‘‘What it is, Beulah?’’ asked Katie’s mother.
‘‘Mathias en Jeb en some ob de others, dey’s fixin’ ter leave,’’ said Beulah between gasps for breath.
‘‘Leave!’’ exclaimed Mrs. Clairborne. ‘‘Leave where?’’
‘‘Dey said dey’s free men. Da war’s about ober an’ slaves hab been set free. Dat’s what dey’re sayin,’ Miz Clairborne. Dey said dey’s slaves no mo’ en dat dey’s leabin’.’’
Mrs. Clairborne threw the reins around a rail and turned to follow on Beulah’s heels.
She had only covered five or ten yards when she paused. How could she go into town with things as they were? Tomorrow would be no better. Nor the day after that. If the slaves were talking about deserting Rosewood, she had to be here every minute. She could not let this happen just when she was expecting Richard to return home.
She thought a moment more, then turned around. She glanced up at Katie waiting on the board seat of the wagon.
‘‘Katie,’’ she said, her mind racing ahead as she spoke, ‘‘we can’t wait with this load. But if I leave now, there’s no telling what will happen here. I have to talk to Mathias and Jeb and the others. So I want you to take the wagon into town.’’
‘‘By myself?’’ said Katie with uncertainty.
‘‘You can do it,’’ replied her mother. ‘‘You’ve gone with me dozens of times. You know the way well enough, and so do the horses.’’
‘‘I can’t, Mama.’’
‘‘Yes you can—you have to. Just hold on to the reins, point the horses in the right direction, say Gid’up and give the reins a slap to go, and Whoa and pull gently back when you want to stop. The horses will do the rest. You’ve driven the team back and forth to the fields. This is just a little longer, that’s all.’’
Katie’s expression remained apprehensive.
‘‘Take the wagon to Mr. Watson’s loading dock by the train station,’’ her mother went on. ‘‘He’ll do the rest. When he’s done, go to Henry at the livery and ask him to give the horses feed and water and help you get started back home.’’
As she spoke, Mrs. Clairborne untied the reins, climbed up onto the wagon beside Katie, and put the leather straps in her hands.
‘‘You’re fourteen now, Kathleen. That’s one thing your uncle Templeton said that was indeed true— you’re nearly a woman. After Mr. Watson gives you the money for the load, and while Henry’s taking care of the horses, you go to the bank and see Mr. Taylor. You know who he is, don’t you?’’
‘‘Yes, ma’am,’’ Katie nodded slowly.
‘‘Give him the money and tell him to put it into our account. Then go see Mrs. Hammond at the general store. Tell her we need ten pounds of salt, fifty pounds of sugar, twenty pounds of coffee beans, and two slabs of bacon. And pick up our mail while you’re there. I’ll write it down for you.’’
She climbed down and ran into the house while Beulah and Katie waited in silence. She returned a minute later and handed Katie the hastily scribbled note.
‘‘Tell Mrs. Hammond to put these things on our account,’’ she instructed, ‘‘then stop by the store again on your way back from Henry’s and her man will load everything into the wagon. Once you’ve got it all, come straight back home.’’
‘‘But, Mama . . .’’
‘‘You can do it, Kathleen—you have to.’’ Her tone was firm.
Mrs. Clairborne slapped one of the horses on the rump. Then Katie’s mother hurried away after Beulah toward the slave quarters. The wagon jostled off with a bewildered and apprehensive Katie at the reins.
Katie arrived in Greens Crossing two hours later. The horses plodded along in the direction of the train station, and a few minutes later Mr. Watson took charge.
‘‘Your mama must be real proud of you, Miss Kathleen,’’ he said, ‘‘bringing in this load all by yourself.’’
‘‘Yes, sir,’’ she replied as she watched his men unload the cotton.
‘‘Before you know it, you’ll be running a plantation of your own.’’
Katie didn’t answer, but she was sure that wouldn’t be anytime soon—if ever.
When the load had been transferred to the shed, he went inside for a minute, then returned with an envelope, which he handed up to Katie.
‘‘Here you are, Miss Kathleen,’’ said Watson. ‘‘Do you know what to do with it?’’
‘‘Yes, sir. I’m to take the horses to Henry, then take this money to Mr. Taylor.’’
