maybe. He could feel not just warmth, but light, and a pleasant throbbing, an indefinable emotion inside his veins. Later Sam would be able to identify the feeling, but as a man with only two emotions, regular and mad, he was ill-prepared to feel...this.

Sam followed Hope to a seat overlooking the valley far below. She served him coffee, with cream, extra hot, just the way he liked it, without asking. The glow inside of him persisted. Sam was energized now, anxious to hear the reason for his visit. The glow opened his mind, prepared him to listen to a difficult concept. Hope sipped her coffee, smiled again.

"Sam, you are needed for a special mission. One that will require all your talents." Sam nodded.

"There is a woman, Naomi." Hope's gaze was mesmerizing and very pleasant. "She needs your help." He nodded again.

"Sam, I cannot tell you who authorized this mission, but the world and this nation needs Naomi to survive." Sam blinked, entranced by the aura of Hope. Definitely not State Department, he thought.

"Where would I find this Naomi?" Sam inquired. "May I guess?" Hope acknowledged his question with a smile. The sensation of her personality continued to warm him. Absolutely not Russian, he thought. "Israel, Syria, or Afghanistan?" he asked.

"Not even close, Sam. In a way, much farther. Naomi is in Alabama." Sam looked at Hope, confusion on his face.

"Sam, Naomi is, ah, well-favored in the eyes of the nation and is desperately needed for the world as you know it to arrive."

"Okay, I can drive to Alabama," he said, his mind confused by Hope's words. Hope put her hand on Sam's arm, another surge. She left her hand on Sam. The warm light flowed through him.

"Sam, you will be traveling to 1865." Sam just nodded again. The flowing light in his veins helped him understand.

"Naomi is in trouble, Sam. You may know of her from your history lessons in school. I have limited access to a portal that will bring you into the middle of a violent night. You will be able to bring your weapons and technology with you. Your backpack and kit are loaded and lying next to the portal entrance. You will need to arrive ready to fight. Your priority is Naomi."

"Why me?" Sam asked.

Hope kept her hand on Sam's arm.

"Sam, you are capable, available, and specially chosen for the mission."

"You forgot expendable," Sam argued, fighting the light. Hope arose. She sat on the arm of Sam's chair. She put her hand on Sam's cheek and gently turned his face to hers. The surge of golden light throbbed in a most pleasant way.

"Oh Sam, you are in no way expendable. You, too, are well-favored." Her words, so sincerely spoken, created in Sam a feeling like he had never experienced, one of electric energy. Sam was ready to run through a brick wall.

"When do I leave?" Sam asked.

"Soon. I'm waiting for the summons that the portal is open. It may be in a few days, a week perhaps. I've prepared a briefing." Sam nodded. Hope opened a laptop. A hologram appeared, a view of the Palmetto Plantation from high above.

"We'll talk about the portal in a minute," she said.

"First, I want you to focus on the grounds." Hope pointed the cursor to a spot alongside a creek to the north of the Big House.

"You will arrive here, a cave, about two klicks from the Big House. I suggest you drop the extra weapons and grasshoppers, etc. in the cave. You'll be heavily loaded when you go through the portal, but you won't be able to use the smart rifles when you arrive. The programs dissipate in the portal. You can reprogram them but that will take some time. You may want the crossbow and a few grenades. Wear your armor and night-vision goggles. Hurry alongside the creek until you reach a cotton field, here." Hope pointed the cursor at the edge of the field.

"Move in about twenty rows and turn right. Stay in that row until you reach the end. Take cover there. Naomi will be captured and tied on a rack on this side of the Big House, here." Hope again pointed the cursor.

"The range will be about eighty yards. You will be able to identify the attackers; anyone that doesn't look like a slave is an enemy." Hope paused as Sam studied the layout.

"How many gomers?" Sam asked.

"You'll be outnumbered thirty or forty to one," she said.

"Gotta get them to flee then. I can't handle thirty or forty unless they decide to stand in one bunch."

"They'll be spread out, three or four will be threatening Naomi. Take them out first. Perhaps fire some grenades for a diversion. They'll flee." Hope touched Sam on the arm. The surge focused him.

"Sam, this mission is about rescuing Naomi. Complete that mission. Get her safe." Hope paused and then touched Sam on the cheek again.

"You will be facing great evil. Once Naomi is safe, you are to eradicate the evil. There is to be no mercy. These are not candidates for Diversity training or Anger Management."

"They'll be back. I might get eight or ten of them, but they'll be back," Sam said. "I'm still going to be far outnumbered. And they have been fighting a war for four years. They know how to shoot."

"Yes, Sam. You'll need to start training your army immediately." Sam gave Hope a growl.

"Army? You do know I'm a Marine, right? This ain't a job for those army doggies." Hope disarmed Sam with a giggle.

"Build your platoon, Sam. Naomi will help you." Hope allowed Sam to contemplate building a fighting force from a group of slaves that had never fired a weapon.

