The Soldier's Lady

by Michael Phillips

  Seconds later three horses galloped away as a frantic black man ran in desperation out onto an overhanging ledge of rock some twenty feet above a deep black pool of the river. It was easy enough to see two widening circles rippling across the surface of the water.

  He ripped off his boots, stepped back, then took two running strides forward and flew into the air.

  BUFFALO SOLDIER

  2

  To tell you the whole story of what happened and why, I’ll have to back up a bit.

  It wasn’t because of the stranger that such sudden and unexpected danger had come to Rosewood. It had started long before and would have come anyway. But the fact that he was there sure changed how it would turn out.

  I remember that first day I saw him a few months back. After all that had happened around Rosewood, the plantation where I lived with my cousin Katie, the sight of one more new face shouldn’t have surprised anyone. People had been coming and going around the place for years, ever since I’d first appeared at Katie’s doorstep after my own family had been killed. Katie was white, I was half white and half black. Her uncle Templeton Daniels was my father. My mother, a slave, was no longer alive.

  If Rosewood had become a refuge for strays and waifs and runaways, it hadn’t been by intent. It just kind of happened that way. And so, on that day when Henry Patterson, our friend and Jeremiah’s father, came riding up with the bedraggled-looking black man, like I say, it wasn’t exactly a surprise.

  But even beneath the dirt, the bloodstained jacket, and the look of obvious pain on his face from whatever injury he’d had, something about this particular stranger looked different. And when his gaze first caught my eyes, a tingle went through me and I knew instantly that a young man had come into our lives who just might change things in ways we could not foresee.

  The stranger who’d come with Henry had ridden slowly into Greens Crossing a couple days before.

  He was a Negro, tall, well built but thin, whether from natural build or lack of food it was hard to say. He appeared to be in his early or maybe middle twenties and looked weak and tired. Although the war had been over four years, he still wore the coat of the Union army. But it was so badly torn and so dirty, you could hardly tell it had actually once been blue. Some of the stains on it looked like dried blood.

  To say that he looked weary as he rode would hardly be enough. The poor fellow looked as if he’d ridden a thousand miles without sleep or food and was about to fall out of the saddle onto the street. The horse was plodding along so slow he seemed as tired as his rider. It was clear it had been a long time since either of them had had anything to eat. Some of the bloodstains on his coat were darker, older stains, but others appeared more recent. From the look of his face and how he was slumped over as he rode, he might still have been nursing a wound somewhere in his chest or shoulder.

  He was what folks called a “buffalo soldier.” He was a black man who had fought for the North in the war.

  If it was some kind of help he had come to town for, he couldn’t have picked a worse place in town to go first. But how was he to know? So when he saw the sign that said General Store, he pulled his tired horse to the side of the street, leaned forward and half slid to the ground, then limped inside. Whatever was wrong with his chest, there was something wrong with one of his legs too.

  Mrs. Hammond heard the bell and glanced toward the door. Now Mrs. Hammond was a lady who could be pretty irritating. She’d never had any use for the likes of blacks. And now that Negroes were free she could be ruder than ever.

  Even if the color of the young man’s skin hadn’t been black, his appearance would have been enough to put her nose in the air. Her nose went even higher in the air when she smelled him.

  She sniffed a few times, then looked him over as if he was a mangy dog that had wandered into her store.

  “Morning, ma’am,” said the stranger in a polite tone, though he spoke slowly and his voice was weak. It was the last thing Mrs. Hammond expected. “Might you point me in the direction of the livery?”

  “It smells like you just came from there,” she retorted.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he replied. “I’ve been traveling awhile.”

  “It’s down that way,” said Mrs. Hammond, pointing vaguely toward the window and along the street.

  “Much obliged, ma’am,” he said, then turned and walked out, leaving Mrs. Hammond alone to mutter a few words under her breath about the deplorable state of the country since the war.

