The Freedom Star

by Jeff Andrews

  “Done—best I can, anyway.” She tied the last bandage. “Now, off to bed.”

  “I ain’t sleepy, Mama. I reckon I’ll wait up in case Pa comes home tonight.”

  “There’ll be no waiting up and no candles burning late to make them white folk curious. You get on now.” She pointed to the loft.

  He climbed the ladder halfway and paused. Florence stood at the foot of the ladder, still pointing.

  Isaac reached the loft and slipped under the tattered blanket next to his younger sister and brother. Their soft breathing continued undisturbed. Shadows from his mama’s candle danced on the ceiling, then the ropes supporting his parent’s thin mattress creaked and darkness filled the room.

  He fought to stay awake, but his worn body quickly surrendered to the exhaustion of the night’s work.

  _____

  Clattering pans intruded upon the early morning stillness. Isaac struggled to open his eyes. Golden hues crept through chinks in the cabin walls, spilling across the straw bedding. He stretched, then flinched at the awakening soreness from the previous evening’s brush with the mounted patrols. What of his father? Was he safe? Had he made it home? Isaac eased himself down the ladder and slid into a chair at the rough-hewn table beside the hearth.

  Florence busied herself preparing breakfast. A slender, handsome woman, she was worn less by age than the drudgery of keeping folks in the big house properly fed. Her dark hands told her story: boiling water, splattered grease, hot pans, careless knives, and rooster’s spurs had all left their mark.

  She filled a basket with biscuits as Tempie and Joseph scrambled down the ladder. Chattering and giggling, they took their seats at the table. The moment Florence set the biscuits down, six-year-old Joseph snatched one in each hand and raced out the door. His laughter trailed across the barnyard.

  Tempie settled across from Isaac. Her smooth skin and delicate features mirrored their mama’s. At fourteen, she already drew attention from the young men down at the slave quarters. Isaac stared at his sister. The runaway, Rebecca, she and Tempie could be twins.

  The cabin door banged open and Abraham limped in, adjusting his trousers.

  “Pa,” Isaac called, “You’s safe!”

  Abraham glared as he settled into his seat. “Boy, you like to got yourself kilt last night. When I tells you to do something, you’d best listen.”

  “But I didn’t get kilt, and you didn’t get took up by them pattyrollers, neither.” Isaac smiled.

  “Don’t sass me, boy.” Abraham wagged a finger. “Your mule-brained doings is gonna bring trouble down on this house, just you see.”

  “But Pa, I had to keep them riders from finding you.”

  “Smart rabbit don’t offer his self up to no fox.” He pointed. “Pass them biscuits.”

  Isaac pushed the basket down the table. “How’s your ankle?”

  “A mite sore, but it weren’t twisted bad as I thought.”

  “I heard a shot last night.”

  “That white boy was shooting at shadows.” Abraham bit into the warm biscuit. “They give you trouble?”

  Isaac rubbed his scarred forearm. “Just hard running.”

  “Pa,” Tempie said. “That couple you was helping, they gonna make it to that freedom land?”

  “They has a chance, baby, but they has hundreds of miles yet to go, and them pattyrollers and their dogs be on their scent. All we can do is pray that the good Lord will provide.”

  “They jumped the broom just last week.” Isaac turned to his sister. “Said they knowed they’d be running. The girl, Rebecca was her name, she weren’t no older than you—too young for marrying.”

  “I is too old enough for marrying.” Tempie flipped her short pigtail with the back of her hand.

  “No you ain’t,” Isaac said, “and I’ll take a switch to any young buck what comes sniffing around here.” He slashed the air with an imaginary stick.

  “Mama . . .”

  “Leave your sister be.” Florence smacked Isaac’s hand with a wooden spoon, then wagged the spoon at Tempie. “And any boy come sniffing around here, he’ll be getting my switch.”

  Tempie folded her arms with a huff.

  “I just can’t think about being on the run,” Florence said, resting her hands on Abraham’s shoulders. “Dogs on your trail, that whip not far behind. That poor child sure enough must be running scared.”

  “She’s with her man, Florence, and they’s chasing that freedom star.” He patted her hand. “For some, that’s enough.” Abraham turned to Isaac. “Boy, you sure they didn’t get no good look at you?”

