by J. R. Rain
Anyway, while they settle down for a few hours’ sleep, I pace around the ‘camp,’ keeping watch. Other than the sounds of insects, the woods are eerily silent. The children are frightened and fidgety, but scared enough of horrible punishment if they’re captured that they keep quiet. Thinking about that landowner potentially beating children bloody for escaping pushes me to a near rage. I’m half-tempted to fly back to that plantation and vent on the bastard, but it would be just my luck something happens to these people if I leave.
Fuming, I pace around the darkness. There’s so much angst in my head between wanting to go home, missing my kids, being pissed off at people who could keep slaves, and Delacroix slipping away that I can’t figure out what to dwell on.
Hours later, a scrap of light catches my eye in the woods. I stop, my mood shifting from a torment of emotion to calm curiosity in an instant. The flickering image of a young Confederate soldier comes walking out of the trees toward me. When he gets within ten paces, he stops and stares at me. In a moment, I recognize him—George Clarke. I knew he would likely die from that stomach wound, but seeing the ghost of a tow-headed sixteen-year-old boy punches me in the gut. All I can picture is my reaction to Anthony dying.
I slump into a crouch, hand over my mouth to keep from sobbing loud enough to wake the escaping slaves.
“Evening, ma’am,” says George. “Wanted to thank you for what you tried to do for me, but I didn’t make it.”
“I…”
“Nothing you could’ve done.” George walks closer. “I’d like to repay your kindness, but I ain’t rightly sure what I can do for you like this.”
A sad chuckle leaks out of my throat. “I don’t suppose you can break a time travel spell, or find a runaway alchemist.”
George blinks. “Sorry, miss. A what?”
“I got caught in a runaway magical spell that threw me back in time. Never mind...”
“Oh.” George kicks at the dirt, not that the ground reacts to him. “I don’t know nothin’ about no magic, but I reckon I can find a man for you.”
“That would be a big help,” I say, smiling. “But I can’t leave these people yet. It’s all right if you have somewhere to be. No need for you to linger around here on my account.”
George bows. “It’s fine, ma’am. I can return when you are ready.”
Before I can open my mouth, he fades away.
Ugh.
Overcome with sorrow at seeing a boy not much older than Anthony as a ghost, I crumple to the ground and lean against a tree, crying softly into my hands.
Chapter Eleven
The next thing I know, I’m flat on my back staring up at three old white men.
“You all right, missus?” asks one, in Cumberland’s voice.
A small boy squatting next to me in little more than a ratty pair of shorts pokes me in the shoulder with a stick. When I roll my head to look up at him, he smiles.
“You’s not wakin’ up,” says the man on the left, Grafton I think.
“I sleep pretty hard.” I sit up. “I’m fine. I guess it’s a medical issue. Nothing would’ve woken me any sooner.”
“I hope your magic can protect us if the potion falters,” says Cumberland.
“Yeah. I’ll do everything I can.” I stand and dust myself off. “Sorry for causing a delay. Are you ready?”
Phibe walks over to me and offers a wooden cup of water. “The extra rest was needed.”
No sense freaking them out. I accept and drink the water. “Thank you.”
They gather their meager possessions, and soon we’re underway, following the path of the rain-swollen Rappahannock River. Cumberland falls in step beside me, explaining the route he plans to take to a farmhouse where the people are part of the Underground Railroad. He doesn’t expect me to stay with them after that point, since he feels they will be protected enough there.
A few hours into our trek, a sudden ripple of gunfire goes off to the right, echoing among the trees. The younger children begin to panic at the shouts of distant men. We divert away from the river, moving into the woods out of sight in case the fighting gets too close.
For the next twenty minutes or so, shooting and screaming continue off to the east, but fortunately, no bullets find us. Once the battle subsides, we pick up our pace and spend the next few hours following the river.
Late in the afternoon, the men decide to stop for a brief rest. Not long after the women head into the woods to relieve themselves, Hany screams.
I rush toward the sounds of a scuffle and stumble onto an infuriating scene. A Confederate soldier holds Hany, the fifteen-year-old, from behind by the arms. Another soldier has his rifle aimed at the other women. I don’t need powers of mind reading to figure out what’s on their mind. Both of them look like they’ve recently seen some rough action, their uniforms muddy and torn, splashes of other people’s blood dried on their faces and clothes.
Phibe points at the man holding Hany. “Let her go.”
“I don’t take no orders from no ni―”
“Hey!” I shout.
Both men look my way.
Now, the men come running up behind me.
“Let go of her.” I step closer.
“Well, lookit what we got here,” says the soldier with the rifle. “Bunch of runaways?”
“These women belong to me,” says Ben, who looks the oldest of the ‘white men.’ “Kindly unhand my property.”
“You know what I think?” asks the soldier with the rifle. “I think you stole them.”
A quick glance at their minds tells me these two mean to cause trouble. They ran off from the fighting after seeing a bit too much death, and neither much cares about anything at all anymore.
“Alton Chisolm,” I say to the man holding Hany. “I’m going to give you two more seconds to let go of that girl before I do more than ask.” I shift my gaze to the other. “And you, Fred Pardoe? I’m sure the Confederate Army would love to know where a pair of deserters disappeared off to.”