  Leading his horse by the reins, he slowly walked up the street, attracting the notice of more and more sets of eyes from the shops and windows as he passed. Mrs. Hammond’s were not the only mumbled comments of disgust at the sight. Blacks were not particularly welcome in the town of Greens Crossing, especially Yankee blacks. Resentment toward the Union blue, though his tattered coat could but faintly be recognized as a war soldier’s coat, ran high among loyal Southerners. All blacks were getting those same kinds of rude looks from whites those days. It isn’t that everybody was like Mrs. Hammond. But a lot of whites were.

  The young man who had just arrived in Greens Crossing was certainly not much to look at. But unknown to the citizens—whose own respectability they prized above nearly everything—this stranger would cause more of a stir in the community, at least in the life of one of its leading citizens, than any of the string of strangers to arrive in their town over the past five years.

  He did not himself yet know it. But his presence would bring mysteries to light that Mrs. Hammond herself could never have dreamed—secrets that would turn this community, and even the whole state, on its ear.

  The young man limped toward the livery stable, pulling his horse along behind him. He found Henry Patterson inside, a black man like him who had been a freedman even before the war.

  “I’ve got a horse that needs tending,” he said.

  “I kin take care ob dat,” said Henry, glancing up. He looked the young man over. “’Peers ter me dat you needs some tendin’ yo’self, son.”

  The stranger smiled.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I ran into some trouble a while back. But I’ll be fine, as long as I can keep my horse healthy. Do you own this livery?” he asked, glancing around.

  “No, suh,” laughed Henry. “It ain’t quite come ter dat yet. Da Souf is changin’, but not dat fast! Dey say us coloreds is gwine get ter vote one ob dese days, an’ dat’s some-fin’ I wants ter see wiff my own two eyes. But I’s still jes’ a workin’ colored who gits my wages from a white man. But my boss is a fair man an’ treats me kindly enuff.”

  “You think he’d mind if I bunk down in the back there for a night?” asked the stranger.

  “Dat be right hard ter say, young feller,” replied Henry. “I gots me a little place where I used ter sleep, though I gots anuder place me an’ my boy calls home now—a place outside er town. So I don’t reckon dere’d be no harm in you takin’ what used ter be my bed er straw in da room out back fo a spell.”

  “I would be deeply indebted to you. All I need is a night or two of good sleep and I’ll feel better and be on my way.”

  STRANGER AT ROSEWOOD

  3

  EARLY IN THE AFTERNOON OF HIS GUEST’S FIRST full day at the livery stable, Henry chanced upon him at the water pump behind the livery, jacket and ragged shirt on the ground beside him. It was the first time Henry had seen his guest bare skinned. He was trying to wash, though his right arm hung at his side. It was with effort that he attempted to operate the pump and splash water on his upper body at the same time.

  “Whoa, son,” said Henry, walking up behind him, “you din’t tell me you wuz so bad beat up. Unless I’s mistaken, dat shoulder er yers is needin’ some doctorin’. It don’t look none too good.”

  The young man turned and smiled a weary smile. “It’s getting better,” he said, “though not as rapidly as I might hope.”

  “You look like you got kicked by some wild horse. When it happen, son?”

&nb
sp; “Several months back.”

  “No wunder you’s walkin’ ’bout like you’s ready ter drop. I tell you, you needs some doctorin’ an’ I’m gwine git you some.” The instant he’d seen the man’s bruises and wounds, Henry had known what he had to do.

  “I’ve got no money for a doctor,” said the young man. “I’ll recover. It just takes time.”

  “Where I’s gwine take you, you won’t need no money,” said Henry.

  “Where’s that? You got a black doctor around here who’ll let me work for his services?”

  “Better’n dat!” chuckled Henry. “I’s gwine take you where you kin meet my boy. An’ dere’s a black lady who’ll hab you eatin’ right an’ fixed up in no time. She ain’t no doctor, but she’s jes’ ’bout da nex’ bes’ thing. By da look er dose stringy ribs, I’m thinkin’ you cud use some er her vittles!”

  “Where is this place? Is the lady your son’s wife?”

