Bitter Honey
Praying my story gives God glory!
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously.
2020 by Caryl McAdoo > All rights reserved
First Edition March 23, 2020
ISBN-13 : 979-861-7403-239
AISN : B0852SFNW3 (ebook)
Coming soon in Audio!
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter OneChapter Two
Chapter ThreeChapter Four
Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty
Sneak Peak / Lilah
All the Lockets & Lace Titles
Sneak Peek / Cassie’s Surprise
Coming Sooner or Later Titles
All Caryl’s Titles
Reach Out to the Author Author Reaching out to You
Texas Romance Family Saga novels
A Few Favorite Links You’ll Enjoy!
Chapter One
Des Allemands, Louisiana, Spring 1853
In a place between awake and asleep—the nether, Silas’ mother called it—he lay listening.
The rain increased, pounding the roof relentlessly with what sounded like marble-sized drops pinging off the clay tiles.
Was it hail? He jumped out of bed, raced to the window, and flung open the shutters.
A stiff wind blew the rain into his room. He slammed them shut again and flipped the latch, but the tempest drove them open again.
Pellets of iced mixed in the rain stung his face and bare chest.
He waited for the next bolt of lightning to light the darkness for him to see what he could see and prayed the storm wouldn’t destroy any of the vines.
In the instant of white light, he witnessed them nearly laid over by the winds. Too quickly after the flash, deafening claps of thunder shook the house and rattled the shutters.
That strike had been close!
The screen door slammed repeatedly against its frame downstairs.
A roaring rumble rolled overhead and from the sound of it, threatened toppling the two-story house. He’d never experienced the likes of such a raging squall in his sixteen years.
Then a most eerie calm settled.
A lull in both wind and rain settled over the strangely colored vineyard.
The sky turned a threatening gray green, churning the odd clouds.
A rumble that sounded much like a steam engine assaulted his ears and bore down on the house.
“Silas! Get down here now.” His father’s words, barely audible over the storm’s roar, pulled him away from the window. He grabbed his trousers and turned.
His room tilted, and the walls vibrated. The floor rose then fell, stealing his balance. He went to his knees. Something slammed into his head.
The night engulfed him.
A cold, light rain on his face brought him to consciousness.
His right eye opened, but the other refused. His head ached; his right leg throbbed.
“Father?” The weakness of his voice surprised him. He tried to swallow, but it proved hard. With great effort, he turned his head and attempted to rise slightly, but pain pushed him back down. “Father, help me.”
Neither answer nor help came.
The storm had passed, but the new day had yet to dawn. He touched his left eye and discovered an egg-sized or bigger lump that cried out at his touch—it might have been him.
Sniffing, he lifted his head, fighting through the pain until he made it into a sitting position.
After a moment, the pounding subsided.
“Father? Mother?” He hollered louder. “Can anyone hear me?” He touched his leg then jerked his hand back.
A piece of wood the size of a butcher knife extended from it, imbedded into his thigh. He squinted his eyes shut and felt all around the oversized splinter.
Wrapping his fingers around it, he gritted his teeth and pulled.
Someone screamed.
It was him.
A searing white-hot pain assaulted him, then . . . nothing again. No pain. No need for help. No worries.
The squirrel that lived in the guard oak tree just outside his window took to chattering. Silas didn’t want to wake up.
What a horrible nightmare!
He opened his eyes. The sun lit the blue sky of a new day. But . . . why was he outside? He first squinted at the brightness then widened his eyes to the destruction all around him.
The floor of his room was beneath him, but his walls and the roof were . . . gone.
Pushing himself up to an elbow, he winced.
Pain testified to the awful truth.
It hadn’t been a dream at all.
He’d only thought both eyes were open. His left one refused. But the right one told him more than enough—more than he wanted to know. His house was gone. Only one wall remained standing.
He pushed himself up.
Why hadn’t his parents come?
“Father? Mother?” He increased his volume. “Father! Mother!”
Still, no answer came. He looked down. Their room had been directly below his. They must be trapped!
Frantic, he grabbed and slung board after board. He yanked and pulled stick after stick, throwing them as far as he could sling them.
He twisted and pried, but there seemed to be no end.
His breath came hard.
The pain in his leg howled at him, but he didn’t stop clawing and digging into the splintered mass that once had been his home. Drenched—whether rain or sweat, he didn’t know. He kept at it, screaming their names and for someone to help him.
His head pounded, but he kept at it, only stopping to call their names, then listening for a few beats of his heart, hoping on hope to hear any word.
Minutes turned into hours . . . or had it been days? He lifted three more pieces of shiplap, and there they were, at least their midsections were uncovered.
Perfectly still.
Removing a large chunk of sheetrock, he uncovered their faces. Together in death, just as they had been in life; his father’s arms wrapped around his mother.
