by Cathy Gohlke
An hour passed, and I shivered so I wondered that the coffeepot didn’t shake. I couldn’t stay in the pot until morning. I was tempted to slip out and make a run on my own, when I heard voices coming up the street—Christmas hymn singers; hushed, happy conversations; and the skipping sounds of children’s feet. Church must have let out.
I wondered if Wooster’d gotten to his lovefeast after all. I prayed so. Christmas greetings were called from neighbor to neighbor, some in English, some in what I took for broken German. More feet shuffled past—the heads of the churchgoers inches from my feet. Doors opened and closed against the cold. Finally, a strange quiet settled over everything.
I’d just decided to climb down when the steady clop clop of more horses sounded in the distance. It sounded like eight, maybe ten horses headed my way. They might have been the riders—my posse, returning to Salem—or they might have been late-night travelers come home for Christmas Day. It set me more fearful about climbing out. Ten minutes later I was still arguing inside my head.
A gentle tapping came against the post of the coffeepot. “You in there?” The voice was small, and I could picture its anxious owner.
“Hez?”
“Yes, sir! It’s me. You can come on out now,” he whispered.
I slipped the pen knife through the trap door’s latch and it dropped open. Stiff and cold, I jumped to the ground, quiet as I could, then closed and latched the door.
Hezekiah grabbed my sleeve and pulled me along. I shook my feet, made them walk, one in front of the other, though I could barely feel them from the cold. We made our way back the route I’d come, kept to shadows, avoided windows, ran from tree to tree and corner to pillar whenever we could. We’d almost reached the cemetery again, but Hezekiah kept going south, avoiding the street this time.
“Aren’t we meeting Old George in God’s Acre?”
“No. Changed his mind after that home guard came along. Said to meet him back of the slave church. We go the long way. No home guard comes through these woods.”
We walked, up hill and down, until I’d warmed through. Clouds covered the moon, in and out. Hezekiah, sure of himself, never slowed, and I wondered if he’d done this before. He surely seemed older than his years.
We climbed one more hill, then stopped at the edge of the woods. Hezekiah gave a low bird call. A lantern shutter far away flipped open once and closed.
“That the signal. It safe to go now.” Hezekiah tugged my sleeve again and took off on the run. I stayed close on his heels, grateful for the bit of moonlight that helped me find my footing. I was nearly breathless when I heard a familiar snort.
“Stargazer!” I whispered. And it was. Old George stepped from the shadow of a building and held out Stargazer’s reins to me.
“You got to take this horse down the west side of town and head due west. You remember your way to Ashland?”
“If you can start me from Main Street I do.”
He led me around the corner of the building and pointed. “A block and a half that way. Keep clear of the tavern. Some of them home guard fellas live over that way.”
“Thank you, Old George. I won’t forget this.”
“You best forget, for all our sakes.” He gave me a push up. “Masta Robert, you best brace yourself for whatever you find at Ashland.”
“What do you mean? What’s happened out there, Old George?”
“I can’t say, and it ain’t that I won’t. I don’t know. Two years ago, when things got bad with the money, Masta Marcus sold most of us off. Miz Caroline took it hard. Miz Emily used to go to the ladies’ school here in town, after Mister Albert joined the army. She always good to us, whenever she see us. These Moravians been good to us, too—better’n Masta Marcus or that Slocum fella. But it still slavery. We just biding our time. Freedom’s coming.”
“There’s a torchlight comin’ down Church Street!” Hezekiah whispered.
“You go on now, and God go wid you!” Old George slapped Stargazer’s rump, grabbed Hezekiah’s hand, and slipped away.
Stargazer kept a better head than I did and steered straight for the shadows. We slipped around the building, which I realized must have been the slave church, then headed for Main Street, keeping as far south of the tavern as we could, walking on grass whenever we dared so as not to draw attention to Stargazer’s hoofbeats. We travelled south until I found the road west, then picked up speed and rode hard.
The clouds were clearing, and the moon spent more time out than in. Light enough to ride by, and I never met another horse and rider on the road to Ashland. I guessed, by the moon, that it was somewhere between ten o’clock and midnight. If I rode steadily I should reach Ashland by two or three in the morning.
