But before they came to safety she had to make sure they saw nothing that shouldn’t be seen. She hurried down the narrow stairs.
‘‘Mama,’’ she heard a voice through the trapdoor a few moments later.
‘‘I’m down in the cellar, Kathleen,’’ she called. ‘‘Come down the ladder.’’
‘‘May I bring my doll?’’
‘‘Yes, Katie—just hurry.’’
While Katie climbed down, her mother finished her business.
‘‘Wait for me here, Kathleen,’’ she said as soon as Katie reached the bottom. ‘‘I’ve got to run back upstairs and bring Beulah and the others down. I’ll be back soon.’’
‘‘What about Rusty?’’
‘‘Rusty will have to take care of himself.’’
By the time Mrs. Clairborne reached the kitchen again and looked out the window with Beulah at her side, already she saw a line of black folks running toward the house, some of the women carrying babies, the men hurrying them along as fast as they could. Behind them, the black twister was maybe only two miles away, close enough that she could see the swirling wind whipping up bushes and small trees and debris inside it.
‘‘Hurry . . . into the house, all of you,’’ she cried. ‘‘Beulah—show them where to go!’’
In ones and twos they ran inside, hardly thinking what they were doing. A few paused long enough to wipe their feet. But they were quickly interrupted by their master’s wife.
‘‘Don’t worry about the dirt, Jeremiah—just get into the cellar . . . Jeb . . . Mathias—come everyone, hurry!’’
Minutes later Katie’s mother let the trapdoor down to the living room floor from the bottom and climbed down the narrow stairs to join the others all huddled together on the floor. A lone candle flickered in the darkness.
Then they waited, listening. Someone started to pray, and others joined in. Beulah hummed a few bars of a song, then the group began singing, ‘‘All night, all day . . . angels watching over me. . . .’’
The wind could be heard faintly moaning up the stairs. Mrs. Clairborne knew if the tornado came close enough to take their house, they would hear a roar louder than any wind they could imagine. But she heard nothing like that. Gradually the moaning and whistling sounds above them died away.
After a few minutes, she rose, crept up the stairs, and lifted the trapdoor a crack.
The air was still. She lifted it the rest of the way and climbed up. The house was just as they had left it. She clasped trembling hands together and whispered, ‘‘Thank you, Lord.’’
‘‘It’s passed,’’ she said into the cellar. ‘‘You can come out.’’
Slowly the slaves made their way up the ladder, now pausing to look around them at the rich furnishings and huge fancy house where the master and his family lived. Silently they all filed outside and back to the shacks that were their homes.
‘‘Mathias,’’ Mrs. Clairborne instructed as they left, ‘‘give me a report on the damage, will you?’’
‘‘Yes’m,’’ replied the black man as he walked away.
He returned an hour later with the news, which wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. The roof of one of the slave buildings had been blown off, he said. A path had been torn through the wheat, ruining about a third of the crop. A couple of trees were down. And two sections of fence had been ripped into kindling.
Mrs. Clairborne took in the report with relief.
‘‘Well, see to it all, Mathias,’’ she said.
‘‘Yes’m.’’
‘‘The roof first of all, then the fences.’’
A VISITOR
7
IN JULY OF 1864 MRS. CLAIRBORNE WAS working in one of the nearby fields with a handful of Negroes, ones who had not drifted away from the plantation to find better situations in the North. They were hoeing weeds from between long rows of cotton. She was hot and tired, and her dress was stained with sweat and dust. The barking of dogs in the distance intruded into the sounds of their labor.
She paused and looked toward the house. A man was riding toward it on horseback. Her eyes squinted and she muttered under her breath.
‘‘I am afraid I have a visitor,’’ she said. ‘‘Mathias, once this field is done, have the men start on the twelve acres on the other side of the creek.’’
‘‘Yes’m,’’ replied the black man without glancing up.
‘‘And I would like you to go check on that broken door on the barn, and the smokehouse has a leak somewhere in the roof,’’ she added.
‘‘Yes, Miz Clairborne.’’
