They were not far from the fall line and its rapids, and the current was swift. Harry took to the oars but used them only to steer and alter their course as they floated past the capital and under its three bridges. They had to round the sharp bend of the James opposite Chimborazo Hospital and proceed another three or four miles of the river’s long southerly stretch before they came upon what Harry sought—a trim-looking, small sailboat tied to a dock with sails reefed.
Coming up to it obliquely, and seeing no human figures on the lawn of the great house on the hill above, Harry quickly had Estelle and himself aboard. Keeping the skiff’s oars, he cast the sailboat off, paddling canoe fashion at the bow to gain the middle of the river. Then he freed the sails and had the little craft under canvas within minutes.
“They goin’ to kill us if they catch us,” Estelle said.
“Don’t worry about that just yet.”
“You know how to work these things, Mister Raines?”
“I do,” he said, settling at the tiller. “Caesar Augustus and I grew up on this river. I was afloat as much as I was in the saddle.”
“Won’t they catch us with one of them big gunboats?”
“They might try, but once we get south of Drewry’s Bluff, there’ll be swamps and creeks to either side all the way to City Point. We can get where they can’t go. The water will be too shallow for anything with a boiler.”
They sought the refuge of such backwaters only twice during their journey, once to avoid a small Confederate naval vessel and then again to pass the night. The most dangerous moment came in passing Fort Hoke and Battery IV, where the Confederates were working at putting obstacles into the river. A rifleman perched on some piling far out from the shore hailed Harry, asking who he was and where bound. Harry said he was Lieutenant Mills, taking a runaway slave down to Bermuda Hundred. The soldier asked if naval officers were working as bounty hunters. Harry replied he was doing a favor for a friend.
They ate the last of their food, washed down with river water, just below Bermuda Hundred and the Shirley Plantation. Harry was in his home country now. The fields and bluffs and woods that stretched away from either bank were familiar. Even without his spectacles, he recognized old tree stumps sticking up from the swampy shore.
“You say you go here with Caesar Augustus?” Estelle asked.
“For years and years. When we were boys, and later. We fished and swam and fooled with boats all along here.”
“Your house near here?”
“Around the next bend, where the river widens. It was my home for twenty-one years. Caesar Augustus’s, too. Both of us were born there. Weren’t for slavery, we’d both be there still.”
“Not Caesar Augustus.”
“No, I guess not.”
She huddled further in her shawl, though the day was warmer. Noting a shift in the wind, he let out the main sheet further. It was a pleasant little boat. Harry wished he’d been able to buy rather than steal it. He began to wish he had not been so willing to burn bridges behind him. If he somehow managed to get out of the Virginia tidewater alive, he knew he could only return in the train of a Union army. With McClellan in command, that could be a long time coming.
“You sad about Caesar Augustus?” Estelle asked.
“Very sad. It was all my fault.”
She said nothing, her eyes turning to the murky water.
“Estelle, I was told there was a child involved in this.”
“I don’t know of no child.”
“I think I’m talking about a slave child.”
“Ain’t no child at the Mills house at Manchester. All the children at the plantation down in Charles City County.”
“Estelle, was Mrs. Mills about to sell one of them down the river?”
“I don’ know. She don’ talk to me about things like that.”
“You were her housemaid, Estelle.”
“She weren’t my friend. You know how she be about black folks.”
A crane lifted from a stump and, with a shrill call and a flap of long wings, climbed high, turning in a slow circle.
“Did you have such a child, Estelle? Did you have a child by Caesar Augustus, that she was going to sell?”
“Nosuh.”
“By Samuel, then?”
She wasn’t looking at him. “Nosir. I ain’t got no child by no one.”
He took out the piece of cloth he’d rescued from the ashes of Samuel’s forge fire.
“This is a man’s coat—see where the buttons lie? An expensive one, by the look of them. Why would Samuel burn it?”
“That’s not Samuel’s coat. He only got one coat.”
“But it was in his forge fire.”
She shrugged. She seemed as sad and somber now as she’d been the day Caesar Augustus had perished in Libby Prison.
“Do you know where Caesar Augustus went that day—the day Arabella died?” Harry asked.
“Nosir. He not come to see me that day.”
“What about Samuel?”
“He drive the coach. I don’ know where he go.”
The wind stiffened, then shifted to off the port quarter. Harry drew in the mainsail, and the boat began to heel. Ahead, past a long point extending from the right, he could see the masts of two small vessels far downriver.
“Estelle, before we part, you’re going to have to tell me the truth.”
“I tell you the truth, Mister Raines, but why you keep on with this? Mrs. Mills dead. Caesar Augustus dead.”
“That, Estelle, is why I keep on with this.”
Chapter 21
Reaching Belle Haven’s dock, Harry maneuvered the little craft between two boats already tied to it, holding on to one of them but making no mooring. After helping Estelle out, he rigged the tiller with a loop of the main-sheet, using one hand to spare his injured arm. Then, getting out, he shoved the sailboat at an angle out into the current. There were some small islands ahead, but if the little craft missed them and the wind didn’t get too flighty, it might yet travel miles before it was recovered.
