The Tubman Command

by Elizabeth Cobbs

  “Cast me off,” the oarsman yelled.

  The soldier on the dock cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “You clear!”

  Yet the dinghy didn’t budge. Harriet saw that its bowline dangled in the water. The vessel ought to be moving. Then she realized that refugees still on the dock had gripped the gunwales for fear of being left behind. The rowboat was locked in place.

  Montgomery turned to her. “Moses,” he said. “Do something. Calm your people, or nobody will get out. Tell them to take turns.”

  Voices on the far bank grew more tumultuous. “He’p! De Buckra coming,” someone shouted. Harriet saw another man tumble onto the small craft. The rowboat dipped perilously low in the water. The dark Combahee almost lapped the gunwales. The soldier on the dock yanked the musket off his back, accidentally banging a woman behind him in the face. With the butt of his gun, he hit at hands clinging to the side of the rowboat, but when one person let go, two others grabbed on. “Hol’ fast! Hol’ fast!” a mother shouted to the boy alongside her.

  Eighty slaves or more now crowded the landing. The lone soldier would soon be overwhelmed. The boat would be swamped, people thrown into the river. Where one alligator waited, there would be others.

  Montgomery shook her arm. “Moses, call to your people!”

  “Colonel,” she snapped, angry at her own helplessness. “They ain’t my people. They jest people.”

  A wild thought occurred to her. They were John Brown’s people. Harriet cleared her throat. She began to hum. The notes stuck like dry breadcrumbs. She swallowed and started again. She could think of no other way to calm them. They needed faith.

  “John Brown’s body is a-molderin’ in its grave,” she sang hoarsely. Harriet drew a deep breath. “John Brown’s body is a-molderin’ in its grave,” she sang louder and better. Heads on the dock turned in the direction of the tune. A woman looked up from the landing and waved at Harriet. The young boy holding her hand waved, too.

  “John Brown’s body is a-molderin’ in its grave,” she sang as loudly as she could. People gripping the boat looked up. “His soul is marching on!” she belted from the deck, and she clapped as hard as she could on the powerful word.

  Tuneful voices across the water chimed in. “Glory, glory hallelujah. His soul is marching on!” Others clapped, too, as the joyful sound gathered strength. The dory suddenly pulled away. Those holding onto the boat had let go to put their hands together. Miraculously, the crowd had calmed.

  “Keep it up,” Colonel Montgomery said as he moved to scan the opposite shore for Confederate forces.

  Harriet sang on. An oarsman who had backed water in the middle of the channel now rowed toward the landing. The people boarded in an orderly fashion, still singing. The soldier on the dock cast off the line again without interference. A few minutes later, another rowboat pulled away, then another. The floorboards under Harriet’s feet hummed. The ship’s engine must have started. She sang and clapped until the last rowboat finally pushed off from the landing, loaded with a handful of bondsmen and the soldier from the dock. In the stern of the craft, he looked up wearily at the John Adams, then broke into a smile and saluted her as he came alongside.

  The gunship shuddered briefly once it got underway again. Harriet kept her eyes trained on the green bluff. Some people worked too far afield to get to the dock. Flickers of light and color suggested movement between the shanties above. High tide had passed. Sweet water pushed back the salt, and the John Adams steamed alongside the charred ferry building. A blackened chimney guarded the smoking ruins. Harriet wondered which plantation Private Webster’s assistant had been taken to the week before—and if the big-eared man had made it onto the Adams or Weed.

  The Middleton landing receded. She continued gazing upriver. Something bright flashed among the trees at the margins. A second later, a man in a white shirt pounded onto the makeshift dock, followed by a woman. Each carried a child on the hip. The pair waved frantically. Harriet couldn’t bring herself to wave back and admit she was leaving them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The negroes, men and women, were rushing to the boat with their children, now and then greeting someone whom they recognized among the uniformed negroes . . . The negroes seemed to be utterly transformed, drunk with excitement, and capable of the wildest excesses. The roaring of the flames, the barbarous howls of the negroes . . . and the towering columns of smoke from every quarter, made an impression on my mind that can never be effaced. . . . My pleasant and comfortable house was in ashes.