  “No, Pa,” Isaac said. “All they seen was a darky running them dark woods.”

  Abraham gripped Isaac’s arm and lowered his voice. “Just the same, you lay low. Keep yourself busy with your chores, but don’t be out where no white folk is noticing them scrapes.”

  Chapter Two

  October 1860

  Freezing rain stung Henry McConnell’s cheeks. The late night storm transformed the rocky, tree-covered hillside into a quagmire. Henry grabbed a branch above his head and pulled himself over the ledge, and then turned and held out a hand to Edward Shepherd. As Edward grabbed hold he slipped and fell backward and both cadets tumbled to the ground.

  “McConnell, you drunken bastard, you’ll get us both thrown out, or killed.”

  “If you can’t hold your grog any better than this, Shepherd, you deserve to be thrown out.”

  “Who puked?”

  “Who puked first?” Henry looked at his roommate and laughed.

  ”Cadet McConnell, you’re going to cost me my commission by process of demerit.” Edward brushed mud off his woolen overcoat.

  Henry shot his companion a look of mock surprise. “Are you telling me, Cadet Shepherd, that you have no faith in my ability to get us safely into the barracks? Sir, I am truly offended.” Henry tried to stand, slipped, and landed hard on his backside. He grabbed the trunk of a small sapling and pulled himself upright.

  “I’ve led three retrogrades from Benny Haven’s Tavern back to West Point—all successful—and this too shall succeed. If you insist on sneaking out with me for a pint, then you, sir, must trust me to get you back without incident.” Henry pointed toward the barracks. “Forward, at a route step, march!”

  A mile separated the small tavern by Buttermilk Falls from the academy grounds. The rolling terrain provided cover from cadet sentries walking their posts. Sheets of cold rain sobered the two as they crept to the edge of the clearing and looked out at the gray stone barracks two hundred feet away.

  Henry put his arm around Edward’s shoulder and whispered, “I walked this post just last week. Sentry’s coming around that corner yonder. He’ll walk to the end of the building, then turn and come this way. When he turns the corner again we’ve got two minutes to get inside before he comes back.”

  The sentry came into view, walking the post precisely as Henry described. Henry whispered the drill commands as the sentry marched past, “Left . . . left . . . left, right, left. Column left, march!” He smiled and nudged Edward as the sentry disappeared behind the building.

  “Follow me.” Henry ran across the grassy field with Edward trailing. They dove through the barracks door just as the sentry turned the corner.

  “McConnell, you’ll make general one day. Brilliant tactics, sir.” Edward rendered a mock salute.

  Henry ignored the gesture. “Doesn’t count for a can of army beans if we show for morning formation looking like drowned wharf rats.” They dashed up the stairs to their room.

  Henry sat on the edge of his bunk wiping mud from his boots. “We’ve been here four months—summer encampment and all them upperclassmen pranks—I’d say we’ve earned the right to partake of Benny Haven’s hospitality every now and again.”

  Edward brushed his frock. “McConnell, you’re the only plebe I know who actually enjoyed drilling under that stinking July sun.”

  Henry smiled. It had been an initiation, a challen
ge, an invitation to a quest—the one thing his older brother hadn’t already done, nor ever would.

  Edward shook out his coat. “Benny’s a right decent fellow, don’t you know?” He hung the coat on the back of the door, and then sat and pulled off his boots. “He’s letting me carry a tab until my folks send me money.”

  “Should have done like I did.”

  “What’s that?” Edward looked up from brushing his boot.

  “I gave him an army blanket. Seemed like a fair trade for a night’s drinking.” Henry smiled, lay on his bunk, and closed his eyes.

  _____

  A cacophony of drums shattered the predawn stillness of the Sabbath. Henry bolted upright, rubbed his eyes, and looked around. West Point. Another day. His head throbbed. He staggered out of bed, splashed cold water on his face, and hurried into his uniform.

  He raced down the stairs and found his place in the formation in front of the barracks. Mist added a surreal glow to the half-light of dawn. Henry studied his crumpled uniform. The darkness and drizzle would hide mud and wrinkles from the gaze of the cadet officers. He looked up and whispered, “Thank you, Lord.”