She set down her hoe and walked across the field in the direction of the house. Her visitor saw her approaching, dismounted, tied his reins to the hitching rail, and stood waiting with an amused grin on his face.
‘‘Keeping the darkies company in the fields, eh, Rosalind?’’ he remarked, arching a brow as she walked toward him.
‘‘Hello, Templeton,’’ she replied, ignoring the remark. ‘‘I didn’t expect to see you here with a war on,’’ she added testily.
‘‘I try to avoid the war whenever possible,’’ he said with a confident smile.
‘‘You appear to be succeeding. From the looks of it, I would say the hostilities have not hampered your style,’’ she went on with sarcasm. ‘‘I am surprised to see you so far south. I assume you are not taking up the Union cause?’’
‘‘My only cause is . . .’’ He hesitated.
‘‘Yourself?’’ she said. ‘‘You don’t need to pretend to be other than what you are around me. I know you too well.’’
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘‘I’m not sure how to take that, Rosalind.’’
‘‘Take it any way you like,’’ she rejoined as they walked toward the house. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’
‘‘Aren’t you at least going to offer me a cup of coffee?’’
‘‘We haven’t had coffee in this house for months,’’ Rosalind retorted.
From her room upstairs, Katie heard a man’s voice coming from below. Thinking her father had come home, she ran downstairs into the kitchen. There she saw a strange man in fancy clothes talking to her mother. Disappointed, she paused in the doorway.
‘‘Ah,’’ the man said, glancing toward her, ‘‘this must be little Kathleen.’’
‘‘Yes, sir,’’ said Katie, hesitating momentarily, then moving toward her mother.
‘‘Kathleen, this is your uncle . . . Mr. Daniels,’’ she said slowly, sounding almost reluctant to make the introduction.
As Katie stared at the man she did not remember seeing before, she wondered how he managed to keep so clean. His black suit and vest showed not a speck of lint or the slightest wrinkle. The ruffled white shirt inside it sparkled with pearl studs down the center, matching the cufflinks that showed at his wrists beneath the sleeves of his coat. He held a black widebrimmed hat in hands that weren’t half so rough as her mother’s, and looked too white and soft for a man’s. She could not keep her eyes from drifting back and forth from his thin black mustache to the ruffles and pearl studs on his shirt.
‘‘How do you do, Kathleen,’’ responded the man with a smile that showed perfect white teeth. ‘‘You may call me Uncle Templeton. How would you like a sweet piece of hard candy?’’
‘‘Keep your candy to yourself, Templeton,’’ interjected Katie’s mother.
‘‘Come on, sis, one piece of candy won’t hurt her . . . will it, Kathleen?’’ he added, flashing another grin and brief wink in Katie’s direction.
‘‘You’re treating her like a child.’’
‘‘How old are you, Kathleen?’’
‘‘Fourteen, sir.’’
‘‘Ah, I see what your mother means—why, you’re practically a grown lady. Come over here . . . I always carry a few sweets in my pocket. Come and see if you can find one.’’
Mrs. Clairborne put a kettle of water on the stove for tea, watching with obvious annoyance as Katie took her uncle’s bait and s
lowly approached. She had seen the enterprising glint in his eye, as well as his smooth talk and clever words too many times to trust him for two minutes, even with his own niece.
‘‘Templeton, leave her alone,’’ she said as she returned to the table.
‘‘I mean the girl no harm, Rosalind. I only want to give her a piece of candy.’’
‘‘Why? Once you get whatever it is you want from me, you’ll be gone. Trying to win Katie over wouldn’t make me give you so much as a dime, if I had one.’’
The man turned to Katie with an injured expression.
‘‘Kathleen, what’s my sister talking about?’’ he said in a hurt tone. ‘‘You don’t think there’s anything wrong with my giving you a little piece of candy, do you?’’
Katie stared at him with big eyes but didn’t answer. Her uncle now turned back toward her mother.
‘‘Come on, sis—let me see a smile. You’ve been working too hard. I saw that the moment I rode up. If you’ll give your brother a smile, maybe I’ll give you a piece of candy too.’’