  Joshua Nichols, Combahee Planter

  WHEN THE TUPELOS FINALLY DISAPPEARED, HARRIET turned her gaze downstream, looking for the two tenders they’d launched earlier. Not spying them, she surveyed the damage they’d wreaked. Brown lakes squatted in place of green rice fields wherever the floodgates had been destroyed. Harriet counted seven broken rice trunks on the north bank. Birds circled and dove for fish where slaves had weeded at daybreak. Fresh water now sluiced through the openings, too late to undo the damage wreaked by the brackish tide.

  And Rome salted the Earth, she recalled Thomas Wentworth Higginson saying from the pulpit of his church. An unexpected sorrow swelled within her at the sight of the destruction. Africa’s children had dug and planted and tended these fields with such pain and care. Would white and black both go hungry now? On the Middleton side of the river, where many of the water gates remained intact, groups of slaves from distant fields still hurried down the long causeways. Harriet’s gut twisted as the Adams steamed past at least a hundred men, women, and children at one turn in the river. “Stop, brudduhs! Save us!” she heard again and again. Even if they had time to stop, there was no more room, accounting for the advance troops they had yet to retrieve.

  Samuel stumped up the ladder behind Montgomery.

  “—won’t leave him, Colonel,” he said. His furious tone suggested a threat rather than a promise.

  “No one’s got special call,” Montgomery stated without looking around as they gained the deck. “We’ve freed at least four hundred already. We’re over our capacity.”

  “There’s room for one more.”

  “And we’re bringing more aboard. The tenders might already have your brother.”

  “Might ain’t good enough,” Samuel said. “He’s injured.”

  “We’re not stopping for one man.”

  “Jacob showed us the torpedoes,” Samuel argued. The men faced one another in the doorway of the pilothouse. Both were smoke-stained. Samuel’s collar was open, and his face looked like a fist. He seemed a different person, remote and implacable.

  “We’ve got to get downriver before the Secesh bring their guns to Fields Point,” Montgomery said. “We’ll pick up the tenders from the Lowndes raid on the way. Your brother will either be on them—or he won’t.”

  “I won’t leave him behind,” Samuel said between gritted teeth.

  Montgomery’s lips blanched. “You’ll do what you’re told, soldier.”

  Samuel’s hands balled. “I wear no uniform.”

  Harriet suddenly understood that Colonel Montgomery had ordered the tenders to take a run at the Lowndes estate. That must be why they hadn’t yet reappeared. Perhaps the colonel hadn’t mentioned his plan in order to focus Harriet and Samuel on getting past the final torpedoes. Samuel must suspect so. “Never met a reliable white man,” he’d once said.

  But they still had one tender left—and the troops who’d returned from the Heyward and Middleton estates.

  Harriet stepped forward.

  “This ain’t jest bout Jacob, Colonel,” she told Montgomery. “Our troops missed some a them rice trunks. Break every one and you stagger two counties.” Her voice strengthened. “And that ain’t all.”

  It took the last ounce of forbearance, but Harriet waited for Montgomery’s question. They must get Jacob and Kizzy, but she wouldn’t say that. She didn’t want Montgomery to think it was personal.

  Colonel Montgomery studied her face. Then he t
urned his back, ignoring the bait.

  Samuel’s dark eyes looked ready to swallow the Earth whole as the colonel disappeared into the pilothouse. Harriet tugged his sleeve. He stared through her. She tugged harder. He nodded, struggling for self-control, and they followed Montgomery through the doorway.

  “We could spare only a handful a men earlier. Send that third tender now, and we won’t miss a single water gate,” Harriet promised the colonel.

  “Lowndes is the cruelest plantation on the river,” Samuel said. “It’s hard to see from the river, sir, but there ain’t no richer target. Bring it down, and every planter in Dixie gone get the message.”

  Captain Vaught watched the river over the shoulder of the colored pilot. He stroked his long gray beard and glanced toward the colonel. “We have a little time, sir. Not much, but some. You need to tell me now if you want the last tender.”

  Montgomery frowned. “How much time?”

