by Mike Kearby
“Son if you’re here to surrender, just say so. I’ll gladly take your gun and let you keep your pony.We don’t need to speak further of the embarrassment.”
Parks could barely hold a straight face as the colonel leaned in toward him and spit near his feet. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I think the Texas sun has burnt a fever in your head.” He gestured toward the Rebel soldiers. “Surely, you’ve told these fine men that by next week they’ll all be surrendering their arms at Fort Brown.” He saw the colonel’s expression change ever so slightly. He knew a blink when he saw one and knew he had the advantage.
“These men? Son, next week these men will be drinking whiskey across the river in Old Mexico with their guns still strapped around their waists.”
“I hate to disagree sir, but Colonel Barrett has one shot at redemption, and that’s to chase down the man who defeated him today.”
“Son, if Colonel Barrett wants to ride across the Rio Grande to have a drink with me and the boys, well . . . we would welcome him as an old friend. But as an aside, lieutenant, it was the Mexicans who tipped us off to Colonel Barrett’s late night foray into Palmito Ranch. I don’t think they’ll take too kindly to Union soldiers chasing Texans across the border.”
Parks knew this was the time to offer the colonel a way out of the talk with his respectability intact. “Colonel, you know the Union army is going to come looking for you and your men. I’m here to tell you so. I know it goes against being a Texan to surrender to anyone . . . but to have to surrender to the old states . . . I believe that would stick in any respectable Texan’s craw.” Parks looked around and could see the colonel’s men nodding in agreement.
“All I’m hearing, son, is a bunch of words. Union words that barely make any sense. What have you got to offer?”
The trap was set. Parks knew he needed to tread carefully with his proposal. “I was hoping you would give up the 34th Indiana prisoners.”
“Now Parks. You are like a son to me, and Lord knows I would do anything for you or your momma, but why on earth would I want to release those prisoners? I most certainly have more leverage with them than without them.”
“I reckoned you would want to let these Texas lads go their way.” Parks nodded toward the colonel’s men. He could see the soldier’s intent gazes as they waited for the colonel’s response. Parks locked eyes with his old friend.
“So we can’t very well scatter if we’re carrying a lot of Union deadbeats?”
“That’s my take on it, sir.” He lifted his eyes ever so slightly toward Rip’s face, the proverbial child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He could see a flush of red on the colonel’s neck, but a broad smile told him Rip approved of the grown up facing him.
“You’re right, Parks. I figure we have our victory today. And I can find no good reason why we shouldn’t be generous with our spoils. This war has taken a toll on this whole country. Maybe it is time to start the healing. I’ll see the boys of the 34th get pointed in the right direction.”
“Thank you, Colonel. And I offer my word to you if anyone asks; I carry no knowledge as to the whereabouts of the Texas rebels.” Parks hesitated and then added, “But sir, there is one more thing.”
“Parks, you would try a gospel sharp’s patience. What else?”
“Colonel, given the opportunity, I would appreciate your making it known that the 62nd negotiated the prisoner’s release. It’s important to me.”
“Parks, I’ll give it some thought. Take care of yourself. Your daddy would be proud to see what a man you’ve become.”
Parks swung up on his pony and looked down at the colonel. “That means more to me than anything that happened out here today, sir.”
“Come see me when you muster out, Parks. I can always use a good man.”
“I’ll do that. But right now, I need to get back to Brazos Santiago. My gut tells me there is going to be blame dealt on the rout today. And there’s a group of soldiers back there that will need my help once the big bugs start talking.”
The colonel nodded his understanding and slapped the mustang’s flank. “Adios, son.”
“Adios, Colonel Ford.”