He points his rifle at me. “H-how the hell do you know my name?”
I zip forward, getting past the end of his weapon before he can fire, and slug him in the jaw. He goes down like a sack of wheat. The other man throws Hany aside and pulls a knife, then lunges at me exactly like my old trainer at Quantico used to do. I grab the incoming limb by the wrist and flip him around onto his chest, disarming the blade and chicken-winging his arm up behind his back.
All the escapees gasp.
“You bitch,” yells Pardoe, holding his jaw.
“If I apply just a little more pressure, it breaks,” I say, with a bit of a twist at his arm. “Give me an excuse.”
Chisolm, evidently lacking the intelligence the Creator gave a garden frog, staggers to his feet and lumbers at me. I spring upright off Pardoe and catch him in a judo takedown, sweeping his leg while shoving at his upper body. He lands flat on his back hard enough to take the wind straight out of his lungs. With the two soldiers stunned and wheezing, I collect their rifles and toss them to Cumberland and Ben, then relieve the soldiers of their extra cartridges as well as knives.
“Now… you two get the hell out of here while you can still walk,” I say, before dragging them to their feet and giving them both a shove.
Pardoe again tries to take a swing at me.
For an instant, I feel like I’m back in the boxing gym. I duck the shot and pepper his body with a series of hard jabs before my nasty uppercut takes him off his feet again. That time, Pardoe stays down, muttering incoherently.
“Goodness gracious,” says Phibe. “Where did you learn that?”
“In California,” I say. “It’s a bit rough out there.”
Hany scowls at Chisholm, spitting toward him.
I lean threateningly at the soldier and blank out his memory of these people. “Get out of here and maybe I won’t report you two for deserting.”
He bows his head, collects Pardoe’s semi-conscious hide, and helps the man walk off. Onc
e they stumble out of sight into the trees, I spin back to Cumberland and dust myself off.
“All set.”
“You are one interesting lady, Missus.” Cumberland shakes his head.
I grin at him. “If you only knew.”
Chapter Twelve
Two days of near constant walking later, the men shimmer and blur. Within seconds, the ‘old white guy’ illusions fade away, leaving them back to normal. Okay, wow. That was weird to watch. Then again, welcome to my life.
When all the shimmering and blurring is done, Catherine wraps her arms around Edwin, muttering how good it is to see him, as if he’d gone away for a while.
“We’re not quite there yet,” says Cumberland.
“Sorry,” I say. Sadly, I know my unavoidable sleep habits have slowed them down or they might’ve made it to the safehouse before the magic wore off. Still, they have me. And that’s better than nothing.
Fortunately, we only encounter a pair of farmers transporting a wagonload of produce, who both freak out at the sight of a pair of black men with rifles. It’s a simple matter to send them on their way after making them forget seeing a small army of African people. And they’re also kind enough to part with some vegetables, since none of the escapees have eaten anything in two days.
Late that afternoon, we wander down a long-ass dirt road with farm plots on both sides, approaching a rather large house out in the middle of a field. Miles of open fields and woodlands surround us on all sides; there’s no one around to observe us approaching the house other than the occupants. Three young girls run around playing out front, the eldest not even twelve. She spots us coming and darts inside, calling for her papa. Though she doesn’t sound alarmed at all, the people behind me become nervous.
As we approach the porch steps, a thirtyish man with auburn hair steps out in overalls and a white shirt. The tween girl, barefoot in a white dress, clings to his side, smiling.
The two smaller girls stare in awe at the rifles.
“Pardon the bother,” says Cumberland. “We’s wond’rin if y’all might spare two cups o’ molasses.”
The farmer tips his hat. “Come on around back.”
We follow him along the length of the large house to the rear. There, he pulls open a cellar type door and ushers everyone inside. Once in the basement, he pushes a shelf to the side, grabs a coat hook on the wall, and swings open a hidden door to reveal a medium-sized room behind it with some cots and a simple table.
“Y’all can hide yourselves in here. We’ll send word up to the next waystation to arrange passage.” The farmer shakes hands with Cumberland, and surprisingly, makes no mention of the rifles.
One by one, the former slaves walk by, nodding their thanks my way.
“Burley Pinkham,” says the man to me by way of greeting. “Since you don’t need to stay out of sight, you’re welcome to a room upstairs.”
“Thank you kindly,” I say, my Southern accent coming out unintentionally.
Burley chats with Cumberland, basically warning him that if outsiders come by, someone will tap on the floor as a warning for all to duck inside that hidden room and keep quiet. Since the property is isolated, there’s no need for them to sit in there otherwise.
Soon, the escapees settle in for some much-needed rest, and I follow Burley back outside and around to the front of the house. He introduces me to his wife, Susanna, and their hired serving girl, a petite blonde named Lanie Oston. I learn that the Pinkhams have been assisting runaways headed north for some time now.
Later, once the food is ready, I help Lanie carry trays down to the former slaves. We talk on the way, and she tells me she used to live about a mile up the road, but became an orphan a year ago at fourteen. The Pinkhams half-adopted, half-hired her to work around the house. While she doesn’t object to helping the slaves, she’s terrified that doing so will get all of them killed.
