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Wayfaring Stranger
Chapter 1
By: Mrs. J

Plot: The plot here is developing: so far we find men coming home from the war battered and bruised emotionally only to find no hero's welcome and no loving women greeting them. Three men come home–If Eli is Asa and Addison's brother I think you should point that out–and face rejection or a sort of mild indifference from their women. Even Asa's wife jumps when he touches her hand.

Characters: Not a great start for the women here. Okay Jeanne was only Addison's girlfriend so she logically can move on with her life. But the two wives Rachael and Matilda are ice block cold. We even learn that the men's mother was too cheap or indifferent to buy paper and write her sons --or was it only Addison who got no letters? The only woman/girl who comes across as positive is Sophia, Eli's daughter. If I didn't know that you are a woman author, I'd suspect that the guy writing this has a big time grudge against some woman or women who burned him bad.
As for the men: Addison seems immature. Asa has some kind of psychosis about dirty hands. I imagine he did his share of killing and feels guilty. Eli seems normal enough so far.

Style and Voice: You follow each man and give him the POV , 3rd person limited.

Referencing: dishwater blonde sounds too modern

Scene/Setting: We're in and around Keokuk, Iowa in 1865 at the end of the civil war. We jump from one character to another. I think Eli seems thrown in there with no introduction /explanation who he is.

Grammar: Fine. I'd watch the repetition of your character's names when we obviously know who it is. He or she would make it flow faster.

Just my personal opinion: A little tightening up as mentioned above and in the line edit and I think this will be a good start. However, I think this could be the 2nd chapter. The poem could be before the story starts. Then the Prologue could be the beginning of chapter 1 then you could have Asa giving the reader a feeling of what the men went through in a conversation with the barkeeper. Have the latter give him some free shots, loosen him up to say something. I feel that kind of beginning would pack more punch, give us one character whom we care about, and prepare us for what they all are going to face.

My comments and suggestions are in RED. Blue is to highlight something from you.

(Note: I’m making suggestions and telling you my honest opinion---but I’m no expert Take what you like and trash the rest. Linggy)


The white, two-story, frame farmhouse crowned the bluff and stood out like a beacon, surveying was a the river below it. Keokuk,Iowa lay a comfortable four and a half miles away.

Addison turned off the road and started up the long drive to the house. Fighting the urge to run, he held his head high and proud. After all, he had a right to be proud— he was a returning warrior. He felt the sun shinning down on him and noticed how the light accented the blue of his uniform, and the shine of his brass buttons. Often he dreamed of this moment when he would walk down the lane, a smart spring in his step, a man tried and tested in war ready to claim his prize, Jeannie.

Glancing around him, Addison noted the farm was doing well. Mr. Davis always ran a successful farm. The oldest son, Lucas would, of course, inherit it, but Addison vowed to himself self evident that someday he and Jeannie would have a farm like this— no better. or even better.

As Addison approached the front steps of the porch, a large yellow dog stretch and rose to his feet. "Dog?” Addison laughed.

Dog, as the scraggly mutt was know, or "Damn Dog" as Mr. Davis called him, lumbered down the stairs. He approached with his head lowered, but and his tail wagging with caution. "You used to run down the road to meet me, Dog. What happened? You worn out from chasing rabbits, Boy?" Addison reached down and gave Dog a good scratch behind the ears. His tail moved faster.

"Addison?"

He looked up to see Mrs. Davis standing on the porch, her hand over her heart. Sweeping off his kepi, he gave her a gallant bow. "Mrs. Davis."

"I um... I didn't... we didn't..." Mrs. Davis faltered. "Please, Addison, have a seat." She motioned to a long wooden bench on the porch that rested against the wall between the door and window.

Addison pretended to wipe his mouth so he could hide his smile as he ascended the steps and took a seat. Genevieve Davis was a handsome woman, much like her daughter. Unlike Jeannie, she lacked an alluring personality. Most of the time, Mrs. Davis she was shy. She stumbled over her words more than usual, perhaps due to the sight of a returning soldier.

As Addison sat, he cleared his throat. "I've come to see Jeannie."

"It's a hot day. Let me get you something to drink," Mrs. Davis muttered as she disappeared into the house.

She's probably getting Jeannie, Addison thought to himself. He pictured Jeannie's smile of surprise as her two adorable dimples appeared. Next she would rush around trying to make herself presentable. As if she needed to primp. Jeannie, his Jeannie, was always beautiful, her raven hair pinned up in an intricate pattern, not a strand out of place. Her eyes were a soft, deep brown, round, and her complexion smooth and flawless. On more than on one occasion in the past three years, Addison closed his eyes and remembered her lyrical laugh, how it hung in the air drawing everyone to her. With a wicked smile, he thought of her curvy body, her tiny waist, rounded hips, and full breasts. He couldn't wait to touch her full pouty lips with his own.

