by Naomi Finley
She jumped to her feet when weighted footsteps sounded in the corridor. Mammy walked into the room, pail in hand and huffing to catch her breath.
“What do you have there?” I stood and gestured at the pail.
“Mud,” Mammy said.
“Mud?” I frowned. “What in heaven’s name for?”
She strode across the room as though on a mission and halted in front of me. “You may be wearing dem dere clothes, but dat soft skin and rosy cheeks give yous away for sho’.” She scooped her hand in the pail and withdrew a slimy clump of mud, and I braced when she slapped it on my face. I curled my nose at the earthy smell as she caked it across my cheeks, forehead, and lips before removing the excess.
“You next, Missus Tucker.”
Whitney cringed and stood ramrod straight as Mammy masked her flawless pale flesh.
“Dere.” Mammy stood back to admire her work. “Now you luk lak a pair of farmers.” She leaned in to sniff me. “And you smell lak one too.” She gave a hearty chuckle.
I gawked at her before shifting my gaze to Whitney, who stood mortified. I broke into laughter.
Whitney scowled at me. “I’m glad you’re enjoying this.” She marched to the looking glass to take a gander and gasped at her reflection before swinging back to look at us. “Well, I have to admit, I do agree with you, Miss Rita.”
Mammy’s shoulders rolled back. “We ain’t in de clear yet. After what dat woman did today, I don’t trust no nigra. We got to git you downstairs, outside, and out of sight widout anyone seeing you.”
I slipped on a pair of gloves. “Let’s go.”
“Let me see ef et’s clear.” Mammy poked her head into the corridor. “Et’s safe. I’ll go ahead and check downstairs.” She exited the chamber and descended the stairs.
Whitney and I stepped into the corridor and peered at her over the railing. At the bottom landing, Mammy looked up and down the hallway before signaling to us it was safe.
We joined her, and not a second later footsteps in the parlor warned us of someone’s approach. Whitney and I ducked into the warming kitchen, and I grabbed the door to still its movement. I held my breath and stared at Whitney as we waited.
“I bin luking for de missus,” a house girl said. “You know where she be?”
My heart hammered in my ears.
“She gone. Missus Tucker and her gone off to visit de Barlows. What you need her for?”
“Et can wait till she returns.” Footsteps moved away.
Whitney and I exchanged a look of relief.
“Sweet Jesus,” Mammy said.
I cracked the door to peek out, and Mammy gestured that it was safe.
“You gals put me in a real bind. Gwine to have to make up stories on where you be for days. You bes’ hope de army don’t arrive wid a new shipment.”
“Jones will see to them if they do.” I touched her shoulder and planted a kiss on her cheek.
Mammy swaddled me in the warmth of her embrace. “Lard, please don’t let no harm come to angel gal and Missus Tucker,” she whispered and released me.
Whitney and I stepped out and hurried down the corridor to the back door. We slipped into the night, our elongated shadows moving like racing puppets across the work yard. At the blacksmith shop, we darted inside and found Jimmy pacing the floor and talking to himself.
“Dere you are.” He threw his hands in the air.
“Is everything prepared?”
“Yes, Missus Willie.”
“Good,” I said, and without further delay strode toward the side door that led to the field and the wagon trail.
“You two be safe. And keep your eyes open,” he said.
“We will.” I opened the door. My mind raced to the time I had waited until dark to help Georgia and her brother escape the old well at the Barry plantation. Upon arrival, Jimmy had climbed out of the back of the wagon and given me a fright.
We found the wagon where he said it would be, and Whitney clambered into the driver seat, and I scrambled up beside her. She kicked her heel at the secret compartment under the seat where we had hidden slaves over the years and helped them along their journey to freedom. “You good?” she asked.
“As good as one could expect,” Kip’s muffled reply came.
Whitney slapped the reins, and the team lurched forward. The lantern on the post swung side to side. “Can hardly see anything.” Nerves hitched Whitney’s voice.
“We will take it slow. You mind the road, and I’ll keep a lookout.”
We set a slow pace, and when dawn shone on the horizon, we stopped to stretch and water the horses. “How are ya doing?” I knocked on the false wall under the seat.
“My bones feel like they will break,” Kip said.
“It isn’t safe for you to get out.” I climbed into the driver seat and untied the reins. Whitney looked at me from her position in the back of the empty wagon bed. “I need to rest my eyes for a spell.”
I nodded and slapped the reins, and again we were off.
Throughout the day, we passed several plantations and farms, and with each one, I noted the quiet that had taken over the countryside. We met no carriages along the road, except a peddler who sold an assortment of goods and tried to sell us war propaganda and perfume for our wives. We declined and kept on, passing by a bounty hunter with a train of Negroes trudging behind him.
“Good afternoon.” He tipped his hat.
“Afternoon,” I said in a gruff voice. As we rode on, I looked into the despondent eyes of the men and women he held captive. My hands tightened on the reins as helplessness plagued me. I offered up a prayer and left the matter in the Almighty’s capable hands.
For the next hours, I pondered on the future and the end of the war. What would become of us all? If freedom came to the enslaved, would Southern states give them jobs or sell them goods? I feared the end of slavery would not stop the hardships people would continue to inflict on the blacks.