He turned his chair and moved it a little closer to Katie, now holding out one of his hands to draw her toward him.
‘‘You know, Kathleen,’’ he said in a soft, confidential voice, ‘‘when she was your age, your mother was about the prettiest girl in all Philadelphia. She was just as pretty as you are. Once when she was sixteen I brought her a lovely gown from New York. My . . . you should have seen her! When she put on that dress, every young man for miles around wanted to dance with Rosalind Daniels.’’
‘‘Stop it, Templeton,’’ Mrs. Clairborne objected, though unable to keep from laughing lightly. ‘‘Now you’re telling Katie stories.’’
‘‘Why, your mother,’’ Daniels went on as if he had not heard her, ‘‘might have been the prettiest girl, not just in the county, but in all the North.’’
As he spoke, Katie’s uncle now cut a glance toward his sister out of the corner of one eye. He could tell Rosalind’s defenses were starting to break down under his charm, just as they always did.
The hint of a smile cracked her lips. ‘‘Well, give Katie the candy,’’ she said, ‘‘and then you might as well bring in your things, if you’ve got any, and unsaddle your horse. It’s too late to move on, so you might as well spend the night with us and get some warm food inside you.’’
‘‘Thank you, Rosalind,’’ said Daniels, releasing Katie’s hand and leaning back in the chair. He opened his pocket toward Katie so she could put her hand inside it. ‘‘That’s right hospitable of you.’’
‘‘All right now, Kathleen,’’ said her mother when Katie had found a piece of candy and began unwrapping the paper around it, ‘‘why don’t you go back up to your room so your uncle and I can talk.’’
‘‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you for the candy, sir,’’ she added, smiling at her uncle.
It did not take long for Mrs. Clairborne’s suspicious mood to return. As Katie walked slowly through the parlor toward the stairs, their voices picked up the conversation.
‘‘I’m asking you again,’’ said her mother, ‘‘—what are you doing here, Templeton?’’
‘‘Looks like you could use a man’s help around the place,’’ her uncle drawled. ‘‘Where are all the slaves? You used to have a real nice-looking young house slave . . . what was her name?’’
Katie went into her room, but the voices from below continued to drift up into her hearing.
The kitchen held a long, uncomfortable silence. Mrs. Clairborne stared at her brother for several seconds, daggers in her eyes.
‘‘You remember her name well enough,’’ she finally said. ‘‘She’s gone.’’ She paused, then added, ‘‘They’re mostly all gone now.’’
Her brother took in the information with pretended disinterest, then tried to laugh it off lightly. ‘‘Well, I still say you could use a man’s help around here,’’ he said. ‘‘Look at your hands, all blistered up. And I hate to say it, but I’ve known ladies who smelled better, Rosalind.’’
‘‘Never you mind what I smell like,’’ Rosalind said. ‘‘I’ve got work to do, and a little honest sweat never hurt a woman any more than it hurt a man. But you’re right, I could use a man—a man who knows how to dirty his hands and work, something I don’t think you know anything about.’’
‘‘Is that any way to talk to your older brother?’’
‘‘I never see you unless one of your schemes goes sour and you want something from me. Well, we’ve got no money this time, Templeton. Whatever I have I owe the bank. I’ve already had to borrow twice. So if you’re looking for a stake in a poker game or some other scheme—’’
‘‘You’ve got me all wrong, my dear. I wouldn’t come just to weasel money out of you.’’
‘‘You’ve done it enough times before. I’d have thought you’d got enough when Father died to last a lifetime. But it was gone in . . . what—a year?’’
‘‘Two, actually,’’ he replied, a grin rather than remorse on his face.
The kitchen was quiet again for a few seconds.
‘‘Have you seen Ward?’’ asked Daniels after a moment.
‘‘What could you possibly want with him?’’ asked Mrs. Clairborne. ‘‘You and your brother haven’t spoken in years.’’
‘‘Maybe we’ve had a reconciliation.’’
‘‘I’ll believe that when I see it. You and Ward were always at each other’s throats, both of you squandering what was given you, then trying to get rich without working for it.’’