"Here you are." Mrs. Davis handed Addison a glass of cool cider and took a seat next to him.

Addison blushed, grateful Mrs. Davis couldn't read his mind. "Thank you, Ma’am." He took the glass.

Mrs. Davis sank down on the bench next to him. "When did you get home?"

"Just today. I came straight from the boat." He took a sip of the cider.

"My husband's in the field. I'm sure he would like to see you. You say you haven't been to see your folks, your brother?" She fiddled with the sleeve of her blue calico dress.

Addison shook his head. "No, Ma’am. After all this time, I came straight to see Jeannie."

"She isn't here right now." Mrs. Davis wouldn't look him in the eyes, and her face flushed.

He laughed it off. "That would be just my luck to cross paths in town without even knowing it."

"No, she's out Argyle way."

"Argyle? What on earth for? How soon will she be back?" He formed a plan to meet her on the road.

"Um, Addison, when was the last time you heard from Jeannie."

He shrugged. "Been awhile, but we didn't get any letters for months, not until we got to Washington. Nothing came then, but it didn't worry me. Jeannie never was one for writing much."

"What about your folks? Hear from them?"

As the smile faded from his face, sounds like a POV switch to her Addison set the glass down. "They are fine, but don't write much either. Ma doesn't see the need to spend money on paper. His mother is too cheap to buy paper to write to her son on the battlefield? Is Jeannie alright?"

"Oh, she's alright." Mrs. Davis gave a deep sigh.

He furrowed his brow. "You've got me worrying, Mrs. Davis."

Jeannie’s mother She stared off into the distance toward the river. "Jeannie married Karl Jensen 'bout a month ago."

Addison leapt to his feet. Did Mrs. Davis say Jeannie was married? What was that noise from the trees? Cicadas? Their chirping came in a wave of sound and made his head throb. "Beg pardon?" He managed to mumble.

"Addison, please don't make me say it again." This sounds odd.
Does saying something again make it worse?
He couldn't comprehend the words he said, they seemed to form from someone else’s brain. "Then, I best be getting along. I shan't take up anymore of your time." His feet carried him down the stairs.

"Wait! I'll get Mr. Davis, Lucas, or one of the boys to take you home."

He turned to face her and placed his cap back on his head. "No. Ma’am. I don't want to be trouble."

"Addison, wait!" Her voice sounded far away and the cicadas' noise buzzing crescendoed again.

"Have a pleasant day, Mrs. Davis." He turned and walked back down the long drive. If she called to him again, he didn't hear it. unnecessary narative

When he reached the road, he stopped. Looking down, he noticed a spot of tarnish on one of his buttons, a frayed thread hanging from his cuff, and the blue of his uniform look dull and faded. nice, reality setting in

h


A mile and a half from his father’s farm on the rolling hills of the Iowa prairie, two large walnut trees framed Asa's log home. When he built the house, he cleared all but those two trees. Rachel wanted the shade, and he wanted Rachel happy.

As he approached, Asa glanced about for his wife. A slight breeze moved the leaves creating freckled shadows on the hewn logs and white chinking of the house. The sight of home made a lump rise in his throat, and Asa found he couldn't bring himself to call out Rachel's name. Instead, he decided to take a peak at the fields. Clearing the north corner of the house, he saw the fields had been worked, the green corn waving in the slight breeze. From this distance, it looked like the harvest would be right on schedule. Of course, he would have to get a closer look. While he was gone, a hired man helped Rachel, and she rented out some of the acreage.

A flutter to his left caught his attention. Crisp white linens billowed like sails on the clothesline. The sun silhouetted a person behind them, and one sheet lifted enough to show a flash of golden hair, Rachel. She hadn't noticed him. Nice imagery: white = purity. Home and his woman!

Asa froze in place. Three years had passed since they were face to face. Swallowing hard he tried to knock down the lump in his throat. Despite his boast to Addison, he didn't go to Bailey's. He came home to see his wife, and here she was in the flesh— no dream. I think you missed a great opportunity for him to have a heart to heart chat with the bar tender.

Another breeze lifted the sheet again, and this time Rachel saw him. She stopped what she was doing, her hands in mid air, clothes pin clamped between her teeth. The sight of her compelled him forward. Rachel took the clothespin from her mouth and stuffed in into her bulging apron pocket. Before she could speak, Asa gathered his wife in his arms and buried his face in the crock of her neck. He inhaled her scent, clean, lye soap with lavender mixed in.

