The Blue Cloak Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE BLUE CLOAK

  “A brave book, taking an almost forgotten piece of southern history and shining God’s redemptive light into the darkness. The Blue Cloak is pure historical suspense, well told, that will keep you on the edge of your seat until justice is served.”

  –Laura Frantz, Christy Award–winning author of An Uncommon Woman

  “With careful respect and diligent research, McNear uses a deft stroke to depict a terrible, dark piece of history. The writing is powerful, and the suspense had my gut clenched as I journeyed with these characters along the Wilderness Road. The Blue Cloak is masterful, historical suspense!”

  –Ronie Kendig, best-selling author of The Tox Files

  “A haunting story of innocence gone wrong, The Blue Cloak is a devastating account of a true eighteenth century killing spree. Author Shannon McNear handles the heart-wrenching details in a fashion that keeps you at the edge of your seat.”

  –Michelle Griep, Christy Award–winning author of the Once Upon a Dickens Christmas series

  “What happens when a triumph turns into a tragedy? That’s what daughter of a Baptist preacher Sally Rice Roberts (aka Harpe) must face when her recently baptized groom takes her home to a nightmare. The younger brother (or cousin) of Micajah Harpe, Wiley hasn’t been honest with Sally. The two men share three women and an ever-escalating spree of robbery and murder in Tennessee and Kentucky as they evade one search party after another in the waning days of the eighteenth century.

  Shannon McNear handles a dark chapter of true history with her customary skill and tact, drawing redemption from the clutches of evil while illustrating the strength of the human spirit when undergirded by the power of prayer. Writing about actual historical characters is challenging at best. Shannon’s expertise shines in how realistically she’s done that. Rachel’s admirable burden for her lost friend makes her a compelling heroine. Along with Ben, you won’t rest—or be able to stop turning pages—until the guilty are brought to justice, Sally is returned, and Ben can find a home in Rachel’s arms.”

  –Denise Weimer, LPC historical imprints managing editor and multi-published author of The Witness Tree

  “Shannon McNear takes the hopelessly dark topic of historical serial killers Micajah and Wiley Harpe and weaves in the light of Christ. If you love true crimes from the past and yet want to see how good triumphs, don’t miss The Blue Cloak. Equal parts history, horror, suspense, redemption, and grace, this is a story not to be missed!”

  –Jennifer Uhlarik, award-winning author of Sand Creek Serenade

  “Shannon McNear has become one of my top favorite authors of historical fiction. Her ability to create a vivid, historically authentic world inhabited by a cast of memorable characters immediately draws me into her stories. Her latest release is no exception. The Blue Cloak sets the engaging romance of Rachel Taylor and Benjamin Langford amid the perils of the Kentucky frontier at the turn of the 1800s. Their love shines even more brightly against a dark backdrop based on the true story of a violent, years-long crime spree along the Wilderness Road by two brothers, Micajah and Wiley Harpe, and the three women who were forced to become their unwilling companions.

  McNear weaves in real details of the violence sparingly to illustrate the depth of their evil but without overwhelming readers. She also portrays with tender compassion the emotional and mental torment of the women the brothers controlled.

  Fascinating notes at the end of the book detail the historical facts the story is based on. I was especially touched by the words of Corrie ten Boom, cited at the beginning, on which the story’s theme is based: ‘There is no pit so deep that God’s love is not deeper still.’ The Blue Cloak illustrates this precious truth in a deeply moving way that left me humbled by the undeserved grace poured out to all of us weak and wayward sinners.”

  –J. M. Hochstetler, author of the American Patriot Series and coauthor with Bob Hostetler of the Northkill Amish Series

  © 2020 by Shannon McNear

  Print ISBN 978-1-64352-314-9

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-64352-316-3

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-64352-315-6

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Image: Susan Fox/Trevillion Images

  Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader,

  The story of the Harpes rises from the mists of history like the shadows of a nightmare. The first account I read of them was as a postscript to my research on The Cumberland Bride, with an incident that took place on the Wilderness Road in Kentucky a little more than four years after the close of that story. When asked about the possibility of doing a novel set against the backdrop of their reign of terror, I readily agreed—but then later, when faced with the necessity of digging deeper for the purpose of developing such a story, I had to seriously pray over whether or not to accept the opportunity. How dark is too dark for a Christian to write? I asked people close to me, whose spiritual discernment I trust. Every single one came back with a variation of the counterquestion, Is God stronger than evil, or not?

  And so here I am, on the other side of writing it. I can’t say the task was always easy or enjoyable. The telling of the story contains possible triggers for those who have been similarly traumatized. But I am encouraged, and I hope you the reader will be as well, that the Light truly is greater than the dark … and no circumstances are ever so terrible or hopeless that His love cannot reach us.

