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Christina Miller
It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.
—Lamentations 3:22–23
To my grandmothers:
Sweet grandma Ruby Linstrot, whose stories of long ago made me love the past.
Spunky grandma Violet Kahle, my fun and sassy inspiration for Grandmother Euphemia.
With thanks to...
The staff at Monmouth, the setting I chose for Camellia Pointe. Special thanks to Roosevelt, who served us his refreshing nonalcoholic mint juleps during our stay.
Steve Laube, my fabulous agent, for his wise counsel and ever-available listening ear.
Dina Davis, my smart, sweet, talented, hardworking editor and dear friend.
Jan, my preacher husband, who cheerfully does life with this writer girl.
Jesus, giver of gifts and fulfiller of dreams.
Contents
Natchez, Mississippi
February, 1866
The cry piercing the damp winter air chilled the Reverend Samuel Montgomery’s bones even more than the wind blowing up from the Mississippi. He hadn’t heard a sound like that since Chickamauga—a cross between a rebel yell and the shriek of an anguished soul.
He raced up the muddy brick walk and toward the ghastly sound, dropping his Bible in his haste. As always, when he’d heard similar screams of agony on the battlefield or in an army hospital, he breathed a hasty prayer for the suffering one. What could have ignited a sound like the strident voice calling through the stucco walls?
“Help me...”
Nearing the white-columned structure, Samuel reached into his frock coat pocket and checked his vial of anointing oil and his portable communion set, issued by the Confederate Army’s Chaplain Corps.
His mind sped as fast as his booted feet while he prepared himself to anoint the sick or administer the Lord’s Supper to the dying. Judging from the hair-raising voice, he might be called upon to deliver either sacrament—or both—this windy winter day.
And they were the last tasks he would have expected to perform as he took his first steps into his new church, Christ Church of Natchez.
Samuel crashed through the doorway and crossed the vestibule at a run, the sweet tones of an unfamiliar song grating against his nerves. He snatched off his hat and pitched it toward the nearest corner. As he burst into the chilly, high-ceilinged sanctuary, voices and organ strains blended into a maddening refrain from the choir gathered near the pulpit.
Did