He knew very well that, if General Winder were to send men after him, they likely would head for his family’s plantation sooner or later. But he didn’t intend to stay long.
The path up the bluff to the house was bordered by flowers in the warm seasons, and he was pleased to see an emerging bud here and there. Estelle followed him dutifully, as she had followed so many masters.
There was a long gallery at the rear of the house, leading to a vegetable garden at one end and a formal English one at the other. Stepping up onto it, he saw a woman in a pale green dress seated at the latter place, reading a book. She took note of his approach when he was still a few paces shy, turning tentatively, her mind still on the words she’d been reading. When she saw who it was, she dropped the book, with no care to keeping her place.
Then she was rising, flinging herself into his arms. He held her tightly, so closely they rocked back and forth. After a long moment like this, they finally eased their hold upon each other. He stepped back so he could see her face. They bore a strong resemblance to each other, yet she was by far the handsomer. Her hair was much lighter in color, almost blonde; her eyes amber, while his were simply a soft shade of brown.
“Elizabeth.” It gave him such a happy feeling to say her name.
She smiled, seemingly as happy. “I had feared this war would have to be over before I set eyes on you again.”
“After today, that may well be true. I’ll not be here long.”
She stepped back further, her eyes examining his oversized naval officer’s coat.
“Harry? That’s Confederate. You haven’t …?”
“No, this is just a convenience. I hope to regain Union lines. I doubt I’ll be able to come back.”
Her happiness faded at the edges, then altogether vanished.
“That is sad news.”
She was nearly twenty-six, and still unmarried. Her views on slavery were almost as hostile as his own, and not m
uch shared by the Tidewater beaux. She said she could not bear to become a plantation wife like her mother, yet her only alternative had been continued residence here, where a hundred human beings labored for their father without reward.
And now, a hundred and one.
“This is Estelle,” he said, turning to the black woman. “I have brought her with me, and I mean to set her free.”
His sister drew the black woman close. “I think I do know you. Do you work for the Mills family?”
“They’s my masters. Least they was.”
Elizabeth’s countenance now darkened. “Arabella …”
“We’ll talk about that later,” Harry said. He put his arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders. “Is there food?”
They ate at a table on the gallery, two kitchen maids attending to the serving. There was lemonade, biscuits and jam, some roast pork, and custard. Harry insisted that Estelle sit with them at the table, causing some wide-eyed consternation with the servant girls. When the meal was done, Elizabeth summoned the majordomo of the household—a large black man who might have been an older relation of the deceased Samuel—and instructed him to find Estelle quarters. She followed him meekly, looking a little fearful.
“The war will put an end to this,” Harry said.
“But who will put an end to the war?”
He fought the impulse to explain himself—to pour out everything to her as he had done when they were children, Allen Pinkerton, Mr. Lincoln, the Secret Service, and all. But it was unfair to make her share that burden, to endanger her with such knowledge.
In effect, he had taken up arms against their state, their father, their brother. Despite her Abolitionist sentiments, he wasn’t sure she would understand that.
“I was surprised to see you come upon our porch, Harry, but, in truth, I’ve been wondering if that might actually happen. The Richmond papers come in the mail pretty regular. Last one I read said that Arabella Mills had been killed by a Negro named Caesar Augustus. Was that our Caesar Augustus?”
“Yes.”
“Did he do that thing?”
A minute before, he would immediately have said “No.” Now, something stayed him.
“I’ve spent the past many days trying to prove the contrary—if only to myself.”
She simply stared at him, her eyes full of her question.
“But it no longer matters,” Harry said. “I was told he was killed—in Libby Prison, where they’d been keeping him. They said it was a Union officer.”
“Can that be true?”
“I don’t know. There’s a severe shortage of truth in Richmond these days, as there is of everything else.”
Elizabeth shook her head sadly. “Poor Arabella. She was always so romantic, a lady out of Walter Scott.”
“Life is not a novel.”
“Oh, yes it is. A very sad novel.” She smiled again, wanly. “I once feared I would end up having to marry Palmer Mills. He was so jealous over you and Arabella. I was afraid he’d demand me as compensation—put a stick into you with that—and that father would go along.”
“I suppose he might have.”
“No. He disapproved of Palmer. Thought him a drunkard.”
“Father’s in Richmond,” Harry said. “Or he was. I saw him, but only for an instant.” He hesitated. His father had doted on Elizabeth. “He was not friendly.”
“No.”
“Has he come here?”
“No. His whole life is the army now. We get the occasional letter.”
Harry wanted to change the subject. He pointed to his arm. “Palmer Mills shot me yesterday. I suppose he could have killed me, if he wished.”
“Shot you? How? Why?”
“A sort of duel. Over Arabella.”