The kids mob us when we enter the concealed room, jumping and reaching for the first real food they’ve probably ever smelled since arriving in the country. After getting everyone situated with their meals, Lanie and I head back upstairs to join the family and six workmen for supper. Their three daughters are remarkably quiet and well-mannered, but then again, I’m used to modern kids being annoyed with anything that pulls them away from their electronics. Anyway, the baked ham is quite good, even if my taste buds aren’t terribly interested in real food, though I decline seconds since there’s no point in wasting it.
When the meal’s done, Burley and the workers head back outside to throw a few more hours’ work on the farm. Susanna takes the girls off somewhere, and Lanie gets started gathering the dishes to wash. She looks utterly exhausted, so I get up and pat her on the shoulder.
“I can do this. You look like you’re ready to collapse.”
Lanie sighs and pulls a few stray strands of hair off her face. “It’s no bother, ma’am. Gotta do my work.”
It’s so bizarre to see a girl Tammy’s age behaving like an employee rather than a daughter, but I realize times are different and she actually isn’t their child. Still, the mom part of me can’t tolerate how exhausted she looks.
“I insist. You’ll make yourself sick. Please rest and let me help a little. It’s the least I can do for the hospitality.”
Lanie sighs and looks at the floor. “All right, ma’am.”
While I collect the dishes, she sets herself down in a chair adjacent to the door to the hallway and lets her head rest against the wall. The poor girl practically passes out as soon as her butt hits the cushion. Maybe ten minutes into washing dishes, a crack like someone hit the wall in front of me with a hammer accompanies a spray of splinters and a horrendous burning pain in my chest.
I peer down at a not-quite inch-wide hole in my chest at the base of my neck. My legs get weak, and for a second, my arms on the sink edge support more weight than my feet. The burning rod-like pain’s a clear indicator that the bullet went clear through me. I’m pretty sure it didn’t cut my spine since I can still feel my legs, even though they’re not presently interested in supporting my weight. However, a couple of ribs have shattered, which hurts like hell.
All I can think about though is how Lanie is a bit shorter than me… if she’d been doing dishes, that bullet would’ve hit her right in the face. I shudder, more stunned at how close the girl came to death than being shot myself.
“Miss Moon!” gasps Lanie. She springs out of the chair and runs over to me, about to fly into a panic.
No one takes a hit like this and walks away alive… unless they’re already dead. I swallow blood, unable to talk for a moment with a hole in my trachea. Fortunately, I don’t need words for a mental command not to panic. Lanie stares at me with an expression I can only describe as constipated. Her desire to freak out crashes headfirst into my influence to stay calm. Neither of us says a word for a minute or so as the wound channel closes, leaving me bloodied but intact.
“Ouch,” I mutter.
“Goodness,” rasps Lanie, shaking. “You’re shot.”
A speck of metal on the dinner table catches my eye. The slug burrowed into the thick wood after coming out of my back.
“Miss Moon?” Lanie paws at my chest, gasping at the small hole in my dress. “H-how are you still standing?”
“I got lucky,” I say, staring into her eyes. “The bullet came in the wall and missed me by inches.”
Her eyes flutter. In flagrant disregard of the blood seeped into the fabric of my dress, she looks back and forth from the wall to the table. Then again, the fabric was already burgundy and already bloody as hell from my brief stint at nursing. “Lord have mercy! That almost hit you!”
There must be a battle going on quite a distance away since I can’t hear the sounds of gunfire. Talk about a stray bullet from hell. I pluck the projectile out of the wood, surprised to see it’s not a sphere but a round-nosed slug with a hollow end, somewhat deformed by passing through a wall and yours truly. The field doctors I ‘worked’ with grumble
d about these. Minié balls or some such thing. They have a tendency to go clear through a body and smash bones, whereas the spherical musket balls often bounced off bone and wedged in muscle. Both surgeons hated the new ammunition since it caused more grievous wounds.
“Go collect the children. Bring them somewhere safe,” I say.
Lanie nods and rushes off, shouting for the girls.
Again, I glance at my ruined dress. Hopefully, the lady of the house has something she can spare.
Chapter Thirteen
Susanna Pinkham “loans” me a simple sundress, likely something she’d wear only around the house and not out in polite company.
Okay, I swiped it. It was either that or explain the bullet hole. Of course, watching me essentially steal from the very people willing to risk their lives to help slaves amuses the hell out of Elizabeth. Though, technically I saved Lanie’s life, albeit by total chance, so I don’t feel too guilty about the dress. And she has quite a few similar garments; oh, and it’s much less cumbersome.
Anyway, with Phibe and the rest of the people I’d been escorting now reasonably safe, I can return my attention to finding Delacroix and getting the hell out of the 1860s. Unfortunately, the Pinkhams put up a fuss when I try to thank them for their hospitality and head off in the middle of the night. Susanna is about to ask about the sundress, when I give her simple suggestion that she offered it to me. Sad thing is, I’m sure the woman would have let me have it if I’d asked. But I can’t explain the hole.