by Jeff Andrews
The Freedom Star
Jeff Andrews
Eiger Press
Virginia Beach, Virginia
Copyright © 2012 Jeff Andrews
All rights reserved.
eISBN: 978-0-9857226-1-6
The cover photograph is from the personal collection of the author.
Table of Contents
Disclaimer
Acknowledgements
Chapter One: October 1860
Chapter Two: October 1860
Chapter Three: October 1860
Chapter Four: October 1860
Chapter Five: October 1860
Chapter Six: October 1860
Chapter Seven: November 1860
Chapter Eight: November 1860
Chapter Nine: November 1860
Chapter Ten: December 1860
Chapter Eleven: December 1860
Chapter Twelve: December 1860
Chapter Thirteen: February 1861
Chapter Fourteen: April 1861
Chapter Fifteen: April 1861
Chapter Sixteen: May 1861
Chapter Seventeen: July 1861
Chapter Eighteen: July 1861
Chapter Nineteen: July 1861
Chapter Twenty: July 1861
Chapter Twenty-one: August 1861
Chapter Twenty-two: September 1861
Chapter Twenty-three: September 1861
Chapter Twenty-four: November 1861
Chapter Twenty-five: December 1861
Chapter Twenty-six: December 1861
Chapter Twenty-seven: December 1861
Chapter Twenty-eight: January 1862
Chapter Twenty-nine: April 1862
Chapter Thirty: April 1862
Chapter Thirty-one: April 1862
Chapter Thirty-two: May 1862
Chapter Thirty-three: June 1862
Chapter Thirty-four: June 1862
Chapter Thirty-five: June 1862
Chapter Thirty-six: June 1862
Chapter Thirty-seven: July 1862
Chapter Thirty-eight: August 1862
Chapter Thirty-nine: August 1862
Chapter Forty: September 1862
Chapter Forty-one: September 1862
Chapter Forty-two: September 1862
Chapter Forty-three: September 1862
Chapter Forty-four: September 1862
Chapter Forty-five: September 1862
Chapter Forty-six: October 1862
Chapter Forty-seven: October 1862
Chapter Forty-eight: October 1862
About the author
Other books by the author
To Mary Lou
When I doubted you still believed
DISCLAIMER
Although a work of fiction, The Freedom Star portrays several actual historical persons, including my great-great grandfather, James Coleman, a private in the 19th Mississippi Infantry. James died of typhoid fever at Chimborazo Hospital in Richmond, Virginia on June 13, 1862 (Chapter Thirty-three). One outcome of my research for this book was the discovery of his numbered but otherwise unmarked grave in Oakwood Cemetery where he was buried alongside casualties of the Seven Pines battle. After years of anonymity, James now rests beneath an appropriate headstone placed there by his descendants.
In addition to James Coleman, several other actual historical figures make appearances in my book. In Chapter Thirty-five, Henry mentions Reverend Jasper, a slave who routinely held services at Chimborazo Hospital for the wounded soldiers. As well, all the Union and Confederate officers mentioned by name were real people holding the billets as depicted.
By far, my favorite historical character in The Freedom Star is Thomas Day, the free black master carpenter. Thomas Day was a renowned artisan and an economic force in mid-nineteenth century North Carolina. He not only owned slaves, but also employed many whites—both examples of an antebellum reality far more complex than our twenty-first century perceptions of that time.
Without knowing the true personalities of any of these individuals, my only means for drawing out their characters was through my own imagination. I pray I haven’t dishonored them in any way.
Jeff Andrews
July 2012
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
While I cannot begin to recognize everyone who helped me bring this novel from a mere idea to the reality of publication, I do wish to thank all my friends in the Zoetrope writing community and the Hampton Roads Writers. I would especially like to thank Lauran Strait, Jean Hendrickson, Mike Owens, and Rick Taubold, each gifted writers who gave generously of their time and talents to provide me with the guidance, encouragement, feedback, and editorial insight needed to bring this work to completion. I also wish to thank Mildred Jackson for her willingness to provide feedback on all matters concerning African-American History and culture.