Before dusk, we rounded a bend to see a blood-chilling sight. I gasped, and Whitney gripped my arm. “Dear Lord,” she said.
The lifeless bodies of Confederate soldiers were splayed across the road and grass. Pins and needles coursed through my body, and the hair on the nape of my neck rose. I pulled the wagon to a stop and tied off the reins.
“What are you doing?” Whitney grabbed the back of my coat when I moved to jump down.
“Going to see if there are any survivors.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Not the last time I checked.” I pulled myself from her grasp and hopped down.
“Willow, what are you doing?” Kip said.
I ignored him and reached for the loaded ’51 Colt under the seat.
“Get back up here.” Whitney’s eyes flitted around, looking for danger.
“We can’t get through without moving some of the bodies,” I said through clenched teeth. “I suggest you get down here and help me, so we can be on our way.” Heart throbbing in my throat, I spun on my heel and marched toward the sea of bodies. A thud sounded behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder as Whitney hurried to join me.
“We stick together,” she said through her teeth. “The things I let you talk me into. We should’ve let Kip find his own way back.”
I tensed and shot her a look, but the panicked way her gaze scoured the roadsides silenced any rebuke for her lack of concern for what happened to Kip. She was scared, and so was I.
“The ones responsible are probably long gone,” I said. “We look for survivors, move the dead out of the way, and carry on.”
“And if we find a survivor, what do you suppose we do? Take him along and hand him over to the Federals?”
“We hide him,” I whispered.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Dead serious. And on the way back, he’ll take Kipling’s place, and we’ll take him to Livingston.”
“And let’s say we find more than one.” She jabbed at a corpse with her boot.
“I hadn�
��t considered that.”
She looked at me with a raised brow.
“Listen, I’m no expert at this any more than you. We do what we can and figure out the rest.”
“Fine. Let’s make this quick.” She crouched to check the pulse of a man whose flesh had turned pallid.
I threaded through the corpses until a rustling noise stopped me. Listening, I swept my eyes along the roadside, pausing at the trail of blood crossing the road and disappearing into a gap in the underbrush. I cocked back the hammer on my gun and kept my finger on the trigger as I moved in. My heart galloped with trepidation at what lay beyond the brush.
A gunshot rang out, and I jumped to the side as a bullet whizzed by.
Crouching low, I eyed Whitney, who had dropped to the ground and gaped back at me. I signaled for her to circle around, and she nodded mechanically. I waited for her to move into position. With her at the person’s flanks and moving in, I crept forward.
“Don’t shoot. We are here to help. It looks like you’re injured,” I called in a low voice.
“Who are you?” a man called back.
“Farmers,” I said as Whitney came up behind him. “You a Federal or Confederate?”
“Confederate,” Whitney said, and another shot rang out, followed by a scuffle. “Damn fool. Didn’t you hear my friend? We are here to help.”
“How can I be certain?” The soldier sounded young.
“I’m coming in. Don’t shoot.” I parted the thicket with the gun and discovered a soldier slumped against a tree trunk.
He swung his gaze from Whitney to me and feebly tried to point his gun at me. Whitney kicked it from his hand and swiftly retrieved it. “We are Southerners like you,” she said.
“You don’t sound like no Southerner to me.” He glowered up at her.
She didn’t bother explaining, but squatted before him and examined the injury on his leg. “You’re lucky they didn’t blow that knee clean off.” She swatted at the flies hovering around the wound the soldier had managed to tie off.
Whitney stood and took my arm, leading me a safe distance away. “He needs help. And not the kind of help we can offer.” She anchored her hands on her waistline and pressed her lips together. “He isn’t but Jack’s age.”
“We can’t take him with us, or the Federals will finish the job.” I cast a worried glance at the soldier, who sat regarding us.
“The best thing we can do is hide him. And hope he is alive on our way back.” Whitney shrugged, not in the insensitive way she sometimes did, but with a sense of helplessness.
We returned to the soldier. “Listen, we have something we have to take care of, and it can’t wait,” I said. “We can’t take you with us. But if you can hold on until we get back, we will take you to the nearest hospital.”
A gleam of hope shone in his blue eyes before fear replaced it. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. The pain is so bad, I slip in and out of consciousness.” Sweat beaded his brow.
“Well, it’s the best we can do,” Whitney said. “Stay alive, and we will return.”
“Yes, sir. I’m mighty obliged.”
Whitney dipped her head in acknowledgment. “We have to move you away from the road because the first Federal that comes through will look for survivors. And if they find you—”
I elbowed her.
When we moved him, he wailed so loud I was sure anyone within a mile would hear him. He lay on the ground, ghastly pale and clinging to what life he had left. Whitney brought food, water, and bullets she had scavenged from the corpses.
“We will be back. I promise,” I said.
He closed his eyes and feebly nodded. We gathered branches and covered him before returning to the road.
“Here, help me.” I gestured at a body of a fallen soldier. “There is no way we can hide that trail of blood, but if we place him in where we found the other, perhaps it will keep anyone that comes by from searching farther in.”
