I completely forgot to post yesterday. And so you get another late post. Sorry. I need to get back on schedule. And here is part of my first attempt at historical fiction. I had to write two historical fiction pieces for my Essay class, and I decided to use the same story for each. I have one vote for my continuation of this into a full blown story. Anyone else care to weigh in???
“Halt! Who goes there?” A gruff voice demanded. A figure appeared in front of us from behind a tree. I could see the gun in his hand.
“Three tired fugitives.” I pulled the blanket further around me, squinting at the shadowy figure. Abigail and Sawyer stood behind me, Sawyer’s hand staying beneath my arm, steadying me as I stood on my good ankle.
“How do I know that you’re telling the truth?” He growled. I was silent for a moment. In every scenario I had imagined for our arrival on the Union side, this had not crossed my mind.
Sawyer came to stand beside me, his hand on my arm. “We’s from Master Carter’s plantation, down south.”
The man took a step forward, and I felt a shiver go down my spine. He wouldn’t hurt us, would he?
“Please,” I said, but he interrupted.
“Master Carter?” He said, softly. For a moment, I felt I knew this man, something about his voice, but I quickly dismissed it. It wasn’t possible.
“Yes, but please, do you have anywhere for us to stay?” I asked.
“Come with me.” he said, and turned towards the lantern that was hanging on a tree branch behind him. He grabbed the lantern and looked over his shoulder at us.
“Are you coming?” There was something familiar about this man, I just couldn’t figure out where I had seen him before. Or if I had.
“We’s coming sir.” Sawyer said. The man strode away. I began to follow, forgetting about my ankle. I took in a sharp breath, and Sawyer grabbed my arm, keeping me from pitching forward. The man spun to face us.
“Are you alright?” He said, concern in his voice. Something registered then. I raised my head and stared into his eyes.
“Peter?” I breathed.
“H-how do you know my name?” He said, taking a step closer.
“Peter, don’t you recognize me?” I said.
“Henrietta? Is it really you? I hoped – when he said your father’s name, but I didn’t think it was really possible.” He said, stepping even closer and taking a hold on my arms. I leaned against him, letting the tears slip from my eyes. It was over. I was safe. Safe in Peter’s arms.