by Cathy Gohlke
“Thee art a Friend?”
“I’m Wooster’s friend.” I meant it. “But nobody’d believe I’m not enlisted with one side or the other. They might take me for a deserter or a spy, and neither of those things would be good for you or your family.”
“This war makes fools of everyone, North and South, men and boys, even women. It is a thing I do not understand.”
“Neither do I, ma’am.” I meant that too. I looked back at Wooster. “But I promised him I’d get him home for Christmas Eve—if there was any way to do it. And it would be better for you if we didn’t stay.”
She nodded, smiled sadly, and pressed my arm. “Rest now, and we shall get thy friend ready to ride.”
“Ma’am?”
“Rest, and let me talk with my husband.”
She didn’t have to tell me twice. I figured Wooster and I would set out at first light, keep to the woods and back roads. But I didn’t think on it long. For all I fared better thanks to their food and care, I was tired clean through and slept beside Wooster. I believe I’d have slept through the night and all the next day, but Jedediah woke me again. This time a stream of lantern light probed my eyes. It was pitch dark outside.
“Father says to come. Come, and bring thy friend downstairs. I will help thee with him.”
I tried to rouse Wooster. He moaned but would not be roused. I felt his forehead. The fever nearly blistered my hand. “Oh, no, God. Please, no. Please let him get home for his service—home to his ma.”
“Yes, Father in Heaven, let it be so,” Jedediah echoed my prayer.
It took the two of us to carry Wooster down from the loft. There, in the light of another lantern, stood Jedediah’s ma with a quilt, and Jedediah’s pa, holding up the plank to the false-bottom wagon. Inside the wagon hidey-hole they’d laid a tick mattress. The Quaker man motioned Jedediah and me to lay Wooster inside. He pushed Stargazer’s saddle in behind him.
The lady pushed her quilt into my arms and laid her hand on my cheek. “My husband will drive you both as close to Salem as the night will permit. At first light he will help raise thy friend to the saddle. Thou will be on thine own then. We do not believe he could ride horseback all the way in his condition.”
I tried to speak, to thank them. I realized they were going against everything they’d been so careful to protect for years and years, risking that we could be trusted, risking that we’d not be stopped by patrols or caught or questioned. “Thank you. All of you. Thank you.” The Quaker man nodded and guided my elbow to the wagon. I climbed in. “Thank you!” I said again.
“It is best if traveling packages do not speak.” The Quaker man set the plank in place.
“It is a thing I hope is true,” answered the Quaker woman.
I laughed and cried—all in silence. They were the very words my journey with Jeremiah had started off with in this very wagon five years ago. Good, good people. And that made me think of home and Aunt Sassy saying, “Good and bad people everywhere, Robert.”
“Oh, Lord God,” I prayed, “bless this family.”
The wagon rumbled on and on. It was cold, but we were out of the wind. I wrapped the quilt around Wooster and me. I knew Stargazer was tied to the back of the wagon. I heard him, smelled him, and found that a comfort. I didn’t worry that the Quaker man would try to keep him or steal him.
Wooster slept like the dead. Every once in a while I’d feel his forehead, hoping the fever had crept away. But it continued to grow. I didn’t know if it was because of his arm or something else. I prayed he’d make it home to his ma, that she’d know what to do. I wanted to know Wooster would work in Salem, plying his leather trade. I wanted to wear shoes he’d make one day, visit the children he’d have with that lucky woman Katie Frances talked about. I wanted to see them play round ball in the streets—using a leather ball their father’d made.
There was only dark through the wagon cracks. At last we rumbled and bumped across a tangle of roots, then smoothed to a stop. When the Quaker man lifted the plank I saw we were hidden from the road by a thick stand of trees. Silently, he pulled out the saddle and threw it over Stargazer’s back. I climbed out and tightened the girth.
“There is food in this sack, just in case thee does not find the family thee expects.”
“Not find them?”
“Remember,” he said, “thy friend has not been home for several years. Many families have had to relocate to provide what is needful.” I’d never thought of that, never even considered it. “Help me pull him out.”