We moved the soldier into position and returned to the road to clear a path for the wagon to get through.
“How are you making out?” I knocked on the false wall.
“Like I’ve been plowed into by a team of horses and trampled,” Kipling said. “Don’t know how much longer I can take this.”
“By my calculation, I think we should be at Beaufort by nightfall. The Federals will take you from there.” I climbed into the driver seat.
Beaufort came into view as the sun perched on the horizon. My nerves thrummed as I drove us closer to the blockade patrolled by Federal soldiers.
“It’s not too late to turn back,” Whitney said.
“Well—”
“Halt! Who goes there?” a soldier shouted.
“You were saying?” I said with a clenched jaw.
“I’m going to be sick.” Whitney shifted in her seat. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Who goes there?” the call came again.
I reined the horses to a stop. “Name’s Willy.”
“Willy?” Whitney chided under her breath.
“Yes, Willy and Fred,” I said as the two soldiers strode forward with their rifles pointed at us. I kicked the plank under the seat. “Well, it’s your time to shine, my friend.”
The soldiers positioned themselves on either side of the wagon. “State your business.” The soldier to my left jabbed my arm with the butt of his rifle.
“We came across one of yours some weeks back. He was in bad shape. My wife cared for him the best she could until he was fit to travel.”
His brow furrowed, and he regarded me with suspicion. He signaled at another soldier who joined us. “Shine that lantern on the wagon bed.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “He is under the seat.”
“They speak the truth,” Kipling said.
The soldiers jumped, and looked frantically into the darkness for the owner of the voice.
“I told you, he is under the seat.”
The soldier directed the other to hold the lantern closer to inspect my claim.
“If you don’t mind, my friend, Fred, here, and I will climb down and show you.”
He narrowed his eyes, and several nerve-racking moments passed before he motioned us down.
Feet on the ground, Whitney and I turned to face each other, and I noted my fear mirrored in her eyes. We pushed on the corners of the false wall with extra force, and the planks sprang open, and Kipling tumbled out.
He gasped with relief. But the sound of cocking rifles stilled my breathing, and my body went numb.
“State your name and rank.”
“Name is Kipling Reed. I’m a recruit under Flag Officer Samuel F. Du Pont of the South Atlantic Blockading Squadron.” Kipling shifted to a seated position and held up his hands. “These farmers found me a few days’ ride from here. My patrol had been sent out to gather provisions, and some rebels attacked us on the road. If it wasn’t for these men, I would be dead.”
“Climb down, and we will check your claim,” the soldier said.
Kipling did as instructed.
“Come with me.” He shoved Kipling forward with the butt of his rifle. “You to stay here.” He ordered the other soldiers to watch us until his return.
An hour or more passed while Whitney and I sat waiting for their return. When footsteps drew our attention, I squinted into the dark and breathed a sigh of relief as Kipling strode toward us. The soldier walked a pace or two behind him with his rifle lowered.
“Everything all right?” I said when Kipling joined Whitney and me.
Kipling waited until the soldiers wandered back to their post before speaking. “Listen, I can’t thank you both enough for what you’ve done.” He regarded Whitney with a reverent expression. “You both have more courage and honor than most soldiers I’ve fought alongside.” His gaze turned to me and he smiled tenderly. “I’ve always carried respect for both of you, but my respect has deepened. Again, I can’t thank you enough.”
“Yo
u are safe. That’s what matters.”
“I asked that you be given shelter for the night, but regardless of what you have done for me, you’re considered the enemy and possible spies.”
“We understand,” Whitney said. “We need to be on our way. There is a matter that needs tending.”
“If his condition is as you stated, I fear you’ll have no matter to attend to,” Kipling said with a grimace.
“You may be right, but we still have to try to get back in time,” I said. “Goodbye, my friend.” I held out my hand.
Kipling looked in the direction of the soldiers who stood regarding us. He thrust out his hand and clasped mine.
“God speed,” he said. “Stay alive. And, when this is all over, I hope we’ll see each other again.”
I swallowed back tears and nodded.
Kipling shook Whitney’s hand. “I know she pulled you into this and persuaded you to help me. I want you to know I will never forget this.”
“Yes, well, Willy here,” she said with a smirk, “may willingly put our necks in a hangman’s noose more often than I care to face, but he acts with heart, and for that reason, we are better people for having met each other. A friend of his is a friend of mine.”
Kipling smiled and waited while we boarded the wagon. Whitney turned us around, and I lifted a gloved hand. “Until we meet again.”
He inclined his head and stepped to the side. “Be careful.”
The following day we arrived at the area where we had left the injured soldier to discover a burial party had returned to bury the bodies in shallow graves.
Whitney and I walked the short distance to where we had left the soldier and pulled the covering brush away. My heart sank when I saw his lifeless form.
“Dammit.” Whitney thumped a fist on her thigh.
“Best we bury him,” I said.
“And how do you suppose we do that?” She threw her hands in the air. “With our fingers? Or I know—a stick?”
“Listen, I don’t have any patience for your sass. I’m as worried and tired as you. He deserves a proper burial, so I guess we have no choice but to take him with us.”
“And risk being caught with his body.” Her voice rose.