by Jeff Andrews
“I reckon,” Henry said. “Still, it ain’t natural. Don’t be letting on you can do that. Folks might think you got the devil in you.”
“No devil, just numbers . . .”
Henry tossed a stick on the fire. “It’s not just the studying that’s been worrying me, it’s all the political talk. They’re turning West Point into some kind of damned debating society.”
“Isaac don’t know nothing about politics.”
“There’s talk of war.”
Isaac poked at the rabbit on his plate. “Don’t want no war. Who you gonna fight?”
“There’s Yankees figuring to come down here and take away our property rights.” Henry pointed at Isaac. “But Virginia’s got too many boys handy with a squirrel gun, like you and me.”
“Isaac ain’t shooting nobody. Ain’t like putting a ball in this here rabbit.” He tapped the cooking pot with his fork. “Besides, I got no fuss with the Yankees.”
“If Yankee soldiers come to Virginia, you’ll take up a rifle and stand with the rest of us. We’ll defend our homeland, and we’ll give the invaders hell.”
Isaac stabbed at his food. McConnell land was white folk’s land, wasn’t his to die for. Besides, he’d done enough killing already.
“Hey, can you keep a secret?” Henry poked Isaac with his elbow.
Isaac nodded.
“I got me a girl.”
“Shoot, when’d you ever not have a girl?” Isaac chuckled.
“This one’s different.” Henry smiled. “Belinda’s her name. Belinda Towers. Most beautiful woman you ever saw; long black hair, green eyes . . . she’s a true belle—except she’s a Yankee, but best of all, she’s totally taken with me.”
“Like that girl over to South Boston you said was in love with you, the one what’s marrying that store keeper?”
Henry rolled his eyes, then leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Right now, I bet Belinda’s drowning her pillow in tears, just wishing Christmas would pass so’s I’d come on back. When my army days are done, I reckon I’ll marry her and we’ll settle right here on the farm and raise us a proper family.”
“Ain’t that what you said last year about that girl over to Danville?”
Henry ignored the question. “How about you? Got yourself some sweet little thing?”
“No. Nobody.” Isaac shook his head.
“Come on, not even one of those Johnston slaves?”
Isaac poked the fire. He looked up at Henry, then stared into the flames. “Seen a woman in church once down in Milton . . .”
“I knew it!” Henry clapped his hands. “What’s her name?”
“Don’t know.”
“Well, how’d you meet her?”
“Seen her in church. Didn’t talk to her, though.”
“You know where she lives? Who’s her owner?”
Isaac shook his head.
“So how you going to find this here ‘mystery’ woman? You want I should put the hounds on her? Maybe we can tree her like we did that bear.”
Isaac smiled as he stared into the fire. “Don’t rightly know how I finds her again. Guess Isaac’ll be attending church more regular.”
“How about that.” Henry laughed. “Old Isaac’s got religion! Well, if you’re going to track bear come morning, you’d best forget that girl and get some sleep.”
“Amen. Sleep’s coming mighty easy tonight.” Isaac stretched out on his pad of leaves and closed his eyes. Muscles that hadn’t sat a horse for many months reminded him of the day’s long ride.
Henry fussed with his blankets, then sat up. “Hey, Isaac . . .” He hesitated, “Belinda says I got to ask you something.”
“What’s that?”
There was a moment of silence. “Never mind. I’m reconsidering. Maybe this ain’t the time.” Henry wrapped up in his blanket. “Goodnight.”
Isaac stared at the shadows dancing on the roof of the cave. So, who was she, and could there be any way that she was thinking about him too? What if she didn’t come back to church?
Chapter Eleven
December 1860
“Florence, come quick!” An urgent voice called from the porch, followed by a flurry of sharp knocks on the cabin door.
“Lord, it ain’t hardly dawn. Who’s that making such a fuss?” Florence stumbled out of bed and flung open the door.
Banjo stood wide-eyed on the porch shaking a finger toward the quarters. “It’s ol’ July,” he said. “He got himself busted up real bad, Florence. You gots to hurry.” He turned and ran toward the slave cabins.