“Wooster. Wooster, can you wake up?” I pulled Wooster and shook him at the same time. But it was like shaking a sack of feed.
“Let us steady him in the saddle. I will hold him while thee climbs up behind.”
Once we were settled into the saddle, the Quaker man tied on our bedrolls and the sack of food and stowed Wooster’s crutches. I reached for his hand. “I don’t know how to thank you, sir. For everything you and your family have done for me—twice over now.”
He grasped my hand and nodded. “Thee would do the same.”
“Yes, sir. I would. I will.” I meant that true.
“Take the road straight ahead. At the crossroad is a sign for Salem, near the edge of town. Even riding slowly thee should reach Salem within the hour, before dawn, before too many stir.”
“Thank you. Thank you!” He slapped Stargazer’s rump and we set off.
It was a job to hold Wooster steady. But in the cold he came to a bit. “Where are we?”
“We’re on our way to Salem! And we’ll be there any minute. You’re going to have to tell me how to get to your house.”
“Is it true?” He couldn’t believe it. I held him tight.
“I told you we’d make it. Here it is Christmas Eve, so you haven’t got a minute to spare if you want to get there for your lovefeast!” I tried to laugh.
He nearly cried but shuddered, then slumped, limp. “Get me home.”
I felt the heat from his head against my chin. “I swear it.”
Twenty
I rode as steadily as we could, as fast as I dared. There weren’t many out so early Most of the faces I passed along the streets shone only in lantern light. They were dark and solemn, and kept their eyes from mine. North Carolina, outside Quaker farms and Confederate field hospitals, beyond the walls of Union occupation, was still very much the land of slavery. I wondered for the first time if Wooster’s family owned slaves. It hadn’t even crossed my mind to ask him.
But the bigger question now was where to go. Where did Wooster live? “Wooster! Wooster!” I shook him, but he was out, burning with fever.
I wandered down what looked like the main street of town. A few lamps and candles burned in windows and cellars, probably kitchens. A stooped colored man, his hair nearly white, stood near a stable, lantern in hand, watching us. He drew a younger, dark woman to him and pointed our way. Stargazer snorted and sidestepped. “Whoa, boy. I don’t know what they want.” It was all I could do to keep him steady, to keep Wooster in the saddle.
We’d reached the town square. I’d a mind to water Stargazer from the town square pump when a young colored boy ran up to me. “What your name, Mista?”
“Why do you want to know my name?” I took in the street, up and down, to see who might be watching.
“Don’t want to know. My mama want to know. You sure got a pretty horse.”
“Thank you. Look, maybe you can help me.”
“Help you what?” He stepped back, suspicious. “Gibbons. Do you know where the Gibbons family lives?”
“Gibbons! The Widow Gibbons? Miz Eulalia Gibbons?”
“I don’t know. Is she the only Gibbons in town?” He nodded. “She live over by the ladies’ school.”
“Then she must be the one. Can you show me where she lives? I have her son, Wooster, here.”
The boy stepped back again, wide-eyed, afraid. “Wooster done died in a Yankee prison.”
“No, he’s here. He’s not dead, b
ut he’s sick. See? Tell me where the Widow Gibbons lives.”
But the boy kept stepping back, shaking his head, too frightened to speak, too shaken to run. That’s when his mother called to him from across the street. “Samuel! Samuel!”The boy turned and ran in her direction.
“Ma’am!” I called to her. “Can you please tell me where I can find the Widow Gibbons?”
The woman drew her shawl tight around her head but pointed beyond the square. “Church Street!” she called, then clutched her young son’s hand and hurried away.
I headed Stargazer in the direction she’d pointed. I couldn’t understand why the few people on the street stared at us so. I guessed we made a sorry sight. I found Church Street, just a block over. But which way to go?That’s when I saw the shingle for the Salem Female Academy. The boy had said the Widow Gibbons lived next to the ladies’ school.