‘‘That’s just fine, then.’’ He smiled at her.
‘‘Thank you, Mr. Watson,’’ said Katie. ‘‘Would you please tell the horses to go,’’ she asked timidly. ‘‘I don’t know if they’ll listen to me.’’
‘‘Of course, Miss Kathleen.’’ He laughed. ‘‘Gid’up!’’ he cried, giving one of the horses a slap.
They started slowly along the street, and Katie carefully pulled on the reins to get them to the livery stable.
‘‘Why, hello, Miz Kathleen,’’ said the black man as she approached. ‘‘Where’s yo mama?’’
‘‘She had to stay home, Henry,’’ replied Katie. ‘‘But she told me to have you take care of the horses while I go to the bank and the store.’’
‘‘You kin count on me, Miz Kathleen,’’ he said with a smile. ‘‘Here, lemme hep you down.’’
He took her hand, stood her up on the footboard, then guided her to the ground.
‘‘Any mo word from yo papa?’’ he asked.
‘‘No, sir.’’
‘‘Well, dey say da war’s like ter be ober by’n by, so ’twon’t be long ’for he’ll be comin’, I’m thinkin’.’’
‘‘Yes, sir. I have to go see Mr. Taylor and Mrs. Hammond now. Then I’ll come back for the wagon.’’
‘‘Well, you’s sho’ growin’ up mighty fast, Miz Kathleen.’’
At the general store, Mrs. Hammond’s eagle eye had already seen Katie ride into town alone. She was one who took quite a different view of Katie’s capabilities than would either black Henry or white Mr. Watson. A natural curiosity, along with a persistent scowl, were both in evidence as Katie opened her door a few minutes later, sending the little bell tinkling into motion above it.
The proprietress wasted no time on superficialities.
‘‘Where’s your mama, Kathleen?’’ she demanded.
‘‘At home, ma’am. She wanted me to pick up some things.’’
‘‘All by yourself?’’
‘‘Yes, ma’am. Here’s the list. And the mail, please.’’
‘‘Well . . . I declare . . .’’ muttered Mrs. Hammond, taking the list and glancing through it. She prided herself on knowing everything about everybody in this community. And anything out of the ordinary she took as a personal affront.
When Katie rode back into Rosewood six hours after her departure, exhausted and famished, her mother ran out of the house to meet her. The supplies were in the back of the wagon, but one look at her daughter’s face showed that she was about to faint from hunger and thirst.
‘‘Oh, Katie dear,’’ exclaimed Mrs. Clairborne, ‘‘I forgot to give you anything to eat. You poor thing!’’
She helped Katie down, hurried her inside, washed her face, gave her a glass of water to drink, and sat her down at the kitchen table.
‘‘Did you have any trouble?’’ she asked.
‘‘No, Mama,’’ replied Katie, already beginning to revive. ‘‘Except that I got tired.’’
‘‘What did I tell you—I knew you would be fine. I’m proud of you, Kathleen.’’
‘‘What about the darkies, Mama?’’
Mrs. Clairborne shook her head.
‘‘Mathias and Jeb left, along with their wives,’’ she said. ‘‘But I convinced the others to stay.’’
‘‘Where will they go?’’ asked Katie.
‘‘I don’t know,’’ sighed her mother. ‘‘They said they have kin up North. I gave them each two dollars, which is about all the money I
had left. I don’t know what they’ll do. Colored folks traveling alone like that . . . I pray no harm comes to them. There’s said to be roving bands of deserters and ex-soldiers and marauders everywhere. I don’t like to think what might happen to them. . . .’’
‘‘Will bad men like that hurt Papa and Joseph and Caleb?’’
‘‘I hope not, Kathleen. We must remember to pray for them.’’
‘‘When will Papa come home, Mama?’’
‘‘Soon, I hope, dear . . . very soon.’’
‘‘What will he say about Mathias and Jeb?’’
‘‘He will be angry, I’m sure.’’
As they talked, Katie downed several slices of bread and swallowed two glasses of milk, and suddenly drowsiness began to overtake her.
Her mother took her hand and led her upstairs to her room, and within minutes she was tucked in bed and sound asleep.