Chapter One
October 1860
Moonlight bathed the narrow wagon track separating the forest from harvested tobacco fields beyond. Isaac straightened and cautiously stepped from his hiding place behind a gnarled oak tree. “They’s just shadows, Pa. Ain’t nobody out there.” He pointed toward the field. “Nobody, ‘cepting that old cottontail over yonder.”
“Sh-h-h.” Abraham held up his hand and cocked an ear toward the dusty road.
Isaac peered along the path. “Pa, I done told you—”
“Down!” His father disappeared into the shadows.
Isaac dove behind a rotted stump as two horsemen rounded the corner of Johnston’s cornfield, galloping straight toward them. Isaac pressed against the dank earth, burying his face in the rotting leaves. He held his breath as the pounding of hoofs grew louder, seeming to pass directly over him, before fading into the warm autumn night. He remained frozen, hidden from all but the swarm of red ants crawling up his calf. He bit down on his thumb, stifling a cry.
“P-s-s-t. They’s gone.” The evening sky silhouetted Abraham’s towering, broad-shouldered frame and familiar wide brimmed slouch hat.
Isaac slapped at the burn on his leg as he stood. “One was Clancy, that boss man from over at the Johnston farm. He’s a mean one, he is. Didn’t recognize the other—the younger feller toting the scattergun.”
“It don’t matter none,” Abraham said. “They’s hunting runaways, that’s for certain. Next, they’ll be bringing out the dogs. We’d best get to the old smokehouse and warn them that’s waiting.”
Swatting the back of his leg with his hat, Isaac brushed away the last of the vicious little critters and then retrieved his gunnysack and followed.
Abraham edged closer to the road. Crouching, he scanned the distant shadows and then beckoned. Isaac quietly settled beside him. Other than the mournful cry of a barred owl in a distant woodlot, silence filled the darkness. No sign of the patrols that roamed the fields and roadways in search of runaways. On Abraham’s signal, they dashed across the exposed path and ducked into the cornfield.
Sweat caught the corn dust on Abraham’s forehead and drizzled yellow-gray rivulets through the dark stubble of his beard. Isaac’s hand trembled as he wiped his own brow. Were those runaways shaking too, holed up like cornered rabbits? He curled his lip and blew at a bead of sweat trickling down his cheek. “You reckon we lost ‘em, Pa?”
“Sh-h-h. Get down.”
Isaac dropped between the cornrows and searched the tree line on the far side of the clearing. Where were those riders? Where’d they go? A feller could get himself killed running from those patrols. Them that were hiding out yonder must have wanted their freedom mighty bad.
Last summer they’d helped a family with three children, one a babe in arms. Word had it they’d made it as far as Petersburg before being caught. Some said they were split up and sold to different owners. Isaac shuddered. Co
uld be the stories were wrong. Could be they found that Promised Land.
Abraham raised his hand and Isaac froze. Those two horsemen might be the only ones patrolling tonight, but men on horseback could cover a lot of ground.
“Knowing where they been ain’t the same as knowing where they is,” Abraham whispered. “The fox ain’t eating no rabbit what can think like a fox and the whip ain’t finding the nigra what can get in the heads of them pattyrollers.”
“That’s too much to think on, Pa. A body can get plum wore out chewing over all them possibilities.”
“You pay heed, boy. The time’s coming when you’ll be out here alone.”
______
The smokehouse sat in a small clearing surrounded by tall oaks and poplars. No more than a shell, it was the lone relic of a long-abandoned farm, burned out more years ago than Isaac could recall. Far from traveled paths, it served well as an overnight stop, longer on occasion.
Isaac crawled behind a tree and searched the glade. After a moment, he cupped his hands and imitated the call of a whippoorwill. An answer echoed from the darkened ruins, and then a young man stepped from the shadows.
“You the folks be taking us to Richmond?” The young man asked.
