Beaumont
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13 June, 1864, 5:30 P.M. Charleston, South Carolina
In the five months following John's return, he has slowly recovered his strength. When Mr. Pitkins' letter arrived two and a half weeks ago, John planted his fists on his hips and insisted that he and Elizabeth were capable of handling the farm without me. I thank You, Lord, for permitting the letter from Mr. Pitkins to miraculously find its way to Adams County.
Leaving Old Mill Crossroads was difficult. I prepared myself to reenter Charleston, a bitter fountain of rebellion and Beaumont's diabolical den, by reading of Paul's return to Rome. I felt a kindred spirit with the Apostle Paul, as though destiny had appointed me to this journey, a man already in chains. Now, looking out the small window in my cell, I see the Union fleet stretched across the rim of the harbor. Their floating batteries continue to bombard this indigent city with a vengeance. What an ironic contrast to that morning three years ago when the Confederates fired on Fort Sumter. Mr. Pitkins informed me that Seth Beaumont's estate was among the first to be destroyed by the fierce cannonade. His letter related Victoria's mother's situation, how Mrs. Moore, having no heirs, had devised her real property estate to me. Beaumont immediately laid claim to Moore Hill, attaching the land by a judicial order as payment for a lien he claims to have placed several years ago for a bill never paid by Mr. Moore. There is no such lien. I checked the courthouse records myself three days ago. Am I ambitious to possess Moore Hill? No! I simply decided that the time had come for the treacherous deception and thuggery of this evil man to be halted once and for all. Mr. Pitkins, who alleges that I still retain a good reputation, encouraged me to come swiftly. My article, "Behind Union Lines," was well received. When I arrived yesterday he paid me nearly two years back wages. He is such an honorable man. So I left the offices of The Observer in a happy mood, proceeding toward Broad Street to find temporary lodging until the dispute over the Moore estate could be settled. As I stepped into the street, three men intercepted me, one at each elbow, the third in front of me. At first I did not recognize Beaumont. He wore a patchy beard. His left ear was mangled and missing the lobe. The left side of his neck was withered and brown from a severe burn. His nose had obviously been broken and healed improperly; a dark pink scar stretched fully across his left cheek to the corner of a black patch that covered his left eye. His left arm hung limp and obviously useless. His singular, hateful eye stared loathsomely into mine. It wasn't until he spoke that the face and voice matched his name. "MacDonald, I will have that land and you will hang for treason against the Confederacy and for the murder of Miss Elkin!" That was eight hours ago. Now, the evening sun has set and I write by candlelight at a small wooden table in my cell. In two days I shall go before a judge to be charged with treason and murder. My accuser, Seth Beaumont, will make sure that I do not escape the hangman's noose a second time. My sole regret is that I shall never again see Angelina, my daughter-to-be. May she continue to find comfort in the love of John, Elizabeth and Thomas Peter. O, Lord, grant me the faith that I might continue to love unconditionally, even Seth Beaumont who seeks my demise. Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.
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