With every mile that passed my spirits stood up, till I thought they might fly right out of my body. I hadn’t seen Ma since the spring of 1860—close to five years now. Despite all I’d been through these last weeks I laughed out loud, so glad to think I’d finally see her, hold her close, and Emily too. I admitted that to myself at last. I wanted to see Emily and hoped she’d be as glad to see me.
If Maj. McCain sent word to the Salem home guard about me, he’d likely written Emily, warning her against me, too. He’d probably given his version of Cousin Albert’s death. I was thankful I wouldn’t have to break the news of his death to her, but feared what lies McCain might have told her, what she might believe. I set my face grim. There was nothing I could do about that. I’d have to trust Emily’s good sense, and her heart.
The miles peeled away, and as they did, so did the seven months of trying to reach Ashland. I wondered how Grandfather would react to my coming, if he’d allow me to stay, if I could trust him, if he’d agree to come North with Ma and me, and if he was well enough to travel.
I wondered about Jed Slocum, Grandfather’s overseer, if he was still there or if the Confederacy had been desperate enough to force his conscription. We’d stood on opposite sides of every fence in the months I’d spent at Ashland. When I stole away that Christmas Eve I took the slave he hated most—the slave he was determined to sell or kill. That must have galled him in the worst way. I knew Jed Slocum was a rattlesnake of a man, and a man of long memory. For the hundredth time I prayed that he hadn’t taken it out on Nanny Sara, Jeremiah’s grandmother, or any of the other slaves. I wished I’d had more time to talk with Old George or Rebecca, time to learn the particulars of so many things.
Old George had taken good care of Stargazer, fed and watered and groomed him. He seemed in livelier spirits than he had in weeks. Maybe he sensed we were going back to where we’d started. I rubbed his neck and leaned down to throw my arm around him. I was cold and tired and hungry, but happier than I’d been in months—maybe happier than I’d been in years.
The last few miles, as excited as I was, I could barely keep my eyes open. When we reached Ashland’s boundaries I slowed Stargazer to a walk. I still didn’t know the time. It wouldn’t do to wake Ma or Grandfather in the dead of night. I surely didn’t want to rouse Slocum and give him an excuse to shoot me for an intruder.
I walked Stargazer in the grass, up the side of the lane leading to the house. Not a lamp burned anywhere. I circled the house and kitchen garden, as far out as I dared, and made our way to the stable. I’d settle Stargazer and bunk there for the night, then see Ma first thing in the morning. I’d clean up before visiting Emily at Mitchell House.
I pulled the stable door open, quiet as I could, wondering who the new stable boy might be. It still seemed impossible that Old George wouldn’t strike a lamp and welcome me there.
But there was no sound. I reached for the lantern that had always hung from the hook by the door, then changed my mind. I didn’t want to wake anyone, didn’t want to startle the animals. But there was nothing. No animals snorting. No pawing the hay, not a whinny, not even the heavy, quiet breathing of the carriage horses. And then I understood. There were no horses. The South’s horses had been sold, donated, or confiscated by the Confederacy.
The stable stood empty.
“We’ve got to keep you out of sight, boy,” I whispered to Stargazer. “You’d make a prime catch for foragers.” Stargazer stepped closer, as though he understood.
I led him to the stall that had been his when we’d both lived here all those years ago. “I don’t think we can do much tonight, boy, but I’ll find some water and see about some oats.” I pulled off his saddle and bridle, then stole out to the well. The rope had broken. I knotted it and sent the bucket down, then hefted it back to Stargazer. While he drank I searched all the places I knew for oats but didn’t find anything. They had probably been cleaned out when the horses were sold or taken. In the morning I’d let him graze.
And then I wondered about the slaves. Who had Grandfather sold off besides Old George and Rebecca and her twins? My heart lurched. Not Nanny Sara! She’d been with the family since before Ma was born. But no, I couldn’t imagine it. Ma would never stand for that, and Nanny Sara must be near ancient now.