  Henry let out a roar of laughter.

  “No, he ain’t got no wife,” he said. “It’s a most unusha kind er place, dat’s all I kin say. You’s see fo yo’self soon enuff. We’ll ride out dere dis evenin’ when I’s got my work done.”

  Those of us who lived at the plantation called Rosewood—one of them was me, Mayme Daniels—were finishing our noon meal, drinking coffee and talking about plans for the rest of the day, when little William bounded in from the parlor, one of Katie’s old McGuffey Readers in his hand. He set the book on the kitchen table and tried to climb onto Jeremiah’s lap.

  Jeremiah pulled him up onto one knee. “Hey, little man, you want ter ride a horse?” he asked. He bounced his knee up and down and William giggled. “When you get a mite bigger, I’ll teach you ter ride da new horse Miss Katie gave me.”

  “I didn’t give it to you Jeremiah, you earned it,” Katie said. “You and Henry both. We can’t have you working and living here at Rosewood and walking all those miles into town.”

  “Well, I’m much obliged. Dat young paint is still testin’ me, but I’ve ’bout got him settled, I think.”

  “You sure have a way with horses, Jeremiah,” I said. He looked across the table at me and we shared a smile.

  Soon Katie and the others headed outside to their chores and Josepha disappeared into the pantry.

  William handed Jeremiah the McGuffey Reader. “Read to me, Jeremiah,”he said.

  Jeremiah set William on the floor. “Time to head outside, little man.”

  I knew what Jeremiah was thinking.

  “Jeremiah,” I said, “if you’d ever like to learn to read, I could try to teach you.”

  Jeremiah thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know . . . maybe.”

  “What about you, William?”I said, turning to the little boy. “Are you going to read someday—maybe even go to school?”

  Jeremiah snorted. “No school round here wud take him.”

  “I read in the paper about a school for black girls north of Charlotte,” I said. “I’m sure there’ll be a school for William someday . . . maybe even for you. If you don’t want me to teach you, I’m sure Papa or Uncle Ward would. It’s good to learn new things. Better yourself. . . .”

  Jeremiah looked at me a little strangely. “You said I wuz good enuff fo you as I is.”

  “Of course you are, Jeremiah,” I said. “I didn’t mean—”

  The door banged opened and an out-of-breath Emma stuck her head into the kitchen. “Jeremiah, dem cows are out again,” she said. “Dat blamed fool horse er yers done chased ’em over da fence again.”

  “I’m comin’,” said Jeremiah, rising.

  Jeremiah strode quickly from the room on Emma’s heels.

  Several hours later, I was outside working in the garden when I heard horses approaching. I looked up and saw Henry coming toward the house with another horse alongside his.

  As I walked toward them, Henry looked my way. “I brung us a man here what cud use some help an’ some doctorin’,” he said. “Wiff yo permission, I figgered Miz Katie and Mister Templeton an’ y’all wudn’t mind me an’ Jeremiah keepin’ him under our roof fo a spell.—Dis here’s Mayme,” he added to the man beside him.

  “How do, Miss Mayme,” he said with a pleasant but weary smile.

  “I’ll go get Katie and my papa,” I said. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

  Before I could take more than a step or two, a shriek sounded and little William came bounding down the steps off the porch and ran straight toward the stranger as Henry got off his horse and then helped the stranger to the ground. As fond as William was of Henry and Jeremiah, seeing another black man was too great a temptation for his boyish energy and enthusiasm. He went straight for him, talking away like he’d known the man all his life. The stranger stooped down.

  “Why, hey there, little fella,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “I’s William, mister. You gwine stay wiff us?”

  “I don’t know about that, William,” he chuckled, glancing up at Henry and me.

  He slowly stood and looked at me again. “He yours?” he said.

  “No,” I answered. “He belongs to Emma. She’s off chasing cows with Jeremiah, but she should be back soon.”

  “Jeremiah’s my boy I told you about,” said Henry.