  The grizzled captain checked his watch. “It depends,” he said. “The river is going to work with us. Though we’ll reach the Sound quicker if we don’t send another boat, of course.”

  “How much time exactly?” the colonel asked.

  “Thirty minutes,” the captain replied. “After that, we’ll be fighting the tide to stay in place—and maybe the Rebs.” He ducked his head to get a better view of the mottled sky. “I don’t like the look of the clouds neither.”

  Montgomery turned to Harriet. He finally asked the question she’d anticipated. “What will it gain us?”

  She launched into her answer. “Flood them fields and even Charleston won’t have rice for supper, sir.” The hated name bore repeating. “Charleston.”

  Montgomery paused, and then leaned onto the balls of his feet. He addressed Samuel. “Go along if you wish—but I won’t hold up the ship for you or your brother. We’re not stopping a second longer than necessary to destroy the rice trunks, and I’m not taking on more people than we can carry.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Samuel replied. “Moses and I will fly like the wind.”

  “Just you,” the commander said. “I need Moses on board to steady the contraband.”

  “I don’t—” Samuel started.

  Harriet spoke quickly. “Colonel Montgomery, with respect, sir, the folk on board ain’t the ones needing help. I know every step a the way, sir, and I can do more good ashore in case the contraband grab the tenders again. On the Adams, I’ll be out a sight.”

  Captain Vaught tapped the pilot on the shoulder. “Slow up some.” The older man looked again at Montgomery. “We’ll anchor here to rendezvous with the tenders. If you want to send the last one up Jack’s Creek, now’s the time, Colonel.”

  Montgomery drew out his pocket watch and glanced at it. “Follow me,” he said abruptly and led the way down the ladder.

  Minutes later, Harriet sat with Samuel behind a band of soldiers in the smallest of the tenders, headed up the short tributary. It wasn’t long before she heard gunfire and smelled fresh smoke. As they approached, Harriet saw that rice trunks still held back the river from at least four large fields, although the gate on which she had waited for Walter stood broken and ajar. Green rectangles stood gap-toothed between dirty brown ones. Flames shot up from the rice mill she’d passed the night Kizzy took her to find Jacob.

  A tender loaded with refugees had cast off from the small landing. The second boat was filling. Half-sheltered behind an overturned wagon, three colored soldiers pointed their weapons in the direction of the mansion while Union troops ran toward the boat. One fleeing soldier turned to fire into the trees, though Harriet couldn’t see his target. Slaves ran down the path toward the creek. A storehouse burned out of control. Sparks jumped and twirled in the hot air. The world seemed on fire. Harriet’s tender sailed toward the one that was headed downriver. Twenty to thirty people crowded atop full sacks of rice. She searched for Kizzy and Jacob among the joyful but anxious faces.

  “You got a Jacob on board?” Samuel shouted at an officer stationed in the bow of the craft.

  “There a Jacob here?” the officer cried as they came abreast.

  No one answered. Instead, people shook their heads as the boats crossed paths. Harriet didn’t see Kizzy. A man in the stern turned around to stare. He looked like he was trying to work out a puzzle.

  “You de brudduh?” the contraband finally shouted across the widening gap. “Samuel?”

  “Yes!” Samuel called back.

  “Look jest like ’im. He too sick ta—”

  The man’s words were lost. A deafening blast rocked the plantation. The chimney of the steam mill exploded in a cascade of bricks. A wave of pressure numbed Harriet’s ears, and smoke roiled up in a vast, expanding column. The mill’s boilers had burst, Harriet thought as she felt—but didn’t hear—the tender bump the dock. The shock obliterated every other sound.

  Harriet stood up in the back of the boat. Troops wielding sledgehammers jumped off and ran in opposing directions to attack the remaining dikes hundreds of yards distant on either side of the tributary. She reached for the wooden piling, felt a splinter pierce her palm, and climbed up on the landing. She ran up the causeway, knowing Samuel was behind her. An instant later, he caught up.