“I’ll be along soon as I fetch my remedies,” Florence replied. She lifted a goatskin pouch from a peg on the wall and stepped outside.
Abraham caught up with her in the barnyard, hobbling as he pulled on his trousers. Together they ran past the drying barns and down the lane to a small clearing where a half dozen rough-hewn cabins formed a semicircle around a blackened stone fire ring around which a dozen or more slaves gathered. The group parted as Florence approached, revealing one lone figure sitting on a log.
July’s bowed head and tightly closed eyes suggested the countenance of a man at prayer, but his mouth turned up in a curious smile. A hand-woven straw hat sat jauntily on the back on his head. His bloodied arms rested on his knees. Dried blood caked the stubble on his cheek and stained his tattered shirt.
Florence glanced at Abraham. His knowing look told her what she already knew. She pressed her fingers against July’s cold neck, then shook her head slowly, looking first at Banjo, then Lilly.
Banjo stepped forward. “Somebody beat him bad, real bad.”
“He must a drug his self back here,” Lilly said. “We’d all gone on to bed, but July said he was heading to the river to do some fishing. He don’t have no pass. You reckon them pattyrollers done him like that?”
Florence shook her head. “Ain’t no way of knowing.”
“We come out this morning,” Lilly said, “and there he be, all beat up and dead.”
Banjo wrung his hands as he stared at the lifeless body. “July said his old Negro soul was growing tired of this here life, but I reckon he never meant to go out this a-way. Least ways his days in them tobacco fields is over. It’s time he took his rest with the Lord.”
Abraham turned to the somber gathering. “I needs to make him a box. Y’all get to digging a proper grave so when we lays him out he’ll see the angel Gabriel coming out of the east to take him home.”
Florence placed her hand on Abraham’s arm. “I best go tell Massa McConnell. He don’t know yet that he don’t own July no more.” She turned and walked slowly toward the big house.
_____
Slaves from neighboring farms, some with passes, others risking capture, joined the McConnell slaves as the torch lit procession wound through fields toward a small clearing in the woods overlooking Bennett’s Creek.
The casket bounced lightly on the shoulders of the men as Florence followed a few steps behind holding a small basket. July had always been there, as much a part of life on the McConnell farm as the sun, the rain, and all the acres of yellow leaf tobacco. Her gaze turned heavenward. “Lord, July weren’t no burden in life, can’t be much of a burden now . . . I’s sure gonna miss his laughter.”
The trees surrounding the clearing reached their bare branches skyward, as though clutching at the fleeting clouds, while pine knot torches danced shadows across the flat boards and roughly hewn crosses that marked the final resting place for generations of McConnell slaves gone before. Florence noted her mother’s tilted headboard at one end of the glade.
As mourners encircled the freshly dug grave, the pallbearers placed the casket on three ropes then, using the ropes, lifted July and lowered him gently into the ground.
The gathering grew quiet. Abraham removed his hat. Holding it to his heart, he gazed toward the heavens. “Lord, we ain’t got us no preacher, so’s this‘ll have to do ‘til we gets us one. We brung you your servant, July.”
; “Amen,” the mourners replied in unison.
“He was born right here on this land, before any of us here was alive, and he worked this land all his days.”
“That’s right, Lord.” Banjo lifted a bony finger toward the sky.
“Now that he’s dead, he be buried on this land.” Abraham glanced around the gathering. Florence nodded for him to continue.
“Here on earth, July worked for Massa McConnell. Now he’s in Heaven, he be working for you, Lord.”
“Amen.”
“Lord, come take your child on home. He been waiting on this day for a terrible long time.” Abraham closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Amen.”
“Amen,” the mourners echoed.
Abraham tossed a handful of dirt on the casket. One by one, others did the same, then the men refilled the grave, tamping the dirt into a low mound with their shovels.
Florence opened her basket and removed several shards of broken pottery. She placed the pieces on the fresh grave. “July, this here’s your body, broken by a hard life on this here earth. Now that you’s in Heaven, the Lord’ll be making you whole again.”