  By now Katie and Josepha were on their way outside and Henry explained everything to Katie. As I glanced toward the stranger again, it was obvious from looking at him and listening to him talk, even in his condition, that he was a gentleman. I’d never heard a black man who sounded so much like a Northerner.

  Now the newcomer looked over at the white man—my father—approaching. “Henry’s brought us a man who needs some help, Uncle Templeton,” said Katie. “He asked if they could put him up in their cabin with them.”

  “Of course. Welcome, son,” my papa replied, extending his hand.

  After the introductions were made, Katie glanced around. “Where are the others?” she asked.

  “Emma and Jeremiah are bringing in the cows,” I answered. “And Uncle Ward went over to Mr. Thurston’s.”

  We were all standing there in sort of a circle. It became quiet as the young man looked around at us all one at a time. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  “What you looking at so funny, mister?” said William.

  I couldn’t help it—I started laughing. Then Josepha started to chuckle, and pretty soon everybody was laughing.

  “I think the man’s wondering who all these people are,” laughed my papa.

  “And wondering whose house this is!” laughed the young man. “It looks to me like a mighty big and fancy house, and all I see is several blacks and what looks like a working man, meaning no offense to you, Mister . . . Daniels, was it?”

  My papa laughed again. “Yes, Daniels, it is—and you’re right, I don’t look much like a Southern plantation gentleman!”

  “It’s not yours, is it, William?” said the man to William.

  “No, it ain’t my house. It’s Katie’s.”

  More laughter came from my papa at William’s words.

  “It’s all of ours,” said Katie. “We’re a family here. And now that that’s settled, why don’t you come inside. We should see how badly you’re hurt.”

  As Henry and Papa helped him toward the house, they sensed his hesitation.

  “I know the war’s over,” he said, “but this is still the South not the North—whoever’s house it is or isn’t. I can’t . . . go in there.”

  Henry laughed. “I tol’ you dat dis was some kind ob unusha place. Why, son, dere ain’t no colors in dis here place—jes’ people dat care ’bout each other.”

  He glanced at the white man beside him, wondering if what he’d just heard was true.

  “Henry’s right, son,” said Papa. “We may look a little mixed up, but we’re a family like Katie said, and you’re welcome wherever any of the rest of us are.”

  They continued on toward the house. The young man glanced over at me and smiled in apprec
iation. It was such a pleasant smile, even in the midst of his pain and the newness of being surrounded by folks he didn’t know . . . it was almost like he already knew me, and knew that we were going to become much better acquainted soon.

  REUNION

  4

  The black man who’d come with Henry was hurt worse than he realized. The wound on his right shoulder and chest and upper arm hadn’t healed like it should and was pretty badly infected. By the time we got him inside and seated, Uncle Ward was back from Mr. Thurston’s and everything had to be explained all over again.

  When they got his shirt and jacket off, Josepha took one look at his shoulder and exclaimed, “Dis boy’s hurt bad,” she said. “We gots ter git him ter bed! But he needs him a bath first,” she added, not one to keep from saying whatever she was thinking. “He don’ smell too good.”

  A few glances and smiles went around the room.

  “I think he needs something to eat too,” I said.

  “Ward and Henry and I will take him out to the washtub outside and take care of the bath,” said my papa. “You ladies boil some water on the cook stove so we don’t have to take time to build a fire.”

  “You scrub dat shoulder real good, Mister Templeton,” said Josepha, “an’ pour some whisky on dat wound.”

  “Kathleen, why don’t you fetch us some clothes of your daddy’s or brother’s,” added Uncle Ward.

  “I’ll go down to the cabin,” I said, “and make a bed—where do you want to put him, Henry?”

  “I reckon on da couch dere in da corner ob da big room. I reckon dere’ll be room fo us all.”

  Within the hour, the poor man must have thought he had walked into a tornado of activity! Here he was being waited on hand and foot by two white men, a black man, a black lady, a white girl called Katie, who everyone acted like owned the place just like William had said, and another black girl—me. Henry had said a mouthful when he called Rosewood “a most unusha place!”