————
Bone weary, Rosalind Clairborne sat at the kitchen table of Rosewood that same night, head resting on her hands. It was late. A single kerosene lamp burned from across the table, illuminating a sheet of paper in front of her.
For thirty minutes she had been staring at it, trying to turn the jumble of figures into some sense that her tired brain could understand. But she couldn’t concentrate long enough. Mr. Taylor’s words from their last encounter kept coming back to haunt her.
‘‘It’s out of my control now, Rosalind,’’ he had said. ‘‘I simply can’t in good conscience carry your debt much longer.’’
She had been trying to stretch the pitifully small amount of money left in the Clairborne account as far as she could. But now she had missed the last two payments on their loan, and the bank manager had spoken to her about it.
‘‘It isn’t fair to others in the community,’’ Mr. Taylor had continued. ‘‘Surely you understand. It puts the bank, and everyone, at risk.’’
‘‘But what am I supposed to do?’’ Mrs. Clairborne replied, trying to squeeze back the tears and keep her voice from trembling. ‘‘We needed supplies. I can’t let Katie and the darkies go without food.’’
She went on to explain as best she could that there wasn’t much besides cotton growing at Rosewood this year—she just hadn’t gotten around to getting in the food crops, and the garden was dwindling.
‘‘Surely you’ve got potatoes, and the wheat.’’
‘‘Yes, I don’t suppose we’re actually going to starve, but you remember the hailstorm—that didn’t help either. It has just been a very hard year, and . . .’’
She turned away. She couldn’t let Mr. Taylor see her cry!
‘‘I understand,’’ he said, a slight note of sympathy creeping into his tone. ‘‘I will continue to do what I can. But you simply must begin making some regular payments. You cannot continue putting all the money into your account and then spending it without paying down the balance.’’
Still turned away, Mrs. Clairborne swallowed hard, nodded, then rose and left the bank. And now with his words still ringing in her ears, her eyes filled again with tears at the mortification she felt being beholden to everyone. She tried again to focus on the paper lying on the table.
But it was no use. She pushed it away with a sigh, then dabbed at her eyes.
Even as she did, a sound intruded into her thoughts. She lifted her head and turned toward the back of the house. It was much too late in the evening for visitors . . . but she could have sworn she heard horses!
All thoughts of hailstorms, money, and past-due loans instantly vanished as she scrambled to her feet. Heart pounding, the next instant she was hurrying into the parlor. She unlocked the gun case with trembling fingers and lifted out one of the rifles.
Within seconds she was back in the kitchen, turned down the flame on the lamp, then moved across the floor in the darkness to the window. Kneeling down and pulling the curtain carefully to one side, she peered out into the night, which was lit only by a sliver of moon.
At first she could see nothing. Gradually her eyes were able to make out the vague forms of three figures on horseback. They appeared out of the gloom from the direction of Greens Crossing and were slowly approaching the house.
Heart beating so rapidly she could hear its pounding inside her head, she felt a lump rise in her throat. She raised the rifle and sighted down the long barrel.
A chill swept through her as she targeted the dark silhouette of the man riding in the middle . . . that slight slouch to the right in the saddle—it looked just like—
The rifle slipped from her hands and crashed on the floor. Then she was on her feet and out the door, running down the steps toward them.
‘‘Richard!’’ she cried, tears flowing down her face. ‘‘Richard . . . is it really you?’’
The rider was off his horse now too, but had time only to take a step or two before the arms of his wife smothered into silence whatever words he might have been going to utter. The next several seconds were consumed by the sound of her relieved sobs, while he returned her embrace, stroking her hair and murmuring her name quietly into her ear.
‘‘Oh, Richard . . . I thought you would never come home! I can hardly believe you’re actually here . . . am I not dreaming this?’’
‘‘It is really us, Rosalind. Believe me, we’re happier to be here than you could possibly be to see us. It feels like we’ve been gone ten years.’’
Rosalind gradually came to herself and glanced up at the other two riders.
‘‘Oh, Joseph . . . Caleb!’’ Her arms stretched toward them. ‘‘How exhausted you must be! Come into the house and I’ll make you something to eat.’’
‘‘A bed, Mother—that’s all we need,’’ murmured Caleb as he dropped wearily out of his saddle and into his mother’s embrace.