“Oh Harry.” She went to his side and helped him remove his coat. Ripping open his blood-hardened sleeve, she slowly unwound his bandage. “This needs changing.” She peered closely at his wound. Though not to the same degree, her eyes had the same failing as his own.
“Am I well?”
“There is no proud flesh. But I am no doctor.”
He sniffed. “I need a bath.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Yes you do.” She stood up, preparatory to summoning more servants. “Then we’ll attend to your wound.”
“I need a change of clothes. Would there be anything of mine left?”
Elizabeth took his hand, leading him inside. “Everything is left. After you walked out of here, father never went into your room again.”
His most useful find was a pair of old spectacles, the focus nearly as good as that of the pair that had been smashed by his alley assailants. Once bathed and shaved and freshly dressed, he lingered in his room, looking through old books and framed daguerreotypes of himself and his family that still sat atop his dresser. In one, he stood stiffly with his older brother, Robert, in front of the house. It was striking how much the brother resembled their father and he, their mother.
Elizabeth looked exactly like their mother.
“You look much restored,” she said, when he’d returned to her. “You are your old self.”
None of them were that.
He looked at his watch. “Are there still horses here? I think I’d like to pay a visit to the Mills’s place.”
“You won’t be back by supper.”
“Probably not. But it’s something I’d better do while I’m here.”
“Could you not go tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow I must go—for good.”
They stood together on the front veranda while a groom saddled him a mount. In the distant fields, farmhands had begun some early plowing. Harry could see a mounted overseer moving along with them.
“If the Union prevails and this rebellion is put down,” he said. “All this will end.”
“I suppose you’re right. I think about that a lot. Perhaps if we paid them—but father would never do that.”
“I suspect he would consider that dishonorable.” Harry shook his head.
The groom brought the horse—a fine looking animal.
“Father will no doubt think me a thief if I don’t bring back this one.”
She made no reply. He took the reins, nodding his thanks and dismissal to the groom, who ambled lazily away.
Coming down the Mills’s plantation drive at a fast trot, Harry went by the main house and continued on to the slave quarters, hoping to avoid the overseer but find a black who might hold some responsibility. Pulling up by the barn, he found several slaves at work, none of them showing much enthusiasm for their labor or his arrival.
“I’m here about the slave that’s for sale,” Harry said, dropping from the saddle.
“Ain’t no slave for sale,” said a field hand. “Anyway, you go see the people in the big house.”
“I did,” Harry lied. “Could find no one in authority. I heard there was a child for sale.”
“Ain’t no slave child for sale,” said the field hand.
Harry looked around the yard. There were two children visible, standing by a large black woman. One was a boy about seven; the other younger, and a girl. Both were ill dressed, virtually in rags.
“Not for sale?”
“Nosuh. But you go ask at the house.”
Harry remounted. “Was there a child sold? Has one been taken away?”
The black people only looked at him.
“You there! What do you want?”
Harry turned his horse with a slight touch of rein, finding himself facing a white man in a duster coat and broad-brimmed hat. He was obviously the overseer, but no one Harry had seen before.
“I’m Harrison Raines, from the Belle Haven Plantation down the river. I am looking to buy a house servant, and I heard you had one for sale.”
The man looked fit, and a prime candidate for military service. But his lot would probably be exempt from conscription. The system had to be maintained.
“You heard wrong, mister. Got none for sale. Need every hand.”
“This was a child I heard about. We need someone for the kitchen.” He paused, then gestured at the boy and girl. “What about one of these two?”
“Not for sale. We’re shorthanded here.”
“Did you sell one recently? Maybe I can catch up with the buyer and make a better offer.”
The man took a step forward, coming near enough to lay hold of Harry’s bridle.
“I said, Mister, we’ve got none of them for sale. Now if that’s your business, it’s done. Move on.”
Harry backed his horse away a few steps. “Is Mr. Mills on the premises?”
“Mr. Mills is dead.”
“I don’t mean the father. I mean the son. Lieutenant Palmer Mills.”
“He’s not been here for weeks. Don’t expect him soon. Now, sir. Please move on.”
Harry pressed heels to flank and trotted out of the yard, passing a great many sullen, silent faces.
It was full night when he returned to Belle Haven. Elizabeth had saved supper for him and sat with him while he ate it. She had opened a bottle of wine for him and took a glass herself.
“This is very good,” he said.
“It’s one of father’s best. There aren’t many left. The blockade.”
“He will be angry.”
“The prodigal returns. That should be occasion enough.”
Harry sipped, and sighed. “You have no idea how much I wish I did not have to move on.”
“It can be no more than my wish for you to stay.” Her voice was sweet, but quavered. “Still, you are going North again, so I can only be glad for you.”
“I wish you could come with me.”
“I’ve thought of that. There have been opportunities. But who would look after all our people? Our new overseer—Nicholas—he is a hard man. I caught him skinning a girl with a grain flail last week. Said she was impudent—and we can well guess what he meant by that. Were I a man, I would have taken it to him.”
“Caesar Augustus bore such scars.”
The Ironclad Alibi Page 20