“We can’t take you all that way,” Abraham said, stepping into the clearing. “But we brung you vittles enough for three days, more if’n you’s careful.” He took the gunnysack from Isaac and handed it to the runaway. “They calls me Abraham. This here’s my boy, Isaac.”
As they spoke, a slender girl with short pigtails tied in cloth strips stole from the shadows of the crumbling chimney and slipped behind the young man, holding him by the waist as she peered at Isaac.
She was only a child—no more’n fifteen—no older than his own little sister. How’d she ever stay ahead of the dogs?
The man put his arm around the girl’s shoulders and pulled her close. “This here’s Rebecca. We was married last week. Soon as we jumped the broom we done skedaddled. Been running ever since.”
Abraham nodded to the girl and then turned to her husband. “You got some idea where you’s headed?”
“We hear there’s jobs in New York. I has family there. We’s praying we can make it that far.”
“This here map will get you to the next station.” Isaac held out a slip of paper. “Look for a small church on a rise above a creek about five miles past Richmond town. If it’s safe to go in, there’ll be three drinking gourds hanging beside the door.”
“Bless you both,” the young man said. “We been praying for deliverance and the Lord done provided.”
“You’d best do a heap more praying,” Isaac said. “There’s trouble on them roads tonight. The white man’s pattyrollers is out searching, so keep to the woods and streams.”
The couple clung to one another. Their eyes widened and then the young man pointed toward the smokehouse. “Maybe we’d best stay another night.”
“No.” Abraham shook his head. “Dogs’ll be on your scent come morning. You keep to them streams. My Florence, she snuck you some black pepper.” He handed the young man a small box. “If’n they gets close, you shake a mess of this on your track and hightail it out of there. Now get, and may the Lord be with you.”
The young couple retrieved their belongings and resumed their northward journey.
_____
Isaac and Abraham turned from the smokehouse clearing and slipped into the shadows, moving silently through the tangled forest. They paused when they reached a dirt road beside a harvested tobacco field. Abraham inched forward and scanned the dusty lane, then started across. As he reached the middle of the road, riders emerged from the shadows of Johnston’s drying sheds. Abraham quickly turned and lunged back toward the dark woods, grabbing his ankle as he stumbled into the brush. “My ankle’s twisted up something awful. I’s done for, boy. They ain’t seen you yet. Get on home best you can.”
Isaac’s stomach tightened. “I ain’t leaving you, Pa—”
“They done seen me. You gotta go on alone. Now get!” He shooed Isaac away.
Reaching under his father’s arms, Isaac dragged him deeper into the shadows.
“Boy, I done told you, get. I’ll raise a ruckus and draw them over so’s you can sneak away.”
Was his pa figuring that Isaac didn’t have the grit to run those trails ahead of the patrols? Isaac hitched his trousers. “They ain’t seen but one darky tonight, and now they has to catch him!” He started for the road.
“Dammit, boy, don’t—” Abraham grabbed, clutching only air.
Isaac flashed a smile. “Ain’t no fox catching this rabbit.” He darted into the open and paused for the horsemen to see him. Dust kicked up from the horses’ hoofs as the riders dug in their heels. Isaac dashed into the forest, tearing through briar tangles and dodging trees. The horsemen stayed on his trail, cursing the low hanging branches as they turned off the road and charged into the stand of saplings at the edge of the woods.
A game trail led down to a stream. His lungs burned as he ran along the streambed, but he had to push on. Capture meant the whip—or worse. Images of scars on the backs of Johnston’s slaves swirled in his mind. He splashed across the creek and clambered up the other side. Branches clawed at his face and arms.
Somewhere in the distance, a shotgun blast pierced the still air.
“Pa?” As Isaac turned toward the gunfire, he caught his foot on a tangled root and crashed headlong into a sapling. He tumbled to the ground clutching his shoulder and held his breath as he strained to hear.
Nothing.
Where had they gone? What about that gunshot . . . and Pa? Isaac grabbed his sides as he gulped the pine-scented air. White men weren’t partial to running the woods at night. Those were Isaac’s woods; no white man, except maybe Henry, knew the trails as well as he.