Sitting back on his haunches, he stared at them.
Tears welled.
Why had God forsaken him so?
Salt stung his eyes.
A part of him wanted to lie down next to them and let come what may. But he was his father’s only son and bore his grandfather’s name.
No matter how great his loss, he had to get himself up and do what needed to be done.
The barn had only lost a back corner, the part where the wine press used to sit.
The roof held onto half or so of its shingles. He found a shovel and pick easily enough and dragged them out to the old pear that shaded the family’s cemetery.
Six feet by four should be adequate for both. It took until evening to dig their grave. His muscles ached, and his thigh throbbed.
Then he spent hours to find enough sheets and blankets to use as their shrouds, but he couldn’t bury them yet. He needed a priest or someone to say some words, have a real funeral.
His mother would expect nothing less, but the church was almost two hours away . . . if it was even still there. He hated leaving them there unattended—he wouldn’t.
Gathering enough wood for a fire, he found flint and steel in the barn and struck enough sparks to light a fire just like his father had taught him.
All night he fed the flames and guarded his parents’ bodies. Fighting to stay awake, he wondered w
hat he would do, how he would live.
Growing grapes and winemaking were all he knew.
But could he save enough of the vines?
Tears flowed again. He just couldn’t stop them. They’d plagued him off and on all day.
Why, why, why had this happened to him?
What should he do next? He needed to walk the vineyards, but not until his parents were taken proper care of.
Come morning, hopefully the mules would come up . . . if they were still alive.
He woke with a jerk. The sun lit the skies gray but hadn’t dawned yet. When had he dozed off? The fire smoldered. Both bodies still lay wrapped in their shrouds.
Another day.
No one had come to check on him or his family. But what family? He had no one, at least not in America.
The mules stood outside the barn.
After he got the fire going good and smoky again, he filled then tied on the mules’ feed sacks and went to harnessing them. The whole time, he kept an eye peeled up the hill where his parents lay.
Hunger pains reminded him he hadn’t eaten for thirty-something hours, but he had to get their bodies loaded into the wagon, find someone who would help him bury them proper.
Hefting his mother’s hundred pounds or so wasn’t hard.
Getting his father, almost twice that size, into the back of the wagon took all he had then some, but he couldn’t leave them.
He’d tied strips torn from a sheet around the wound in his leg, but it bled through. He needed a doctor, but not before taking care of his parents.
And he wouldn’t bury them without a priest or at least a deacon if he could find one conducting some kind of service.
Would there be a church left in town? Would the town still be there?
Once off the Mercier property, it surprised him how little damage he saw. Only four miles away, Des Allemands wasn’t touched at all, not a board or shingle out of place.
How could that be?
Wouldn’t a hurricane have hit them all? He parked the wagon in front of the church, set the brake, and tied off the reins before he climbed down.
The double front doors were locked. He used his fists for two hard knocks then offered three softer ones as his chest heaved from hunger and exhaustion . . .
All exacerbated by the huge sorrow that filled his heart. He sat on the step.
What should he do?
The oversized door squeaked open. Footsteps brought a black-robed priest to his side. The father put his hand on Silas’ shoulder. “Son, what is it?”
What was the guy’s name? He hadn’t been there long, but he still should know it.
“Uh. My . . . uh . . .” His voice failed him. The tears betrayed him. How could he still have any to shed? He cleared his throat and glanced to the wagon.
A whisper came back.
“Bad storm. My parents are . . . They’re . . . Both of them . . . Help me, please.”
The man wrapped his arms around him. “Oh no. Come inside, son. I’ll take care of everything. You’re Dee Mercier’s boy, aren’t you?”
He wiped away the wetness on his cheek, doing everything in his power not to break down and sob. “Yes, sir. But . . . I don’t want to leave them alone.”
“I’ll see to your dead, son, but let’s take care of you right now.”
Like he walked in a dream—perhaps a nightmare would be more fitting—he followed the priest to the door then stopped.
The man called one of the younger men serving to come then instructed him to drive the wagon around to the back of the church and station himself to watch over the bodies.
“Come, son. I’ll call Doc Haney to come and see to your leg. That looks like a bad limp.”
Then just as he’d said, the priest took care of everything.
He borrowed clean clothes for his parents and the young man dressed them. He ordered coffins made then fed Silas and the mules while they waited.
Between clean sheets, with his leg cleaned properly and medicine and dressings applied, he slept that night in a small room at the vicarage, not waking until the morning sun shone through the window.
The priest had a big breakfast ready to eat, and again, he ate until his stomach was filled. “Thank you, Father. That was really good.”
“Several of the ladies who’ve come brought baskets of food to leave with you, Silas. Have you family somewhere?”