A little house sat to the right of the school, a house I could imagine Wooster growing up in. A single candle burned in the window and a brighter light beyond that. I slid down and pulled Wooster gently from the saddle. He’d lightened over the weeks, but I’d weakened some, and it was all I could do to get him to the front door. I kicked the door with my shoe, balancing Wooster against me as best I could.
When the door opened a small but wiry silver-haired woman in a white cap took one look at us and gasped. Once her blue eyes fixed on Wooster her hands flew to her face, then to his, and she cried, “Wooster! Wooster!” She pulled us in without me saying a word. “My boy! My boy!”
“He’s burning up with fever, ma’am.”
“Bring him here.” She led the way toward a small room near the back of the house, turned down the bed quilt, and helped me settle him in. “Wooster. Wooster!” She kept repeating his name, running her hands over his face, his shoulders, his arms, trying to take in that he was really there. Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her wrinkled cheeks as she ran her hand over his stump. I knew they needed time alone.
“I’ll bring in his crutches and such.” I was glad to get out of the room. Seeing her worry so over Wooster made me want Ma in the worst way. And it scared me that Wooster’s fever raged.
I don’t know what made me do it, but I pulled off my butternut jacket before I went back outside, even though the cold December morning ate through my clothes. I closed the front door behind me. That’s when I looked up and saw the stooped figure of the white-haired colored man beside Stargazer, running a dark hand over the blaze on his forehead, stroking his chest. Surprisingly, Stargazer didn’t shy. “Something you want, Mister?” I didn’t like strangers getting so near Stargazer.
“I seen this horse before. I’d recognize him anywheres,” the man said.
“I doubt that. I just rode in.” But something in the old man’s voice sounded familiar, not challenging.
And then he turned. “Masta Robert, it is you. Rebecca thought it was you riding this horse, but I didn’t believe it.”
“Old George?” I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Old George?” I wanted to laugh, or maybe cry. “What are you doing here?” But the last was lost in the bear hug he gave me.
“Oh, it’s good to see you, Masta Robert. I thought never to see you this side of Jordan!” He laughed and hugged me again, then stood back. “I told Rebecca it couldn’t be you, not riding tall in that Confederate uniform.” He looked truly confused.
“It’s only a coat. I needed a coat and somebody gave me one. I’m not a Confederate.”
He nodded but warned, “Well, you sure looked like one, and that all the home guard gonna care about if they catch sight of you. They’s hard on deserters. Only able-bodied young men about be deserters.” He shook his head. “What you doin’ here? I’da thought you’d be off fightin’ with the Yankees, no matter what your mama said.”
“Ma! How is she? Are you on your way out to Ashland? What are you doing in town so early?” I had a million questions for him, but there would be time. We could ride out to Ashland together, and Old George could fill me in on the last five years.
“Whoa, now. I don’t slave for Masta Marcus no more. I don’t even know if he still be alive.”
“What?” Old George had been Grandfather’s horse trainer and stable keeper since he was bought as a young man. He was as much a part of Ashland as my mother, had lived there longer, by far.
“You don’t know, do you?” Old George looked concerned for me, and that sent a chill up my spine.
“What—”
“Sam!” the widow called from behind me. The small, dark boy who’d been so frightened of Wooster appeared from behind a lamppost, skittered past me, and ran straight to the widow’s skirts. I heard her urge, “Dr. Macey! Run, Sam!” The boy took off like slick shavings down the cobblestone street.
“Old George—what about Ma? Is Ma all right?” I couldn’t breathe.
“Far as I know, she’s with Miz Emily. Miz Emily take good care of her. Take good care of all of them.” Old George looked over his shoulder. The town was beginning to stir, and a man stopped across the square, staring in our direction. “Best get off the street. This fine horse causing too much stir. Not many good horses left by the Confederacy. They’ll be wantin’ this one, and what they want, they take. Folks’ll be asking.”
“I just rode in. I don’t know where to stable him.”
“You let Old George see to that. I take care of this fine boy. Yes, sir, I’ll take good care of him.”
“Where will I find you?” I had every reason to trust Old George and every reason to trust nobody when it came to Stargazer.