  They made it onto the path below the Big House. The wind vane shifted atop the mansion’s copper cupola, high on the hill and safe thus far. The overseer had not been as lucky. His house on the neighboring rise roared with flames. The blue sash windows were no more. Two pillars holding a doorframe collided and collapsed in a red shower as Harriet and Samuel passed the ruins. The slave quarters stood directly ahead. The wooden tinderboxes remained untouched by the federal assault. They appeared abandoned. Harriet and Samuel ducked behind the shabby row. As they passed one of the cabins, she heard a voice urging someone to hurry.

  Galloping suddenly thundered from the direction of the jail. Lord God, Harriet thought. Fear shot through her as she dropped to the ground behind a tiny shack that stood on blocks above the dank earth. Samuel crouched beside her, and they wriggled underneath, side by side. The thrum of hooves seemed to fill her head. A beetle scuttled over Harriet’s hand. She shook it off and pressed closer to the dirt. Let them pass quickly, she prayed.

  But the posse halted. Dust flew under the house. “We’ll make a stand here,” someone in authority said. “They won’t be able to advance any farther.”

  “Lay an ambush, suh?” asked a man whose bass voice suggested someone of size.

  “Yes. I want you in this cabin, McAfee. Southerland and I will take the other. Aim out the window. We’ll set up a crossfire.”

  “Where do you want the horses?”

  “Stake them ’round back. I don’t want them seen.”

  Harriet felt a vise close. She looked at Samuel, who cocked his thumb toward the rear. She put up a hand to signal patience. If they inched backward now, the soldiers might spy them. Better to wait for the men to dismount and cobble their horses, then shimmy out as the men took cover inside. It was Samuel and Harriet’s only hope of making it back to the boat. With Rebels staking out the slave quarters, their chances of getting Jacob were gone.

  Samuel shook his head angrily.

  “You making a stand here, Sergeant?” someone jeered.

  Harriet couldn’t forget that voice. It was Pipkin. A sweat broke out across her whole body, and she pressed closer to the dirt. The splinter from the wooden piling burned in her palm.

  “Yes. Any closer and they’ll blow our heads off,” the officer said.

  “We can at least grab the niggers,” Pipkin said. “Yankees ain’t stealing my stock.”

  “They’re too well-armed,” the sergeant insisted.

  “Too well-armed? Maybe your troops are just too yellow. What took y’all so long? And where are the eight riders we started with?”

  “I’ll discipline them later,” the sergeant said. “But if you insist on getting closer, we can’t go with you.”

  “Are you all ready to turn tail at nigger soldi
ers?” Pipkin said.

  Harriet heard the creak of a saddle. She could hardly believe the overseer might help them.

  A man spoke in a low rumble. “Upon my honor, suh, no nigger soldier is driving me back.”

  “Reinforcements are right behind us,” the sergeant said. “We’re better off waiting here.”

  “All the same, suh, I’ll take my chances with Pipkin,” said the man with the bass voice. “With your permission.”

  “Go if you want,” the officer said.

  “This way,” Pipkin said.

  A whip cracked. Horses galloped down the lane in the direction of the causeway. A moment later, Harriet heard a lone mount canter back up the road. She wondered how close reinforcements actually were. The way was now open, but she and Samuel should retreat anyway. Harriet had a bad feeling about what lay ahead.

  “Now!” Samuel hissed. He sounded more determined than ever.

  As they wiggled out, she told herself they would give it one more try. Harriet arrived first. Breathing in gulps, with a stitch in her side, she stopped behind Jacob’s cabin to peer around the corner. If she saw anyone in the road, she was absolutely turning back. This was her rule. Live to fight another day. But the path between the last two cabins—and the yard beyond—was empty. She ran to the front and pushed open the creaky door.

  A pregnant woman sat on the hearth with her head slumped on folded arms. Her shoulders shook with sobs. Jacob lay motionless on the pallet. His face seemed smaller than before. Harriet ran to the bed. Samuel was right behind her. She went down on her knees and put two fingers on the side of the man’s neck. Samuel pushed her aside.

  “No,” he said. He shoved an arm under his brother’s shoulders and propped him up. “Jacob,” he said. “Come on, brother.”

  Jacob’s head fell sideways. He made no effort to sit. The dull skin of his eyelids was grayish. Harriet turned to Jacob’s wife, who had the swollen face of the last months of pregnancy.