“That’s right,” Lilly said. “You’s with the Lord.”
Florence smiled. “God bless you, July.”
“God bless,” the gathering echoed.
One by one they turned and began the walk back up the path toward the slave quarters. Once clear of the cemetery, someone began clapping softly. Others joined in. Soon, voices raised in song broke the stillness of the crisp December night. Florence fell in step beside Abraham, clapping in rhythm, listening to the deep voice she knew so well.
_____
The crackling fire and an occasional cough from the sleeping loft were the only sounds as Florence and Abraham settled into their bed.
She rested her head on Abraham’s chest. “Massa says he’ll be asking the preacher from South Boston to come up next month and say some words over July.”
“He’ll sure enough be liking that,” Abraham said. “Ol’ July ain’t never had no white man pay him no never mind, least of all a preacher. He’ll know he’s in Heaven when that happens.”
“All he ever wanted was to see what lies beyond the river, past that next hill.” She ran her hand across Abraham’s cheek. “I’s scared our children won’t never see what’s past that hill neither. I don’t want them dying like July, wondering what’s out there beyond them tobacco fields.”
Abraham wrapped his arm around her. “Don’t you be troubling yourself none about that.”
“You and me, we’s content where we is,” she said. “But I wants better for our children. There’s a whole world out there beyond South Boston.”
“There sure enough is.”
She raised up on one elbow. “Don’t like to think on running, but I keeps wondering . . .”
“Sh-h-h.” Abraham put a finger to her lips. “I been keeping a secret from you, woman.”
She clutched his hand. “What secret?”
“A few years back I talked to Massa McConnell, asked him how can I buy my childrens. He said, ‘Abraham, you works them jobs, you makes Massa McConnell the money, and we finds a way.’ So I works them jobs, and I works hard. I makes Massa a passel of money and he holds out some from what I earns for payment for our childrens. I reckon by this summer coming I’ll have enough to buy Isaac.”
“For sure? You telling Florence the truth?”
“Sure enough. Be buying Tempie next, then Joseph. Should have money enough for each before they’s all growed. Now hush, woman. Don’t you be telling nobody. This’ll be Abraham’s surprise. Once our childrens is safe up north, you and me be getting on that freedom train too.”
Florence wrapped her arms around Abraham and kissed his whiskered cheek. Her babies were really gonna see what was beyond that next mountain.
Chapter Twelve
December 1860
Henry glanced over his shoulder as he spurred his horse past the drying sheds. Isaac and the smaller pony were two lengths behind. He’d beat them easily. “Yee ha!” Henry waved his hat and galloped through the barnyard, kicking up dust and scattering chickens.
“You’re slower’n a tobacco bug,” Henry hollered as he reined his horse in front of the house. He turned in the saddle when Isaac pulled alongside. “Tarnation, I even gave you a head start . . .”
Isaac shook his head and smiled.
Morgan stepped onto the porch. He locked Henry in a stern gaze, then turned to Isaac. “Boy, you take those horses to the barn and rub ‘em down real good, you hear? It’ll be your hide if they catch a chill after being run so hard in this cold.”
“Yes, sir.” Isaac jumped from his mount, gathered the reins, and led both animals to the barn.
Morgan motioned to Henry. “Inside.”
Henry followed him into the parlor. Greenery festooned the mantel and draped the chandeliers. Mistletoe hung in the doorway. The family had been busy decorating for the holiday in his absence.
Morgan faced the hearth holding his hands toward the fire. “Seven days you’ve been gone. Seven days with two of my best horses and a nigra that’s supposed to be working.” He turned toward Henry. “Where in blazes you been?”
“I told you I was going to do some hunting, and you was sitting right there when I said I was going down to North Carolina to fetch Isaac.”
“For a two-day hunt. Your mother expected you home four, five days ago. So did I.” He placed his hands on his hips.
“Papa, I—”
“I don’t care to hear your excuses.” Morgan glared. “Thank God your brother handles responsibility. This farm would fall to ruin if I had to leave it in your hands.”
