Mourning of the Dove
In the early summer of 1860, the man Fidelia McCord had fallen in love with, Miles Maloney, traveled north to gather information and stories for the anti-secessionist newspaper Southern Intelligencer. He’d been certain his beloved Fidelia would await his return. But he has vanished and sent no word to her. Had he fallen to a terrible end in the scrubland, or had he abandoned the young woman he claimed to love?
As the year 1860 neared its end, Fidelia’s heart faltered midst doubt and persuasion, and she accepted James Hughes’ proposal of marriage. When the nation begins to tremble toward war, James enlists with Benjamin Terry’s Texas Rangers, and as James departs, Fidelia shares the news that she is carrying their child. James will be gone for years.
While the two men who love Fidelia find their way through a war-torn nation, facing death at every turn, Fidelia perseveres through her own struggles and losses in Texas, always with fear in the back of her mind that she may have chosen the wrong path. A haunting dread fills her. What if neither of the men she loves comes home?
On a Lark
Let the Little Birds Sing
In 1847, the McCord family, filled with hope for prospects of a better life, packed all their earthly belongings into covered wagons and left their homes in Indiana for Texas. The world beyond was in front of seven-year-old Fidelia, and little did she know, as the wagons traveled down the dusty trail to the southwest that there would be the need for all the courage she could muster. Her faith would be test847, the McCord family, filled with hope for prospects of a better life, packed all their earthly belongings into covered wagons and left their homes in Indiana for Texas. The world beyond was in front of seven-year-old Fidelia, and little did she know, as the wagons traveled down the dusty trail to the southwest that there would be the need for all the courage she could muster. Her faith would be tested and fortitude found in the most unexpected places.
This novel is the beginning of Fidelia McCord’s story, recounted from her journals, told through the eyes of a precocious and determined girl. It is the tale, set in early America, inspired by the journey of a girl coming of age amidst the perils of settling in a new and untamed land. It is a tale of family and hope.
Available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
Published by Atmosphere Press; cover design by Jenny Quinlan, Historical Editorial.
Excerpt from Let the Little Birds Sing … Chapter 1
The snow began to fall as we stood before the pit in the ground by the leafless maple, my hand held tight in my mother’s. Pa, Grandma, and Grandpa stood with us as the pastor read from his worn Bible, frayed by years of turning pages.
“Let there be, sayeth the Lord, a time for
everything, and a season for every activity
under the heavens; a time to be born and a
time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot.
“And…then shall the dust return to earth as it was: and the spirit shall return sweet Hester into your arms and give comfort to the mother whose arms are now empty. Amen.
The words were a blur to my ears, for my eyes were set on the tiny coffin in the black hole, so deep the winter sun couldn’t find it. When the prayers were done, the last amen said, Pa threw a handful of dirt that landed with a thud on the wooden box that held my baby sister, and the sound of it startled me. Ma sobbed quietly, and Uncle Levi used the shovel to begin filling the grave in the ground not yet frozen. I snuggled tight into my mother’s faded blue coat for both warmth and comfort.
My five-year-old sister Emily was at the church with the women. Together we walked away, back toward the church, leaving baby Hester alone in the graveyard, a placeI’d always seen as mysterious and lonely. A place with shadows that trembled as if the dead struggled to return. Ma’s hand gently drew my head to rest at her waist as she walked with the heaviness of the baby to come, and snowflakes began to drift from the dark gray clouds, dusting our coats and skirts into ghostly hues.
“Mama, will the new baby stay with us?”
Ma looked down at me. It was a moment before a fragile smile betrayed her sad eyes.
“Oh, dear Fidelia, I hope so. I hope so,” she said and then looked up toward the sky, where the snow caressed her face. Just two weeks later Maureen was born.
When May blossomed in Indiana, the storms came with the daily afternoon gathering of dark clouds that dumped their bounty and left as quickly as they’d arrived. Grandpa had decided we should head south, where it was warmer, where there were not so many new German immigrants from the East growing the nearby towns, and where the sky was said to be tall and wide. Over the years, beginning long before I was born, the Indian tribes had been moved farther and farther to the west, accommodating the white man’s settlement. I had heard Grandpa’s stories of how he had fought the Indians under Colonel Harrison’s command, and now only the Miami tribe remained, and they were being sent, bit by bit, to Kansas. Tensions in Indiana were growing regarding the presence of Negro families settling from the South, and I had heard Ma and Pa whisper of the good works of the Underground Railroad and the Quakers.
It was the year 1847, the beginning of our long journey. I was only seven then, when I helped Ma pack the wagon. Pa said we were all leaving for a place far away called Texas. Across the field I could see Pa’s sister, Audrey, and younger brother, Jeremy, walking to and fro Grandpa’swagon. Pa and Grandpa had sown no crops that year, but the white wildflowers and some early bright milkweed were springing up in the meadows. Beyond, in my uncle’sfields, I could see the tiniest sprigs of corn stalks escaping the turned dirt. Jeremy and Audrey were going to Texas with us. Grandma had been the only grandmother I’d known because Ma’s mother, Grandmother Mariah, hadlived in Ohio and had died before my memories were formed. Ma was named Mariah after her own mother. Grandpa William, my pa’s father, had been born in Ohio but had come to Fort Wayne with his family as a young child, had grown up on the farm amidst the goings and comings of the nearby fort.
I’d heard conversations at our supper table, talk about why we had to leave Indiana. Ma was anxious about leavinga place she’d come to love, leaving behind her sister.
“Mariah, it’s what Father wants, and I can’t argue withhim. We can get more land in Texas. Someone came back from some part of Texas and told Father about the vast fields of cotton . . . how much profit came from the man’s own crops,” said Pa.
“But, John, most years our crops flourish. And we have family here. And in Ohio,” said Ma, her words and imploring voice seeking to change Pa’s decision.
“First of all, I don’t want Father going to this new landwithout me. I, too, would like a grand farm, and I’m certainthe new markets in the pioneer settlements will welcome availability of more goods and produce,” said Pa. He took Ma’s hand across the table. “We will be better for this, Mariah.”
Ma’s faced did not reflect the reassurance given her.
As we packed our things, I thought of little Hester, only fifteen months old when her life was snatched, now in the cold field that will be covered with snow next winter, after we are gone. Back in those years, when I was seven, I did not know better. I wondered if she would miss us. If she would be warm enough when the snows came again.
© 2018 Sandra Fox Murphy. All rights reserved.
