Page 151 of In These Hills

He was the one who had made her better. Who had helped her see beyond her own small world and her great big causes. Dodge had—

The tread of footsteps carried down the darkened corridor, and she lay motionless, listening, sensing the same hush settle over the rest of the prisoners, as the steps came closer, closer, then went silent.

“So you’re the woman who killed my son.”

60

GOOSEFLESH ROSE ON JOSEPHINE’S BACK AND ARMS, and she slowly turned to see Mayor Frank Darden standing outside her cell, feet firmly planted in freedom. She had only ever seen him from afar, but his sharp, angular features—once mirrored in his son—she remembered well, even in the dark.

“Tell me, Miss Dunham, how does it feel? Knowing you’ve been beaten, once and for all?”

She struggled to sit, weakness from lack of food and rest making standing ill-advised. As she faced him, all the things she’d thought she would say, if given the chance, slipped away. “I won’t pretend to think you don’t know the truth, Mayor Darden. Both about what happened in the alley a few blocks away and what happened in Lynchburg, which I’m certain you’ve been told about.”

“Yes, the alley where you attacked my son, then the distillery which you burned to the ground in furtherance of your cause, while my son’s only misfortune was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Though she couldn’t see his smile, she felt it.

“You see, Miss Dunham, there is nothing you can do to rewrite my version of history. In short, once the illustrious matrons of your ill-fated cause have died, they and you—along with all the others—will be no more than a slight ripple on the water. Here and gone. Mark my words.”

“While I don’t believe that’s true, it strikes me as odd, as I’m sitting here, looking at you now. If we are only ripples on the water, as you claim, then why the need to jail us? To beat us? To silence us?”

He stepped closer, and a shiver went through her. He wasn’t as tall or broad as she remembered, but he was still a man capable of inflicting great harm. And she knew, firsthand, the hatred that drove him.

“Your imprisonment is not merely punishment, Miss Dunham, nor the stamping out of a weak rebellion. It is instruction—an example. A warning to others not to follow your path. That is how rebellion is crushed at its root. But I don’t expect a barren spinster, with notions far above her station, to grasp the logic of it.”

Perhaps the iron bars separating them gave her false courage, but she looked him dead-on. “If my imprisonment is meant to instruct, it will. But likely not in the lesson you imagine. Because while you can cage people, you cannot cage ideas. And while you think you are crushing a rebellion, you may, in fact, be fueling it.”

“Quite the orator, Miss Dunham.” He laughed as he stepped back. “And with a captive audience, no less.” He started to turn away, then paused. “I’m told you didn’t eat dinner tonight. A shame—I had it made especially for you. We have ways of persuading our guests to eat. In fact, the tenant who occupied your cell up until three days ago discovered that. Sadly, the fare on the menu didn’t sit well with her. You might have known her. Adelaide Stewart. Does that name ring a bell?”

Grateful now not to be standing, Josephine felt the remaining strength leave her body.

“Oh, it appears you did know her. Well, I’m sorry your time here didn’t overlap.” He glanced past her. “I was told she died alone, there on her cot.”

As the sound of his footsteps faded down the corridor, Josephine had to consciously draw breath in, then force it out. But nothing could stop the cry building inside her. She ran a shaky hand over the thin straw mattress, recalling Adelaide’s smile and her strong alto voice as they sang together as they marched. The worst thing you can do to a man, Josephine, is to laugh at him.

She lay back down and turned onto her side, hearing the quiet sobs coming from down the corridor, and soon her own pillow grew damp.

How many tears had she cried? How many had been cried in this place? Nannie had told her the Word of God said he never wasted a tear shed on this earthly journey. “He collects all of them in a bottle,” Josephine whispered to the dark, wondering if speaking Nannie’s words aloud might make them feel more true. “Do you?” she said softly. “Do you see me? Are you listening?”

Silence filled the air, thick and close. He learned obedience from the things he suffered. The words repeated like an inaudible whisper, not grating, not chastising. But softly, tenderly, and she searched the darkness. “I’m trying to learn,” she whispered. “Teach me. Please . . . teach me.” The impenetrable stone ceiling loomed above, but somehow she knew her words had reached heaven’s throne. Though no answer came.

She drifted from exhaustion only to awaken sometime later to a fragile voice coming from somewhere down the lines of cells, low at first and uncertain, trying to steady itself on the notes of the hymn she hadn’t sung since before Todd’s death.

“Nearer, my God, to thee. Nearer to thee . . .”

Her breath knotted like a fist in her chest as the memory of Todd singing beside her in church returned, his rich baritone rising, especially on the next line—“E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me”—as if he meant it, every word. “Still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to thee. Nearer, my God, to thee. Nearer to thee.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks as she strained to listen.

“Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down. Darkness be over me, my rest a stone. Yet in my dreams I’d be, nearer, my God, to thee. Nearer, my God, to thee. Nearer to thee . . .”

The hymn continued, fading in parts, the words there but bent beneath suffering. And though she heard no audible voice, she heard his voice all the same—clear and deep within her, with eternal truth and unwavering authority she could not deny. Nor did she want to. Is this what Todd had been trying to describe to her when he’d talked about experiencing the hand of God in his life, feeling the unmistakable nudge of his will?

“I hear you, Lord,” she whispered, the freedom she felt in that moment making no sense while locked in a jail cell, accused of a crime she did not commit. “And I know you see me. Th-thank you for hearing me . . . and for collecting my tears.”

Her cell hadn’t changed. No heavenly light pierced the stone walls to chase away the darkness. Yet, within her, light burned—an all-consuming fire that left no room for doubt of God’s presence. Or that he would be with her, no matter what.

“Take a seat over there.” The stern-looking matron who’d shoved her into the cell that first day, pointed to the table in the far corner. “Your attorney should be here soon.” The woman marched on past rows of tables where other attorneys met with female prisoners.