Reaching his arms above his head, Isaac straightened and took a deep breath. “Lordy, Henry,” he whispered, “I sure do wish you was here right now.” An unnatural quiet hung over the forest, as if the creatures of the night understood the life and death pursuit and were eager not to become involved. Isaac peered into the darkness. When they used to play down here, with Henry chasing and Isaac running, he’d slip over to Bennett’s Creek and swim clear up to the old oak. Henry never could catch him. If it worked against Henry McConnell, it would sure enough work against those who chased him tonight.
Isaac pushed past a stand of pines and into an open field. A quarter-mile away on the far side of the clearing stood another woodlot. He dashed across the field and slipped into the shadows.
Silence.
Isaac breathed easier.
A narrow path meandered along the creek. Underbrush no longer clawed his legs. The shadows of the thicket concealed him; pine straw beneath his bare feet muffled his footfalls. Isaac slowed to a walk. After a while, the trail turned sharply. He ducked beneath an overhanging branch. As he straightened, a dark, broad-chested horse filled the path before him.
“Yo, Clancy! That nigger’s over here!” The rider stood in his stirrups waggling the muzzle of his double-barreled shotgun toward Isaac. “Get out of them shadows, boy. Step over where I can see you.”
Chills like icy spiders crawled up Isaac’s neck. His mouth turned as dry as the pine needles beneath his feet. Trapped—what could he do? He gripped the low branch, shielding himself with the pine bough as he stepped back.
“Hold up, boy. Get your black ass over here before I fills you with buckshot.”
The horse reared, pawing at the sky. Isaac released the branch as he turned and ran.
A scream pierced the woods.
Isaac glanced over his shoulder. The limb had swept the man from his saddle as cleanly as a corn broom through dry leaves. The rider lay motionless on the trail.
Isaac ducked into the forest and crashed through the underbrush. Had the rider remounted? Would the next sound be the roar of the shotgun? No matter, he had to keep running. Capture meant the whip for sure.
He pushe
d on until he reached a small clearing along the banks of Bennett’s Creek. There he slipped into the dark water and swam against the slow current.
After a half-mile of swimming upstream, the clearing came into view. Isaac dragged himself up the muddy bank and dropped onto the cool grass under the old oak. Rolling on his side, he gasped for air. As he filled his lungs, his body finally released the burn, one muscle at a time. Exhausted, he stretched to his full length and covered his eyes.
_____
Clouds drifted in front of the moon, draping a dark veil over the fields. Bats flitted about chasing invisible prey. Isaac breathed deeply. Finally, he was back on McConnell land. The patrols had no business there. Nevertheless, he searched his surroundings before struggling to his feet and heading home.
Isaac slipped past the drying sheds and along the white picket fence that enclosed Miss Ella’s flowerbeds. He hesitated when he reached the big house. A motionless figure loomed in the shadows of the porch. A patroller? One of the McConnells? Too late for slaves to be about. What if he was challenged? Isaac bit his lip and continued to the cookhouse.
Florence met him at the door. “Boy, you’s cut up to beat all. Get in here so’s I can mend them scrapes. Where’s your pa?”
Isaac peeled off his tattered shirt and slumped onto the wooden bench. “Mama, he done twisted his ankle something awful. Last I seen him, he was holed up in them woods over by the Johnston place. I reckon them pattyrollers caught up to him.”
“You hush. He’ll be fine.” She dabbed his wounds with a slab of fatback.
“Shots was fired.”
Florence hesitated then continued treating his cuts.
Isaac winced when she touched a gash on his shoulder. “Them dogs’ll be out come morning.”
“Your pa’s been running them woods since before you was born. White folk ain’t never catched him and they never will. He’s a ghost in them there trees. Ain’t no dog, and surely no pattyroller, gonna be his undoing.” Florence closed her eyes. Her lips moved silently and then she turned and prepared a bandage.