Chapter 3
Outside of Fort Brown, Texas 1865
Free sat outside of his tent chewing tobacco and staring with great concentration at the dirt beneath his feet. Fort Brown was awash with activity this June day. General Slaughter and Colonel Ford had ridden into camp before noon. News traveled fast through the post, and within minutes of the two Confederate officers arrival, word traveled down tent row that General Slaughter was there to negotiate their personal surrender. At the same time in Galveston, General Kirby Smith had arrived to sign the terms of surrender of the remaining Confederate armies. But other news was also working its way through camp, a rumor as to the reason for Colonel Ford’s presence in the Fort. Some were saying he had been asked to provide his account of the Palmito Ranch battle to a military board. If that were true, the higher ups would be deflecting blame downhill in quick order. Someone would have to take the blame for the battlefield retreat and the loss of over a hundred Union soldiers at what now appeared to be the last battle of the great war. And Free had a good idea where that cascading blame would land.
Parks had spent thirty minutes with Colonel Ford upon his arrival, and Free had watched both men in a long discussion. After the talk had quit, Colonel Ford had shaken hands with Parks and walked up the stairs to the adjutant-general’s quarters.
Free noted that Parks seemed deep in his thoughts as he moved back toward tent row. For the first day in over a month, the 62nd had time off to relax. There were neither drills nor fatigue duty this day. Free had watched the white officers inside the Fort move from group to group talking in hushed tones. He did not see good things coming from these conversations for either himself or his men. This day of rest laid more weight to his shoulders than a whole day on the battlefield.
“Those officers in the Fort seem all balled up.”
“Well they sure have me spooked.” Free pulled a commissary crate from behind his tent flap and motioned for Parks to sit. “I have never seen such activity running through a camp after the fighting is quit.”
He watched as his friend took a seat on the crate and pulled his cap off his head. “There are more than a few officers inside that fort worried they are about to be nailed to the counter.”
“We both know what happened on that scrub prairie, Parks, but what gets written as record will be scribed by higher up than a sergeant or a lieutenant rank. And it doesn’t have to be the truth.”
“What’s poking you in the gut, Free?”
Free turned from Parks and directed his gaze down tent row. The men of the 62nd were busy this morning. Some cleaned dishes in a kettle, while others stacked wood. All were smiling or laughing during their chores. “I guess I’m worried that everything my men set out to prove is going to be tossed aside with little thought. We all joined to fight and to give our lives if needed. This was necessary to show we deserved our freedoms. But, it appears our freedom begins and ends on the battlefield. These are all good men, Parks. I’ll bet none of those soldiers in the fort knows that the men of the 62nd give a little bit of their pay each month in the hope that, someday, their money will be enough to build a school. A place where all freedmen can learn to read, and write, and be educated. So, yes, I’m worried. Worried that after today, the 62nd will be labeled as men filled with laziness. Cowards, who sidestepped their duties. And if that is the day’s outcome, many freedmen will be lying in the bone orchard with nothing to show for their sacrifice. These men deserve the better of things.”
He took a long look at Parks’ face and could see by the furrowed brow that the lieutenant had something on his mind. Waiting in anticipation, he watched as his friend rubbed the top of his head and replaced his cap.
“Free, I think you can rest easy about your men shouldering the blame for Palmito Ranch. When Colonel Barrett hears what Colonel Ford intends to s
ay to the adjutant-general tribunal, I believe he will write his report giving gracious comments to all involved. He is going to be especially eloquent in his reciting of the 62nd First Regiment’s actions.”
Free pursed his lips tight. “Why would he do that?”
“He is going to do that because Colonel Ford will have spoken to him in quiet prior to the hearing as commanding officer to commanding officer. The colonel will tell him that the release of forty-six men of the 34th Indiana was precipitated by negotiations from a colored sergeant of the 62nd. He will also inform the colonel that he had never seen an army depart a battle as fast as Barrett’s troops did that day.”
“So who gets the blame for the loss of over one hundred men? If not the 62nd, who?
“That could be your problem; I pray the good that happens today does not cause unjust problems for you down the road.”
Free was puzzled. “What is it? What problems?”