"You'll be amazed at the cleverness of your available men...and women. They've been outwitting evil for a long time, Sam." He found himself nodding again.

"Take the time you have to study the battlefield, pack your weapons, and anything else you can carry through the portal."

"I'll be ready."

"Great to hear Sam. I have solid intelligence, the best there is," Hope said. "Now get some rest. The call may come at any time of day or night. Be ready." Sam spent the next two days preparing. He packed and repacked his kit, added battlefield medical supplies, checked all the weapons, and recharged batteries. Sam ran the mountain outside the lodge twice a day, trying to regain his condition.

Hope awoke Sam at 3:00 AM on his third night at the lodge.

"Something has come up Sam. Please come with me." She led Sam to the Great Room where a second briefing was prepared.

"This is a secondary mission Sam," she explained. "You're the backup plan in case the primary team's access is unavailable." Hope explained the mission.

"This one is a single combatant-only mission. An assassin is attempting to kill President Lincoln. You've no doubt read in the history books about the attempt on Mr. Lincoln's life. This is hard to explain, Sam. An alternate reality exists in which Mr. Lincoln is killed in the attack." Hope paused to let Sam absorb the difficult concept. She touched Sam's arm. The surge of warm light flowed through him, assisting his grasp of the incredible possibility of an alternate reality. Hope put up a hologram of the Ford Theater.

"Lincoln's seats are here," she said pointing to Lincoln's loge.

"This is where the assailant will enter." Hope pointed to the doorway behind Lincoln. She put up a photograph of John Wilkes Booth.

"Sam." Hope looked him in the eye and touched his cheek. The surge flowed.

"The preferred history is the one you know. Mrs. Lincoln is martyred." Sam nodded his understanding.

"I can get you into DC, but your portal is six blocks away. Do what needs to be done, Sam. And get away in the confusion."

"Tough mission," Sam said.

"Yes Sam, very tough. You likely won't be called, but you need to be ready. There are period clothes in your closet. Be ready to go in fifteen minutes. I'm sorry for the late notice Sam."

"I'll do what needs done, Hope. And God bless America." Hope smiled broadly.

"Yes, you understand the mission, Sam." Hope hugged him. The light enveloped Sam in courage and steadfast determination.

"Get dressed. I'll meet you at the portal, down those stairs, in five minutes," she said, indicating the dark, narrow, winding staircase in the middle of the room. Sam dressed in the provided 1865 clothing, a long coat over a white shirt and narrow tie, brown slacks, and tall black boots. He met Hope at the bottom of the stairs. There was a small landing outside a heavy oak door. His kit for the Naomi mission was prepared by the door. But Sam would enter the portal unarmed for this mission if called upon.

They stood by the door for ninety minutes. During the wait, Hope explained the portal. "What you experience during your journey will be similar to a trip to heaven...without the grand finale, of course. It will seem like a narrow tunnel at first. You will initially feel the sensation of falling. It won't last, and you will not be falling. Next, you will feel the sensation of floating in the air, very pleasant, enjoy it. The tunnel will seem to become larger and then you will feel like you're in an infinite space. You'll see specks of light far in the distance. The lights will approach and surround you, Sam. You will feel a great sense of speed, but even more, a great sense of warmth and comfort. These are your escorts. I can't put into words the emotions you will feel, Sam. I promise it will be most pleasurable. The end of your journey will be a slowing sensation. Your escorts will leave you. Feel free to wave to them. They like that. You'll slow and finally land gently on your feet."

Minutes passed. Sam kept loose, bouncing on his feet and rolling his neck, feeling the adrenaline flow, like the moments before a jump into a hostile country. And then Hope closed her eyes, seemed to be in a trance. A few moments later, her eyes popped open, radiating light. Hope smiled at him.

"The mission has been accomplished, Sam. You will not be needed this time." Sam was both disappointed and relieved, and wondered about Hope's coms. How did she know the mission succeeded?

The adrenaline ebbed. Sam and Hope exited the portal doorway.

"Your primary mission will not be aborted, Sam. I need you to re-focus now. You may be called at any time."

It seemed Sam had just shut his eyes when Hope shook him awake again.

"Time to go Sam. Let's walk to the basement, get you armed." Sam hit the bathroom quickly for brief hygiene and followed Hope down the deep winding staircase. At the bottom, he mounted his backpack. It was loaded with all his gear plus three additional smart rifles and spare night vision goggles. Sam could barely carry it all. Once loaded up, he looked around to the oak door. He realized there were questions he hadn't asked.

"How do I get back?" he asked. "When do I come back? How do I contact you?"

"Just text me. I'm in your contacts. I'll keep the portal open as much as possible." Sam nodded again, confused.

"Sam, you will get back. I promise. Now go rescue Naomi. Just walk through the door. There is nothing to fear." Hope hugged him. The surge was the most powerful yet, light, warmth, courage, and the indefinable emotion flowed through him. He stepped through the door.