There was nothing to do but bed down for the night. I pulled out my bedroll and spread it on the ground, blessing Old George for having tied it on. I wrapped the blanket tight around me and fell asleep before I finished thanking God for my journey’s end.
Bright morning light shone through an open knot in the stable wall. It was a full minute before I realized where I was, remembered that it was Christmas Day. Christmas morning—and I’d see Ma in no time. I jumped up and set my clothes to rights as best I could. I lifted my armpit and smelled, then turned my own face away. Ma wouldn’t know me.
“How you doing, Stargazer?” He snorted and rubbed his nose against my arm. I rubbed him down with a brush I found against the ledge, getting up my nerve to walk across the lawn and knock on the door of the Big House. Finally I set the brush down. “That’s it, boy. I won’t know if I don’t go over there.” I patted his flank and rubbed his forehead. “I’ll be back before you know it. Then I’ll lead you out to graze.”
I pushed open the stable door and took in the Big House. It seemed late enough that somebody should be about. But I didn’t see a soul. I decided to knock at the back of the winter kitchen. Even if Nanny Sara was no longer cooking, she’d surely be supervising whoever was there. Today being Christmas Day I’d be bound to find something tasty in her bake oven. But there was no answer. I waited a spell and knocked again.
I pushed the door open to a cold kitchen, an empty fireplace. That made no sense. “Nanny Sara?” I called. There was no answer. The kitchen had been emptied and the chairs overturned. Foragers? At Ashland? That didn’t seem possible.
Where was Ma? I pushed through the kitchen door, into the saving room, through to the dining room. Empty. Some of the furniture was still there—the heavy old sideboard and the dining room table. The carved wooden table, the one Ma’d always been so proud of, showed a deep gash down its middle. The chairs were all missing, and no silver tea service sat on the sideboard.
“Ma?” I called, running through to the hallway. “Grandfather?” I pushed open the door of his study. The room had been ransacked, most of the volumes pulled from their cases, then thrown across the floor. Grandfather’s gun cabinet stood empty, its glass smashed. My breath came in starts, and my heart beat so hard against my chest I couldn’t call out.
I ran to the front parlor, the back parlor, but it was all the same. I steadied myself against the mahogany staircase and peered up. All the draperies had been ripped from the windows. The grandfather clock on the staircase, the one with the maddening pendulum that ticked off every second, was gone.
I gripped the banister and climbed the staircase, dreading what I might find in the upstairs bedrooms. “Ma? Grandfather? Emily?” Where was everybody? I searched each room. The house had been stripped of everything worth anything—even the heavy four-poster bed in Grandfather’s room.
And then a sickening thought came to me. Emily had written that Grandfather wasn’t well, that she didn’t expect him to see the spring. That letter was written last Christmas. And Rebecca said that Ma was poorly. That information was months old.
“Please, God,” I prayed. “Not Ma. Not before we make things right between us.” I ran down the staircase, through the front door, and out to the family plot on the hill, not far from the Big House.
The gate had rusted shut, and I pushed and pulled to get it to swing open on its hinges. I didn’t want to look but had to know. Brambles and weeds had died down after frost but left their winter tangles across the graves. There was one marker new since my last trip to Ashland. I swallowed hard and made myself step close enough to read the name on the stone: Marcus Ashton, b. 1802 d. 1864, beloved husband and father.
I pulled off my cap and sat back on my heels. “Thank You, Lord, that it isn’t Ma.” That seemed cold toward Grandfather, but I could only think of Ma. And though I’m ashamed to say it, there was something of relief in not having to confront Grandfather, in wondering if Ma could be her own self now that he was gone. But where was Ma?
Rebecca and Old George had both said that Emily was good to Ma. I remembered Emily’s promise in her letter to look out for Ma. “Mitchell House,” I whispered. “They’ll be at Mitchell House.” I stood to go. I swept the leaves from Grandfather’s stone and prayed that he would rest in peace. I didn’t know what else to pray about my grandfather. I hoped he hadn’t suffered long. I hoped he was kind to Ma. But he was a cold man, selfish, and sometimes cruel. I didn’t think that another fifty years would have set things easy between us, no matter how much Ma or I wanted it. I couldn’t imagine Grandfather being anything other than what he was.