“Jubal Thompson, the field officer in charge at the Boca Chica crossing, is going to get it in the neck. You were the only one who confronted him, and he is going to remember that. He is going to remember that for a long time after he musters out. You know the man, Free; he is not going to accept an ex-slave holding control over his lack of duty. But that is the only option Colonel Ford felt Colonel Barrett would accept. Someone lower than the colonel has to take the blame.”
Free took a moment to chew on Park’s comments. He understood exactly what Parks was telling him. “It’s not like he isn’t guilty. Lots of men died that night. Men who should be alive today.” Free studied the lieutenant’s face. “I believe I can live with that, no matter what comes my way.”
“Just be careful. He’s the sort to carry a grudge down a long road.”
Chapter 4
Anderson Farm, Missouri 1866
Free had been walking across the Missouri landscape for several days. It was as pretty an April day as he could ever remember. The spring rains must have been plentiful, for the green lushness of the land enveloped the countryside.
In March, his regiment mustered out honorably at Benton Barracks. After his military release, he was determined to get back home, even if it meant walking across Missouri. He needed to find his mother. She deserved to know her son was alive and well.
On the sixth day at around noon, Free took in the view of Anderson Farm from a small rise on the road from Independence. Almost two years had passed since he left the farm in a run through the hemp fields away from his slavery. Smoke rose from the main house chimney, but the farm itself was strangely quiet. He could not see any movement in the fields or hear the normal noise of a working farm. He crossed over the road through what should have been a field of emerging hemp stalks. Instead, the ground was hard and unturned. A feeling of unease came over him, and he began to quicken his pace, moving straight for the house.
The Anderson house yard, usually alive with peafowl, chickens, and guinea hens, was void of any animal. Free stopped and looked tentatively at the back porch door. Two years ago, he would have been beaten for daring to venture onto this part of the farm without Hiram’s permission. Now, even as a freedman, he hesitated, waiting for that permission to be granted.
“George Washington?”
Free turned, half startled by the sound of his slave name.
“Is that you, George?”
He instantly recognized the woman standing to his left. There could be no mistaking the oversized apron and the way she held her head, always upright and proud. “Mother.”
The gray-haired woman brought the apron’s edge to her eyes. “It is you, George. We thought we’d never see you again.” She held her arms out toward her son.
Free moved to her, bending down to hold her tightly. “I wrote to you. I still have the letter in my pocket. I just didn’t have anybody to deliver it to you.”
Martha Anderson pushed back from her son. “Let me look at you. You’ve grown so straight and tall. Your father would be so proud of you.” She moved back in close and held her firstborn as tears flowed down her cheeks.
“Mother, where is everyone? Why is it so quiet here? What’.”
His mother pushed a finger to his mouth. “You’ve come a long way.” She gleamed proudly at Free and wiped her eyes. “We’ll talk after you get some food inside of you.” She abruptly turned and walked toward the back door.
Free breathed deep, letting his nose carry the smells of childhood throughout his body. The aroma of fried hog back and eggs drifted from the cook stove and soon found hold in every crevice of the Anderson farmhouse. He held his coffee cup in both hands, inhaling the smell of chicory wisping upwards.
His mother wrapped her apron around the skillet handle and moved it from the stovetop. Near the back door, she reached into a small burlap sack and removed a scoop of river sand used to clean the cooking pans. She poured the sand into the skillet until the bottom was coated and then set the pan on the floor. Turning back to Free she sat near him at the table.
“Mother, what is going on here? Where is everyone?”
She held her son’s hand and patted it gently. “So much has changed in so short a period of time, George. Men came later in the spring after you ran. They told Mr. Hiram that he was holding runaway slaves, and they were taking them back to their rightful owner.”
Free leaned in close to his mother. “What men? Who were they?”
“I don’t know, son. They were white men in soldier clothes. Mr. Hiram told the man that these boys were the property of his farm, and they belonged to him. The white man doing all the talking got off his horse and hit Mr. Hiram. He hit him again and again. Soon Mr. Hiram didn’t get up anymore. M iss Mary ran out, and theman hit her too.”