  “McConnell!”

  “Present, Sir.”

  The roll call continued. When his name was called, Edward responded from the far end of the platoon. Henry smiled. Another Saturday night, another successful operation.

  The cadet company commander issued the daily orders. “The company will fall in for morning chow in fifteen minutes. Now get those rooms ready for inspection. Company, dismissed!”

  Henry took one step to the rear, executed an about face, then raced back up the steps to his billet on the third floor. He leaned against the doorway gasping for breath as he scanned the small room. Fifteen minutes to prepare for inspection. Fifteen minutes of house cleaning—a job that ought to be left to one’s manservant.

  Henry and Edward tore into the mess they’d left the night before. Henry recited the room inspection orders from memory. “Trunks—under foot of bedstead. Books—neatly arranged on shelf. Broom—hung behind door. Musket—in the gun rack with lock sprung. Bayonet—placed in scabbard. Accouterments—hung over musket. Saber—hung over musket. Clothes—neatly hung on pegs over bedsteads.”

  They were waiting at the bottom of the stairs when the drum roll sounded for chow.

  Cadets marched in company formation to breakfast. The unit halted in front of the mess hall. Henry and his fellow plebes marched single file into the great stone hall. Inside, they stood at attention at their assigned tables awaiting the command, “Take seats!”

  Henry piled his plate high with bacon and eggs, biscuits and flapjacks—none as good as Florence’s cooking. As Henry shoveled in another forkful he longed for the leisurely meals he’d enjoyed back on the farm.

  “Company, attention!”

  Back in formation. Eyes straight ahead. No word or whisper. “Company, right face! Forward, march!” The long gray line responded as one.

  Dismissed once more in front of the barracks, Henry found Edward and they walked to their room.

  “Three demerits?” Edward waved the chit he’d found on his bunk. “Unclean accouterments. I’ll be walking punishment tours forever.”

  “At least you won’t be alone.” Henry held up his own chit. “Soiled blanket. Should have taken my boots off last night before I laid down.” Henry tilted back in his chair and rested his feet on the metal frame at the end of his bunk. “We’d best get that punishment tour done today. I’m not missing the cotillion next weekend. Miss Belinda Towers will be in attendance and I aim to thrill her with my grace on the dance floor.”

  “Henry, she might as well stick her dainty little toes under the wheels of a caisson as risk them on the dance floor with the likes of you.”

  “What do you mean? We’ve been practicing, haven’t we?” Henry held out his hand. “Come here.”

  Edward recoiled.

  “Come on.” Henry grabbed his roommate by the shoulder. “And this time I’ll lead.”

  Henry placed his arm around Edward’s waist and scuffled across the floor to an imagined waltz. Together they counted, “One, two, three. One, two, three . . .”

  Edward spun out of Henry’s grip and onto his chair. “You’re still a danger to all of civilization, McConnell.”

  Henry gave him a dismissive wave. “Miss Belinda will be so taken with my charm that she’ll float across that ballroom like she’s on a cloud. Trust me, Shepherd, she’ll never give a worry to those dainty feet.”

  “McConnell, your arrogance is exceeded only by your exceptional good fortune, but heed my word; you’d best keep her close. A few cadets at the last social were taking more than a passing interest in that sweet young flower.”

  The drum roll once again called them to formation. As the company marched to chapel, Henry groaned inwardly. Two hours of sitting ramrod straight on a hard wooden bench, held prisoner by another long-winded oration. Back home in South Boston, Virginia young ladies in all their finery would add sweet soprano voices to every hymn and serve as pleasant distractions to the drone of a boring sermon.

  The company halted in front of the gothic stone building. They marched single file into the chapel and lined up by squads in the pews. Henry stood at attention facing the pulpit. Redemption wouldn’t come easily in this army’s excuse for a worship service.

  “Ready, seats!”

  Chapter Three

  October 1860

  Isaac split the log cleanly and tossed both pieces on the woodpile behind the cookhouse. A swirl of dust far down the lane caught his eye as he reached for another log. He rubbed the scratches on his forearms, then set the log on the block and swung his ax. He’d best keep to working and not let on that he’d noticed the approaching horseman.