“Only in Italy, and I don’t know any of them.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know yet. I haven’t even checked out the vineyards. I mean, I could see for sure, there’s a lot of damage, but I need to see what can be salvaged. I . . . I suppose I’ll sleep in the barn. I appreciate the food.”
Before long, a nice crowd gathered the following day to pay their respects. The priest read the scriptures and offered prayers.
There was singing, then the benediction, and just like that, the service ended. Several men loaded the coffins back into the wagon.
A few wagons followed him back to the Mercier Vineyards then they lowered the two boxes into the grave he’d dug, but now it was wider.
After a handful of dirt each from the mourners, the grave diggers finished filling in the holes.
Hugs and consolatory pats kept coming. He nodded and thank you’d the well-wishers. One by one, everyone left but him.
The table brought out and sat beside the barn door was filled with baskets and pies and fresh fruit, but though he was grateful, it didn’t help his heart. He patted the mound firm then slumped down over it and wept.
His fingers were scabbed and still hurt from the splinters Doc Haney had removed. Every muscle in his body ached, and his head hadn’t stopped throbbing since he woke that first morning.
But what made him feel the worst—empty inside—was what would come next . . . He didn’t know where he was going or what he was going to do.
He wiped his cheeks and looked skyward just as the sun set over what once had been a thriving vineyard.
“Lord, why have You forsaken me?”
The heavens bore no answers. What was he going to do?
“God! Are you real? What am I supposed to do?”
“Well, now. That is a strange question.” An old man he’d seen before in town some leaned against the pear tree. Where had he come from?
Embarrassment pushed Silas to his feet. His cheeks burned. Was the man mocking him?
“I’ve . . . I’ve seen you around town, sir, but I’m sorry. I don’t know your name or . . . why you are still here.”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Chapter Two
Nothing was obvious to Silas. The man’s age wasn’t apparent; perhaps near his parents’ years, maybe plus a few. The fellow’s face betrayed nothing other than a life spent in the sun.
If he was joshing though, it didn’t show.
“If anything is obvious, I sure don’t see it.”
“First off, I’ve come to pay my respects, seeing as how I’m your neighbor. Second, it appears to me you talking to the Almighty proves He’s there, and no. He’s not forsaken you, boy. He sent me, didn’t He?”
“You’re saying God sent you?”
“Yes, sir.” The man moved away from the tree. A rather spry step for someone his age, except it might be he wasn’t that old.
Silas didn’t know about God talking to people. Or how it could be the man lived close enough to call himself a neighbor when he’d never been to the Merciers’ home before. He knew those who lived near; most had sat at the family dinner table.
“What’s your name, sir? If you’re my neighbor, how come I don’t know you?”
“Well now, how could I answer that? I know you, Silas. Seen you and Dee some in town. You can call me Claude.”
A memory from when he was four or five came to mind—his mother was talking to the man and then later, his father being all mad.
Could that have been Claude before his hair grayed?
What had that been about?
“You hungry, Claude? The ladies sent all kinds of food.”
“I could eat.” The man pointed toward a tree where a sack rested against the trunk. “I brought some things, too.”
Silas kindled a fire, then using the cover of one of the bowls as a plate, filled it. Claude did the same, but the man ate only from what he’d pulled from his sack.
Once finished, Silas pumped enough water to rinse off the lids then made sure everything was covered again.
Sitting across the fire, the man pointed his coffee cup at him. “What’re your plans, son?”
“Haven’t really thought much past getting my parents buried. I know the vines need tending. Need to see if there’s anything still worth working.”
“I looked them over earlier. Appears to me, the storm took about three quarters or better, but what’s left, looks like they’ll make.”
“You know much about grapes?”
“Some. I worked with your grandfather. He’s the one who sold me my place and gave me my first vines.”
“You knew my papa?”
“Good man.” He nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“What about my father?”
Tossing his coffee dregs into the fire before he looked up, he kept nodding. “Once upon a time, your father and I were good friends. We fought together with Jackson back in ’14.”
The man returned his stare to the fire.
“What happened between you?”
A dry chuckle escaped. “Your mother. See? We both loved her.”
There it was. That explained a whole lot. No wonder he didn’t know the man. It clarified why he’d never been invited for dinner.
“Did you ever marry?”
“No. Never found anyone who would have me—not that I looked all that hard.”
For the first time since the storm, Silas thought of Samantha. He needed to find his box and put it somewhere safe; finally get those letters he’d written to her posted and write a new one to tell her what had happened. His thoughts lingered on the young lady for a few moments then came back around to the present.
“What’s your trade?”
“Oh, I’ve got half an acre of vines. Don’t take me much. I work those and fish some. Suppose you could say I spend the most of my time visiting—past sleeping, of course.”