‘‘That’s Ward, all right,’’ laughed Daniels.
‘‘Well, I haven’t seen him for years,’’ said Katie’s mother, getting up from the table and walking to the stove to check the kettle.
‘‘I heard he came by here after he got back from California,’’ her brother probed further.
‘‘Yes, he came by,’’ she nodded.
‘‘When?’’
‘‘I don’t know—a year or two before the war broke out. He was gone just as suddenly as he came, and I haven’t seen him since.’’
‘‘He give you anything?’’ The question sounded casual.
‘‘No . . . what do you mean?’’ she answered a little hesitantly. ‘‘He didn’t give me anything,’’ she added more forcefully.
‘‘Word around was that he struck it rich out West.’’
‘‘Word going around where? With whom?’’
‘‘Friends of his.’’
‘‘Well, I know nothing about what happened when he was in California, or what he’s been doing since. For all I know he might be dead by now.’’
Rosalind busied herself at the stove.
‘‘Maybe I’ll just stick around for a spell,’’ said Daniels after a few long seconds. ‘‘Who knows, maybe the country life will suit me.’’
‘‘I invited you to spend the night and have a meal or two with us, not stay for a spell.’’
‘‘You wouldn’t put your poor brother out with a war on, would you?’’
‘‘You just better be gone when Richard comes home.’’
Templeton Daniels and Richard Clairborne had never hit it off any more than he and Ward. Without responding, he slowly rose from the table.
‘‘I think I’ll do what you say and go take care of my horse while you’re fixing me that tea,’’ he said.
Rosalind watched him leave the house and shook her head. She knew as well as her brother that there was nothing she could do to get rid of him until he was good and ready to go. He had always done whatever he wanted without worrying about how it affected anyone else. It didn’t appear he was going to change his ways anytime soon.
————
A week later, Katie awoke early and came downstairs on her way outside to the outhouse. She walked into the kitchen to see her uncle rummaging through the cupboards. He spun around at the sound of her footsteps.
‘‘Ah . . . Kathleen, good morning,’’ he said quickly.
‘‘What are you looki
ng for, Uncle Templeton?’’
‘‘Uh . . . nothing, Kathleen . . . I mean, I was just looking for, uh . . . for some coffee.’’
‘‘Remember, we’re out of coffee. But here is the tea,’’ she said, walking toward the pantry.
‘‘Ah, good—thank you,’’ he said. ‘‘Good girl . . . thank you, Kathleen.’’
Two mornings later, Templeton Daniels was gone without a word of farewell.
That same day Katie’s mother discovered that the cigar box, where she kept her household cash behind the sugar bin, was emptied of the thirty-five dollars she had been carefully hoarding.
She muttered something unladylike and left the pantry, vowing that the next time Templeton dared show his face around Rosewood, she would smack him across the mouth with her fist before she would think of inviting him into her house.
DESERTION
8
WITH MONEY RUNNING OUT YET AGAIN, Mrs. Clairborne and several of the Negro men loaded up the last of the previous year’s cotton crop. It had been stored in the barn through the winter to sell later. The following morning, she and Katie were up early hitching two horses to the wagon to take it into Greens Crossing.
The war was nearly over. The South was in shambles. Confusion and turmoil were everywhere. Reports were coming in weekly that the Confederate army was in disarray and that men were leaving the front lines in droves. Mrs. Clairborne hoped her husband and two sons would be home soon. If they arrived without notice, she wanted to make sure there was at least a little cash on hand. She still hadn’t decided how to tell them about the debts that were piling up. She knew Richard would be upset, but he would find out sooner or later.
She had sent Beulah down to the slave quarters with instructions to bring Mathias and Jeremiah up to the house to talk to her before she left. But just as Katie climbed up onto the wagon the big black woman came hurrying back as fast as her girth would allow.
‘‘Miz Clairborne, ma’am, you gots ter come quick,’’ she puffed. ‘‘Dere’s trouble a brewin’ down dere. You gotta come settle things.’’
Angels Watching Over Me (Shenandoah Sisters Book #1) Page 4