"Asa, I didn't know..." she stopped.

He could only respond by holding her tighter. All he wanted right now was to touch her. He didn't need words, just Rachel. He concentrated on the feel of her in his arms. Then a slight knock against his leg startled him. Rachel pushed back against Asa and reached behind her skirt. Placing her hand on a small boy's head, she drew him out. "Henry," she whispered.

"Henry?"

The little boy clutched at his mother's skirts and ducked behind her again. "Come." She urged him forward again. "Henry, this is your father."

Asa squatted to be eye level with his son. With curious big blue eyes, Henry peaked around his mother. "It's nice to see you, Son."

Henry scampered to the other side of his mother. "Don't worry. He'll warm up to you."
h : ***

Rachel called to Asa from the kitchen. "Did you find your white muslin shirt? I put it on the bed for you."

Asa just finished bathing and stood in front of their looking glass. "Um Hum."

He wore a pair of pants that waited action verb for pants? in a trunk for his return. These pants They were lightweight, not thick like the army issued pair he wore home and now had a three-inch gap around the waist. The shirt still lay on the bed, and he planned on shaving his thick beard before putting it on. Taking a deep breath, Asa spread the William’s Lather thickly over his face and dipped his razor in the water basin.

Something rustled, and Asa looked around. The bed stood next to their dressing stand, Rachel's summer quilt covering it. Beyond the bed, the window was open and the curtains stirred about. In the mirror, Asa could see the doorway behind him and their tall walnut bureau next to the door.

The noise repeated and Asa peered over the side of the bed. He spotted the top of Henry's blonde head, a few hairs sticking out in at awkward angels. Henry blinked his large blue eyes at his father. As the boy studied him, Asa gave him a wink, but Henry ducked back down under the bed. Asa returned to shaving while keeping an eye on the boy from the looking glass.

Soon Henry's head appeared over the edge of the bed, then his eyes. The thought occurred to Asa this was probably the first time Henry saw a man shave.

The noise of Rachel working in the kitchen ceased. "Asa, have you seen Henry?"

"No. Last time I saw him, he was fussing in a cradle. There is a young towhead in here. Could that be Henry?"

Henry crawled up on the bed, a grin on his face. As Asa prepare d to take another wipe with the razor, he gave Henry a wink. Giggling Henry buried his face in the pillows. Involuntarily, Asa smiled just as the razor touched his skin leaving a knick on his left cheek. He refrained from swearing because he didn't want to startle the boy. Instead, he wiped at the knick with his fingers. In the brief instant before blood surfaced again, Asa noticed the cut was deeper than normal.

"Oh, Dear." Rachel spoke behind him.

Putting his fingers over the wound, he tried to laugh it off. "Guess that's what happens when it's been so long."

"Here." She picked up a towel and pressed the corner to his cheek.

"No. It'll stain your linen."

Rachel smiled. "I'm more concerned about you having half a beard."

"I'll take care of it." He placed his fingers over hers.

She jumped at his touch. "Speaking of linen, I best check on my sheets outside." She let go of the towel and took a step back. "Henry."

The boy scrambled down from the bed and followed his mother from the room.

Asa turned back to the mirror. Dipping the towel in the water, he dabbed the wound. Then he opened Rachel’s sewing basket, found the felt plug, tore off a small piece, and held it to the wound until it stuck. With care he finished the job and soon his face was clean-shaven.

Henry's laughter drifted through the open window answered by Rachel's, "Now, Henry, I swear if you get my linens dirty... Young man... Stop!"

Looking back down Asa noticed the crimson stain on Rachel's towel and felt a pang of guilt. Rachel always took pride in her clean linens. He emptied the dirty water and poured a fresh pitcher into the basin. After wetting the towel he used his fingernail to scrub at the fibers hoping they would release the blood. Perhaps some soap would help.

He rang wrung the water from the towel and draped it over the pitcher. As he reached out, he noticed the grime under his thumbnail, an odd mixture of black brown and red. Asa turned his hands over and examined his palms and plunged them back into the water. The basin was filled with water, now a brownish color, and the pitcher empty.