  Blessings!

  –Shannon

  Dedication

  For Sarah, Susanna, and Maria. I hope I’ve done your story justice … and that I may meet all three of you someday, in heaven.

  And for others still waiting for redemption …

  God sees, and hears, and is not idle.

  Whither shall I go from thy spirit?

  Or whither shall I flee from thy presence?

  If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there:

  if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.

  If I take the wings of the morning,

  and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;

  Even there shall thy hand lead me,

  and thy right hand shall hold me.

  If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me;

  even the night shall be light about me.

  Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee;

  but the night shineth as the day:

  the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.

  PSALM 139:7–12

&nbs
p; For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life,

  nor angels, nor principalities,

  nor powers, nor things present,

  nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature,

  shall be able to separate us from the love of God,

  which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

  ROMANS 8:38–39

  There is no pit so deep that God’s love is not deeper still.

  –Corrie ten Boom

  Chapter One

  June 1, 1797

  Knox County, Tennessee

  It was unbecoming to be jealous of a dear friend’s marriage.

  Rachel Taylor bit her lips together, kept her hands folded, and hoped everyone would think the moistness of her eyes was only a bit of sentimental good will on Sally’s behalf. Not the wish that she herself was the one taking vows. Or concern for the circumstances that brought Sally this marriage to begin with.

  The doors and shutters stood open all around the cabin, but still the inside felt close and hot with the press of people. Sally’s seven younger siblings ranged about the edges of the room, the boys and little ones fidgety and staring longingly outside, the older ones standing near their mother, Missus Rice, big with child and misty-eyed herself.

  Only Sally looked unaffected by the heat, blue eyes bright, golden hair upswept, and the moisture on her face and neck managing to lend more of a glow to the flush of her cheeks. Her groom put in a valiant effort but fidgeted almost as much as the children, looking ill at ease in what Rachel suspected was his only shirt and waistcoat. At least he’d combed and tied back his red curly hair and made a similar attempt to tame his short beard, though apparently even a wedding did not merit high enough in his estimation for a shave. At least he didn’t resort to bear grease for grooming those unruly curls into submission.

  Not that half the males in Knox County didn’t, if they bothered with such niceties at all.

  The groom’s brother—some said cousin, but Rachel wasn’t sure she cared about the difference—standing on his other side, or hulking might be more like it, certainly didn’t. Although for this event, he too had smoothed and tied back his hair, in garb that Rachel was sure he thought passed for clean.

  “Big” and “Little” Harpe, they were called, hereabouts. Micajah and Wiley were their proper names, for those concerned with proper. There seemed to be little enough of that about these two—

  Big Harpe’s eyes snapped to Rachel’s, his dark gaze seeming to bore into her. She suddenly could not breathe, and the heat within the cabin intensified as she looked away, but there was no escape from the weight of the man’s regard.

  Quite the contrary, from the corner of her eye she could see the curl of his mouth, which did nothing to ease the frank ugliness of the man’s visage. Indeed, the smile only drew a shiver from her.

  The man standing a little beyond him, serving as witness to the marriage, must have noticed her discomfiture, for he lifted a questioning eyebrow. Now there was one who used only the finest pomade, his clothing immaculate and of the finest modern cut. His regard drew even more of a flush, because although she, as daughter of a well-known merchant near the burgeoning town of Knoxville, knew most folk around, he was none other than Hugh Lawson White, son of Knoxville’s founder, General James White—and recently returned from the study of law up in Pennsylvania.

  Far too fine to be standing as witness for a lowly Baptist preacher’s daughter.

  So Rachel forced the briefest smile and turned her gaze toward Sally’s father, Reverend Rice. Brown hair combed back, beard falling neatly over his chest, hazel eyes crinkled, and face pinched in what appeared to be more than common soberness at such an occasion.

  “I bid you, Wiley and Sally, to turn and take each other’s right hand as you pledge your vows.”

  Rachel could no longer see Sally’s expression as her friend angled away from her, but the intent look of her groom was now in full view. The light in Wiley’s eyes made him almost handsome.

  Could it be that Wiley really did love Sally? He certainly avowed it so to Sally, and her father. Insisted that his pleas, bordering on demands, for Sally to be his wife were because of his great and terrible affection for her.

  And with that thought, the jealousy came flooding back. Not that it was Wiley she wanted—heavens, not at all—but for someone to look at her like that. The way Wiley did at Sally.

  For a moment, it didn’t matter that they knew very little about Wiley and his brother. That they’d seemed to just surface from the wilderness, as so many men did, as if born there. Hadn’t they come to church, and not just listened but “amen-ed” at all the right places? And Wiley had even come forward to be baptized. That should be enough to satisfy anyone.