He nodded across the square and down the street. “Over yonder, beyond the tavern. I’ll feed and water him inside the stables. If folks come asking about him, I’ll move him, hide him.” He smiled. “There’s always friends among us. Don’t you worry.
“I saw you brought the Gibbons boy home. That’s good. The widow set great store by her boy—thought he be dead. She a fine woman.” He picked up Stargazer’s reins and handed me Wooster’s crutches and the bedroll. “Don’t you worry none. I’ll take good care of this boy, and I’ll send Rebecca over with news if I can’t come.”
The man across the square started toward us. I wanted to ask Old George more questions, get some answers, but his eyes took in the stranger and motioned me toward the widow’s house. “You’d best get inside.” He walked off with Stargazer like he’d done it every day. I swallowed, uncertain if this was right, fearful I’d regret this action, fearful I’d lose Stargazer again, but I turned and walked back into the house just the same. I stood with my back pressed against the door, my knuckles white around Wooster’s crutches. Old George had helped Jeremiah and me escape all those years ago. I couldn’t imagine he’d betray me now. Footsteps walked right up to the door, hesitated, waited, then walked away. I breathed, finally, wondering what he wanted, wondering why my heart beat so fast.
“There you are!” I jumped. It was the Widow Gibbons. “Are you all right, young man? You’re not feverish, too?”
“No, ma’am. Just tired.”
She felt my head, then nodded. “Are those my Wooster’s things?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I handed her his crutches, his bedroll. “Wooster won’t want these out of his sight. How is he?”
She shook her head. “I’ve sent for Dr. Macey. It’s a high fever. How long since it took?”
“Yesterday. He’s been in and out, and weak. I don’t know if it’s from infection or something else. His arm was dressed last night but might need looking at. Been running as fast as we could. Wooster had it in his head to get home for the Christmas Eve lovefeast you all hold.”
She smiled and nodded, but the smile faded quickly. “I was told my son had likely died in a prison escape. I don’t know what miracle brought you here, but I thank you, with all of my heart.”
There was a tapping on the side door. The widow and I looked at each other. She stepped to open it and a tall, slim black woman and the little boy that I’d met near the pump nearly fell insi
de. “It’s you! It really is you, Masta Robert!”
“Rebecca, you know this young man?”
“Rebecca?” I wouldn’t have believed it, but I remembered Old George saying he’d send Rebecca if he couldn’t come. I hadn’t imagined it would be Rebecca from Ashland.
“There’s no time. I heard the home guard talking over their breakfast at the tavern where I carry Miz Adelia’s pies. One of the men spotted you riding in. Everybody’s mighty skittish, what with all the talk about that Gen. Sherman burning his way through Georgia, tearing up every rail line and telegraph pole, doing the Lord knows what to folks in his path. It’s all anybody talks about for fear he’ll come on up here. That Maj. McCain warned that some of those bummers might come our way. They’s coming to see if you are one of them or maybe a deserter.”
“I’m none of those things!”
“You best have proof, or they haul you off, take your horse, andslapyouinthejailhouse.”
“I’m not even enlisted!”
Widow Gibbons looked near horrified. “But you rode in here in a—”
“A rebel soldier’s jacket, but it was given to me in a field hospital—in a field hospital where Wooster saved my life.” She frowned, confused. “It’s a long story, ma’am, but I swear to you that I’m a friend of Wooster. I wasn’t in the beginning, but I am now.”
“You’re a Yankee?” She could barely say the word.
“I’ve never enlisted. I’m here to find my mother.”
“You come for Miz Caroline?” Now Rebecca seemed horrified.
“Caroline Ashton? You’re Caroline’s son—Emily Mitchell’s cousin?” the widow asked.
I nodded, surprised the widow knew Emily, or Ma. But I turned sharp on Rebecca. “Emily wrote me that Ma needs help.” Rebecca looked away, but I pulled her to me. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong with Ma?”
Rebecca looked afraid. She looked at me, Widow Gibbons, and back to me. “Let go. You hurting my arm.”