‘‘Speak for yourself,’’ chided his brother. ‘‘I’ve been dreaming of Mother’s stew for three years!’’
‘‘You take the boys inside, Rosalind,’’ said Richard Clairborne. ‘‘I’ll unsaddle the horses and be right there. And I’m with Joseph—some stew would go down right pleasant.’’
Rosalind Clairborne took her two sons’ arms and led them inside, bursting with more joy in her heart than she imagined she would ever be capable of feeling again.
HOMECOMING
9
KATIE STRUGGLED OUT OF A DEEP SLEEP. SHE lay for a moment in her bed, wondering about the sounds that had awakened her. Gradually she drifted back toward slumber. But a few moments later she was wide awake, scrambling out from under her blankets. She heard muffled voices drifting up the stairway.
Her bare feet made no sound as she hurried out of her bedroom and tiptoed down the stairs in her nightgown. Heart pounding, she paused in the kitchen doorway, taking in a scene she had imagined in her mind for months, but never thought she would actually see again.
There stood her father and mother, arms intertwined, standing in the middle of the room talking earnestly in low tones. Behind them, Joseph and Caleb sat at the table, devouring the remains of the corn bread and bean stew from supper.
Katie stood silently for several seconds. She could see the lines of fatigue in her father’s face and his long hair, now amply streaked with gray, curling around his ears. His eyes looked tired and careworn even as he gazed tenderly into his wife’s face. Soon they all became aware of another presence in the room.
‘‘Katie!’’ exclaimed Richard Clairborne, releasing his wife and covering the distance across the floor in three giant strides. He scooped her into his arms, nearly lifting her off the floor.
‘‘Hello, Papa,’’ said Katie shyly, almost as if she were being embraced by a stranger.
‘‘I can’t tell you how I missed you, Katie,’’ her father said, his cheek against her hair. He pushed back a little to look at her. ‘‘And you’ve grown! You must be eight inches taller than the last time I saw you. But I’d know you anywhere.’’
Her face buried in his coat, with its smells of travel, dust, and gunpowder, Kati
e thought she had never felt so contented in all her life. Not even the smell of a man who hadn’t bathed in a long time could take away her happiness.
As her father released her and she stepped back, she saw dark red splotches on the sleeve of his coat.
‘‘Papa, what’s that?’’ she asked, then drew back as realization struck her.
‘‘Never you mind what it is, Katie,’’ he answered. ‘‘All that’s behind us now . . . behind us forever. It’s all over and we’re home—that’s all you need to know.’’
‘‘You got more of this corn bread?’’ came a voice from the table. ‘‘It’s uncommonly good, Mother.’’
As Rosalind bustled about setting every scrap of food she could find on the table, Katie now moved slowly toward the two ravenous young men, whom she could only half remember as once being boys she had played with.
‘‘Hey, little girl!’’ said Caleb, reaching out a hand and tussling her hair. ‘‘Papa’s right, you done grown up. Ain’t that right, Joseph?’’
‘‘She’s turned into a lady, all right, haven’t you, Katie?’’
‘‘I suppose so, sir.’’
‘‘Sir? What’re you talking about, Katie! I ain’t no sir, I’m your big brother Joe!’’
‘‘Don’t pay any attention to them, Katie,’’ laughed Katie’s mother. ‘‘They just grew to become men and forgot their manners.’’
‘‘That’s what war does to a body, Rosalind,’’ said Katie’s father, shaking his head. ‘‘It’s a horrible thing, and I hope nobody in this country has to go to war like that again.’’
The kitchen fell silent as their thoughts unconsciously turned to the son and brother the war had forever taken from them. Even the memory of that tragic loss, however, could not dampen the enthusiasm of the reunion. Soon mother and father and the two sons were laughing and talking and eating, while Katie sat silently and contentedly at her mother’s side, drinking it all in.
‘‘We’ve got bad money problems, Richard,’’ Mrs. Clairborne eventually said, and the atmosphere took on a more somber tone. ‘‘Most of the darkies are gone . . . I had to take out a loan at the bank.’’
Angels Watching Over Me (Shenandoah Sisters Book #1) Page 5