  Here Sally was, marrying him, after all, and her daddy and mama wouldn’t be giving her up to just anyone. So it was good and right for Rachel to be happy for her friend—and to feel a twinge of longing that she might soon be a joyful bride as well.

  Although her own prospects were woefully dismal, despite the fact that near every man in Knox County traipsed through her father’s trading post at some point or another, and at least half of them stopped to make eyes at her. It wasn’t as though she didn’t enjoy the attention, or banter back, or even pretend to be flattered at the ones who dropped a marriage proposal on the spot. Sometimes she didn’t even have to pretend. Other times, the attention gave her a squirmy feeling inside, like—

  Like being caught, yet again, on the receiving end of Big Harpe’s regard.

  She glanced quickly away. Some men would view any show of kindness as an invitation to take more than she was prepared to offer. And Micajah—he wasn’t just huge, but ugly to boot. Though she’d wit enough to know that a plain face often hid a gentle heart, Micajah had a way of looking straight through a body.

  Or worse, like a dog would look at a rabbit, or a cat, a bird.

  Hunter, and the hunted.

  The wedding was over, and while the men gathered outside and a little apart to enjoy a pipe in the sunshine, Rachel helped Missus Rice and the other girls with laying out supper on the table they’d set up beforehand, out in front of the house. The boards fairly groaned under the load of roasted turkey, venison, gravy, berry preserves, apple pies, greens, and other delights.

  Sally and Wiley wandered here and there under the trees, across the steeply sloped yard, holding hands, exchanging looks, and stealing kisses that were suddenly no longer forbidden but somehow seemed just as scandalous. When everything was ready, they came and were seated at a place of honor with the rest of them.

  Here, even Sally’s mama and daddy seemed happy. Sally’s own joy seemed uncontainable, and finally Rachel yielded to the happiness of the day. No misgivings. No jealousy.

  Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep.

  If there was ever a better admonition for the day, she did not know one.

  As initial hunger was sated and folk rose up to play, some at a throwing game that everyone said had been learned from the Indians, and a couple of people on musical instruments, Rachel found herself approached by Hugh White. “You are looking well, Miss Taylor. I hope you have been, indeed?”

  She dipped what she hoped was a fair approximation of a curtsy. “And yourself, Mr. White.” She couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her mouth. How strange it was to find themselves all grown and formal with each other, when just a few years back, she’d have been out there begging to play with the boys, and they all simply called one another by first names.

  The stiffness between them was formality indeed, since Rachel well knew that Hugh only inquired after her health as a gesture of friendship, and certainly nothing more. It was no secret that since returning from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, he’d been calling on the daughter of Samuel Carrick, the preacher at his family’s own church right there in Knoxville. Elizabeth Carrick was a better fit for a man recently admitted to the bar than she, a merchant’s daughter, anyway.

 
His answering grin softened the square planes of his face and crinkled his deep-set eyes. “Your father’s trading post over at Campbell’s Station seems to be flourishing.”

  “It is, at that. And how does Miss Carrick these days?”

  He laughed, but briefly. “Very well. Very well, indeed.” Hugh shot her a searching look. “Exchanging pleasantries is all well and good, but I wished to inquire more specifically. Were you discomfited somehow during the ceremony? You looked—distressed.”

  She opened her mouth then shut it again, thinking better of the words that nearly popped out. How to explain the odd way Micajah made her feel, just being in the same room?

  His blue eyes remained on her, cool and assessing. As piercing as Micajah’s in their own way, but without making her feel stripped bare.

  “I—am concerned for Sally,” she admitted, softly.

  Hugh’s hand brushed her forearm. “We are all concerned for Sally.”

  Rachel glanced toward her friend, still seated next to Wiley, leaning now against his shoulder and gazing adoringly up at him. “Then—why—”

  The words failed her.

  It was not only unbecoming to be jealous of her friend but also to question the validity of the marriage itself, once the wedding day had come.

  “It is a sad fact that some marriages come about due to necessity, rather than mutual regard or expediency.”

  Alarm flared in Rachel’s breast. “Then—he has indeed behaved dishonorably toward her?”

  Hugh’s mouth pressed firm for a moment. “We can only pray that he behaves henceforth with honor.” His own gaze strayed toward the couple. “Prayer is our best course under any circumstance.”

  “That is very so,” Rachel murmured.

  They stood for a moment, watching the couple snug in closer to each other and exchange a fond glance. In this moment, nothing appeared amiss as far as mutual regard.

  “But come, Miss Taylor, we should not be so solemn on such an occasion.”