  The rider reined his mount in front of the big house. Polly, Henry’s little sister, sat in one of the rockers on the porch fanning herself. Patrick, Henry’s older brother, came out to the porch and said something to the rider. With his back to Isaac, the rider made agitated, sweeping gestures, pointing in the direction of the Johnston farm. Whatever they might be saying, their voices didn’t carry to the cookhouse. Patrick gave a quick wave of his hand and went back inside.

  Isaac lowered the ax, rubbing the small of his back as he straightened.

  The rider turned on his horse.

  Clancy? Isaac covered his forearms as their eyes met.

  The rider spurred his horse and the large stallion reared, then galloped down the lane.

  Polly folded her fan, shielded her eyes, and stared at Isaac.

  _____

  Isaac shoved a pitchfork under the straw, lifting another clod of manure into the wheelbarrow. When he’d filled the barrow, he pushed it outside behind the barn and upended it on a pile of rotting leaves. After Christmas he’d spread that compost and plant the tobacco seedlings but, for now, tobacco farming meant mucking stalls and turning compost, easy work and out of sight.

  His cuts were healing, but Isaac still avoided places where the McConnells or Sean O’Farrell, their overseer, might notice and ask questions.

  He removed his hat and wiped his sleeve across his brow. The pungent sweetness of the compost filled the autumn air. Squinting, he gazed past the tobacco fields to the distant woods. Would they make it, that couple on the run? He leaned on the pitchfork. Soon, his day would come. Philadelphia would be his new home. Isaac righted the wheelbarrow and returned to the barn.

  Footfalls crunched the dirt floor behind him as Isaac scooped another pile. He shoved the fork into the barrow and turned. Abraham stood in the doorway, satchel in hand.

  “Morning, Pa.”

  ”Anybody ask about them cuts?” He pointed to Isaac’s arms.

  “No. I been careful, like you said. What about them two we helped? You hear anything?”

  “Massa Johnston’s boy got kilt.”

  “He what?” Isaac dropped the pitchfork.

  “One of Johnston’s nigras come by the cabins last night wi
th some corn squeezings. He said Johnston’s oldest boy was with them pattyrollers the other night and got throwed off his horse.”

  “Getting throwed ain’t getting killed . . .”

  “Snapped his neck like a spring chicken.” Abraham pointed to the wagon. “Hitch that jackass, boy.”

  “Dead? You sure?”

  “Weren’t none of your doing. He fell off’n his damned horse. That white boy never could ride no how.”

  Isaac slumped to the bench and rested his head in his hands. He’d killed a man, a white man. They’d hang him for sure.

  “Boy, you pay heed. That Clancy fella is madder than a nest of copperheads. His whip comes out for no reason, none a’ tall, and pray mercy for the poor soul what gets in his way.” Abraham rocked the bench with his foot. “You hear me? Hitch that wagon.”

  “Sorry.” Isaac reached for the harness. “Where’s you headed?”

  “Massa McConnell hired me out to fix some furniture for a fella over by Danville.”

  “You be gone long?”

  “Week, maybe two.” Abraham heaved his canvas tool bag into the wagon. “They done busted the leg off their breakfront, so I’s making a replacement, then fixing some tools and such.”

  Isaac finished buckling the bellyband around the mule. He hesitated, then turned. “They’ll be watching, Pa. Maybe it’s time I headed north, followed that drinking gourd.”

  “Ain’t nobody looking for you, boy, not as long as you keeps them cuts covered. Ain’t nobody suspecting you was out there.”

  “Just the same, if’n I was free, I could head on up to Philadelphia now and get me a job.”

  Abraham looked him over then pointed to a wooden bench against the wall. “Set on down.” He set a foot on the bench and rested on his knee. “Me and your mama, we been on this farm many a year, and Massa McConnell, mostly he done right by us—”

  Isaac nodded. “He’s a good owner, but—”

  Abraham held up his hand. “Ain’t no such thing as a good slave owner. We don’t get no whippings, and Massa, he don’t sell our children away, but any man what’s keeping another in bondage be doing the devil’s work.”