Henry clutched his hat in front of him, staring at the floor. No call for getting angry, he’d told him where he’d be. He wouldn’t be pitching a fit if it had been Patrick that had gone hunting.
“Tomorrow’s Christmas. Get yourself cleaned up—and you be on time for a change—don’t go breaking your mother’s heart by disappearing again.”
”Yes, sir.” Henry started up the stairs.
“Henry . . .”
He turned.
“I reckon Florence won’t mind having Isaac here for a few days. You can take him back to Milton before you head up to West Point next week.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Papa.”
“Get on, now, and have Tempie pour you a bath.” Morgan shooed him away. “You smell worse than a week old possum carcass.”
_____
Sunlight sparkled on the frost covered lawn. Henry dressed quickly and bounded down the stairs to the front parlor. The family was gathered around a Christmas tree bedecked with strings of popped corn, garlands of colored paper, and candied fruits. Polly, Tempie, and Joseph sat on the floor. Isaac, Abraham, and Florence stood in the archway leading to the dining room. Patrick took a seat on the sofa. Morgan was in his usual chair.
“Good morning, Henry. Merry Christmas!” Ella smiled from her rocker.
“Here, this is for you, Henry.” Polly handed him a package.
He took a seat beside his brother and unwrapped the box.
“For the cold New York winter,” Polly explained.
Henry smiled, holding up a pair of woolen stockings. “Thank you, sister. My toes will remember your kindness.”
Morgan opened a present from Ella, a pair of chamois-skin riding gauntlets embroidered in red silk with his monogram.
Gifts passed from hand to hand. Tempie seemed delighted with a hand-me-down dress from Polly. She held it in front of her, turning for all to admire. Joseph excitedly accepted the wooden top that had passed from Patrick to Henry, then to Polly. Now it was his. The string had been replaced and the paint was faded, but otherwise it was in fine condition. Patrick got on the floor and showed him how to make it work. Everyone clapped when Joseph pulled the string, spinning the top across the wooden floor.
Henry offered Polly a small box. With a questioning look she opened the package. Inside was a pale yellow sta
tionary with a single flower in the upper right corner of every sheet.
“So you can keep me posted on happenings around here while I’m out in the Indian territories with my cavalry troop,” Henry said.
Polly smiled. “You always think of the nicest gifts. I’ll write you every month ‘til the stationary runs out. You’ll know it’s from me by these pretty yellow envelopes.”
Abraham stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Uh, Miss Ella? I done fixed you up a shelf for your tea service.” He reached behind the archway and pulled out a honey pine shelf with a plate groove cut across the top. “If’n you likes, it can be hanging in the dining room before dinner.”
“Oh, Abraham, it is lovely!” Ella clasped her hands together. “Yes, yes, go put it up right now. I would dearly love to see my teacups and saucers on display when we sit down to our Christmas dinner.”
“No university educated gentleman should be without a proper ledger set,” Henry said, handing his brother a dark mahogany box with brass hinges. Patrick opened the lid, revealing styluses, an ink well, extra nibs, and a supply of paper.
“I’m not looking for letters, dear brother,” Henry said with a smile, “just an accurate accounting of our tobacco sales.”
“Like you’d know if the figures were close by even ten acres worth,” Patrick chided him.
“That’s a mighty fine gift,” Morgan said, pointing to the lap desk. “Is the army giving you an extra allowance these days?”
Henry smiled. “A cadet from Boston wagered that desk against my riding boots that he could out-jump me on horseback. He figured himself a better horseman than any Yankee I’ve ever seen.”
Morgan and Patrick laughed.
“Quiet! All of you!” Ella stared at Henry. “You know I don’t hold with gambling. It’s the devil’s play.”
Patrick slapped Henry on the shoulder. “It ain’t gambling, Mother, not if there’s no chance of losing.”
Her face turned crimson as the room filled with laughter. “You hush, Patrick McConnell. You’re encouraging your brother’s bad habits. Now all of you, go get ready for breakfast.” She turned to Florence. “We will be seated within the quarter hour. Kindly finish the preparations.”