I pulled the rusted gate to and headed for the stable. I didn’t even check the quarters. Slocum and the slaves would surely be gone. And no matter, I didn’t want to run into Slocum.
I turned Stargazer into the side yard and let him graze for half an hour. Then I saddled him and rode the mile to Mitchell House. “Please, God,” I begged, “let them be all right. Let them be well and safe.”
Twenty-Three
Every step of that mile to Mitchell House brought memories—memories of Cousin Albert tutoring me, teaching me to handle and shoot a gun, coaxing Ma to loosen her rein on me; memories of Emily and the walks, the talks we’d shared—the time her hand brushed mine and mine came away smelling of peaches just ripened. I thought of Ma, all excited, getting ready for her Christmas ball. And then came a bitter flood of memories of Slocum, Grandfather’s overseer, and his brutal treatment of slaves—the cutting off of Jacob’s foot and the beating of Jeremiah—both because they dared to run toward freedom. And Alex, Cousin Albert’s only son, with his selfish, cruel streak, his fear that I’d inherit Ashland, and his threats to me and my family if I didn’t cut Emily out of my life.
Those memories felt like a heavy cloak that settled over my spirit. A cold drizzle began just before we reached Mitchell House. It seeped through my coat till I shivered, wet, a small misery on the outside to match my inside. I tried to push back the growing fear of what I’d find when I did see Ma.
This time I took the lane from the road, looping Stargazer’s reins over his saddle so he could stand under the verandah’s overhang. I took the steps, two at a time, to the front door.
No lights burned in the front windows, but I told myself that might not be unusual. They might all be keeping to the back of the house, near the winter kitchen. With wood in shorter supply they’d be bound to light fewer fireplaces. I pounded the door, waited a spell, then pounded again. When no one came I pushed open the heavy front door. “Emily? Ma? It’s Robert!” But there was no glad cry, no sound at all.
The front hall was cold, and a sudden draft from behind whipped through the door. I pushed it closed. The dark was complete. I called again, but no answer. Where could they be? I opened Cousin Albert’s study door. Except that there was no fire and fewer books, everything seemed in order, as if Cousin Albert might have just stepped out and planned to return shortly. The parlor across the hallway was the same—sparse, but clean. Th
e furniture gleamed as though it had been polished within the week.
I raced up the staircase to the bedchambers and knocked on the doors, one by one, then opened them. Nothing. No one. Everything looked done up, as if the house slaves had just finished making the beds and putting all the rooms to rights.
I checked the wardrobes and remembered which room had been Cousin Albert’s, which one was Alex’s. I was glad that Alex’s stood nearly empty, glad that he was probably still in England. When I walked into Emily’s room my heart lightened. The room itself was brighter, and there was fresh holly in vases on her table. She must be here!
“Emily! Emily?” I called and called, but there was no answer.
The guest room must be used by Ma. The secretary was open, and I recognized a letter opener that Pa had once given Ma for her birthday. I picked it up and held it near, my closest link to either of them. When I checked Ma’s wardrobe I realized there was no cloak hanging there, and only a couple of older dresses.
Maybe they went visiting for the Christmas season. But where?
That is when I heard the first small shuffle. Downstairs. My breath caught. I hadn’t made any secret of my presence. Why had no one answered if they were here?
I crept down the stairs, kept close to the wall. There was no more shuffling or scuffling. It could have been a squirrel or a bat, but I couldn’t risk that.
I pulled off my boots and inched toward the dining room at the back of the house. The door from the hallway stood open, same as always, and the table was set for half a dozen. They must be expecting to come back—today.
I was just wondering what day it was, if maybe it was Sunday and could they be at church, or if there was a special service for Christmas Day—when I heard the sound of iron on iron, coming from behind the saving room door.
“Who’s there?” I kept my voice steady, like I wasn’t afraid, like nothing in the world scared me.