Asa took up the basin and went out back to the well. Just then Rachel came around the corner, her arms full of folded linens in a willow basket. Asa knew he should reach out and take the heavy load from her. Stop! Your hands are filthy. Don't soil her linens! He mumbled an excuse. "Need to clean my hands. Be in momentarily." As he drew fresh water, Asa felt certain Rachel eyed his hands.

h


Eli's fingers ached as he put the key into the front door of his red brick Italianate home. This transition can cause confusion. First, it's Asa and the fear that Rachael will eye his hands and then you immediately switch to Eli's fingers. His 3 letter name, beginning and ending with a vowel, doesn't help either. The effects of fever still lingered in his body. He turned the key, and pushed the door open. "In here will do." He motioned to the entryway.

The Irishman Eli hired to drive him from the dock hoisted the trunk over his shoulder and lumbered into the hall. With a loud thunk, the man set it down and glared at Eli. "You serve in the war?" Eli asked as he placed a coin in the man's outstretched palm.

"Aye," he grunted and walked away.

Must have been an enlisted man, hates officers. Eli closed the door behind him.

The house was quiet except for the ticking of the massive grandfather clock in the parlor to his right. Matilda, Eli' wife, preferred to keep a quiet house, but this silence seemed different, lonely.

Eli removed his jacket and draped it on the banister of the massive staircase. He peeked into the parlor. Empty. Letting out a long sigh, he wheeled around and smacked into someone. The woman let out a small yelp. "Sorry." Eli realized he didn't recognize her. "You are..."

"Name's Hattie Campbell." She rubbed at her shoulder where Eli made contact. "By the looks of you, you must be Lieutenant Thatcher. Mrs. Thatcher hired me 'bout six months back. I'm the housekeeper."

He furrowed his brow. "Yes. I remember something about that. Where is Mrs. Thatcher?"

"Mrs. and Miss Thatcher are attending a charity auction at Estes House."

"Oh, I see." Eli' expression fell. He couldn't hide the disappointment.

"Not exactly a proper homecoming, is it?" Hattie gave him a warm smile.

"I suppose." Eli noticed her wide smile stretch a purple scar across her left cheek, that ran down her chin to her neck. He knew he shouldn't stare, but the scar was so prominent. "When do you expect them back?"

"Within an hour or two." Hattie's Dishwater blonde hair sounds too modern was pulled tight into a bun at the nape of her neck. "You must be so exhausted, Mr. Thatcher. Can I get you anything, something to eat, tea?"

Eli shook his head. "No, I'm not hungry, but thank you, Miss..." He hesitated trying to remember her last name."

"Campbell."

"Miss Campbell, I think I shall change and freshen up.

"Yes, Sir." Hattie turned her boney framed and headed towards the kitchen.

Eli glanced down at his trunk and decided to haul it up the stairs himself.

h


Three hours later Eli was clean-shaven, and dressed in civilian clothing. His family still gone, he decided to inspect the upstairs rooms. Sophia, his daughter's room changed the most. Any vestiges of childhood were long gone. Hers was the room of an eighteen-year-old young lady. A beautiful linsey woolsey covered her new four-poster bed. A full-length wardrobe replaced the dresser of her youth, but the little dressing table remained the same with the porcelain pitcher, sprouting little pink flowers on the handle. He reached out and traced one of the flowers with his forefinger.

Just then, the sound of a carriage out front clattered up through the open window. Eli placed the rug back over the slingshot and headed downstairs.

Just as he reached the bottom of the stairs, the front door opened, and his wife, Matilda crossed the threshold. At the sight of her husband, she stopped short. Sophia ran into the back of her mother, making the doorway a tangle of skirts, and ruffles. "Mother, what's..." Sophia spotted Eli. "Papa!" She squeezed past her mother and flew into his arms.

Matilda shut the door, and removed her bonnet. "Eli, I didn't expect you for at least a month. I didn't even know you'd been mustered out yet."

Eli blew some of the feathers on Sophia's bonnet out of his way. She hadn't relaxed her hold on his neck. "I was given a discharge, no comma earlier then the others on account of my being ill."

"I don't care— discharge... whatever, I'm just glad you're home!" Sophia relaxed her grip on her father.

"Hattie!" Matilda called out.

In a moment Hattie appeared in the hall, arms outstretched to take the ladies' thing. As if sensing a question, Hattie answered, "Supper will be ready promptly at five, Ma’am."

"Very good." Matilda gave a curt nod, and Hattie went about her work.

"Come!" Sophia pulled on her father by the arm toward the parlor. "You must tell us all about your journey. Did you stop in St. Louis?"

Eli chuckled. "You've missed the yearly trip to St. Louis, no doubt."

"Not as much as I've missed you." Sophia squeezed his arm tighter.

Matilda walked over to her own chair and gracefully took a seat.
Nice! I'm wondering if the wives are more screwed up than the men coming home.