“What about the others? Joshua and Solomon and their families?” Free gripped his mother’s hand firmly. “Where are they, Mother?”
“They took them, George. They took them away in ropes. It’s been almost two years now.”
“But what about you? Did they try to take you too?”
“George, who would want a sixty-eight-year-old slave woman? They only took what would bring them money.”
Free leaned back in his chair and pushed both hands to his face. “So who is running the farm? Who does the planting? How are you surviving?”
Martha looked squarely into her son’s eyes. “I am running the farm, George. With Mr. Hiram dead, and the others all gone, there was nobody left to work. And Miss Mary hasn’t been out of bed in these two years. Ever since that day. I couldn’t leave her. I couldn’t let her die.”
Free smiled at his mother and remembered the strength she always showed in the hardest of times. “I know you couldn’t. But how are you paying for things?”
“I don’t know how to explain it, George. I just am. I just do it.”
“Mother, I am so proud of you, and I am so proud to see you.”
Martha smiled briefly before her face became solemn. “George, there’s more. Some other white men came through here in early March. These were hard-looking white men. They asked about an ex-slave. Said his name was Free Anderson. I told them we didn’t know anybody here by that name. That man said if I was lying, he would come back and beat me with a strap.”
Free could feel a rush of goose bumps rise on his forearms. Only Union soldiers would know of Free Anderson. “What did these white men look like, Mother?”
“They looked like Union soldiers. Except they only wore the soldier coats. They were talking about you, weren’t they George? You’re Free Anderson, aren’t you?”
“Mother, I’m going to take you away from here tomorrow. It’s too dangerous for a woman to be alone in this place.”
“George Washington Anderson! I am not going anywhere. I have Miss Mary upstairs sick and all. I will not leave.”
Free knew his mother’s will and knew it was impossible to try to move her. “Okay, Mother. You’re right. I’ll stay awhile to get the farm back into working shape for you and Miss Mary.”
“George, why
did you change your name?”
Free thought back to that day on the road to Independence and suddenly began laughing uncontrollably. His mother was so taken in by the belly laugh that she began to laugh along with her son.
After several minutes, Free fought to control his laughter and finally composed himself enough that he could recount his story. “When I left the afternoon that father died, I ran for several miles without stopping. At the east end of the Little Blue River, I ran headlong into a group of Union soldiers. They ordered me over to their commander, a colonel by the name of Moonlight. I must tell you, he was some presence to a runaway slave. Anyway, Colonel Moonlight tells me I’m free. And then wants to know my name. I was so overwhelmed; all I could say was “Free.” So he says to me, “Well, Free, let’s get on to Independence.” Free slapped the table with his hand and began to belly laugh once more.
“Free.” His mother joined in, “I like it.”
The next morning, Free awoke once more to the smell of fried meat in the kitchen. He looked around the room he was in and realized for the first time in his life he was sleeping inside a white man’s house. He rose up and took in the room’s setting. The bed was soft and comfortable. There were several pieces of furniture in the room and a gold framed mirror on the wall. This was a house his mother deserved to live in. She had toiled all her life, and he reckoned a reward was due her. He made a promise that morning. He would make her a home just like Anderson Farm before she died.
Chapter 5
Anderson Farm, Missouri 1867
Free cinched the Spanish saddle around Hiram Anderson’s horse. The animal was tall, standing almost seventeen hands. He could still remember Hiram walking the horse in the hemp fields and observing each day’s work. The horse always seemed stately to Free. It was odd, he thought, that he would now be riding the animal.
He turned to his mother, standing with him in the barn and handed her a small leather sack with Union coins inside. “Mother, please make sure Miss Mary gets the money for Mr. Hiram’s horse. Tell her I’ll take care of him just as Mr. Hiram always did.”