Near Rogersville on Second Creek, the two walked through a river bottom towards the little town. They'd secured the rowboat for the night, tethered to a root washed old snarled willow.
"Father, Captain!" Annie called as they walked into the village. She was in the phaeton beside Homer, the family's driver. The team was hitched in front of the post office at the designated meeting place. "Where have you all been? We've been here for hours." She chided though it had been only a half-hour wait. She knew her father well. He'd invariably get involved and forget the time. Older sister, twenty-year-old Lucy, and youngest daughter, Carrie Peyton, just nine on August 8, came out of the store next to the post office just as the water-splashed, muddy duo neared Annie, Homer and the wagon.
"Goodness, Annie, they swim from the river?" Lucy said with a false concern on her face. She and Annie both laughed after a perfectly timed pause.
Carrie smiled briefly then realized the joke. "Don't make fun, sister," she said as she ran to hug her father. Homer smiled as he stared at the matched bays' rumps.
"I was just telling the Captain here that it was not far from here in October '63 that the boys and I crossed just ahead of some blue clad pursuers. Come to mention it, they wore uniforms the very color of our gallant Yankee here." Wheeler said and then offered a whimsical smile through his long gray beard.
"Yes, Poppa, that was when you met Mother, right?" Carrie said with warmth. She possessed the adoration that most younger children hold for older fathers. "Poppa" returned the regard.
"Rightly so dear," her father answered, releasing their embrace. He took her hand and the two walked smiling to the carriage, father with muddy trousers and boots, daughter with muddy dress.