The Freedom Star

by Jeff Andrews

  _____

  The afternoon sun caught the tops of the bare trees in its fading light. Slaves sang as they returned to the quarters carrying bundles of new clothes, shoes, and sacks of flour and sugar--all gifts from their owners. Henry stood in the doorway. “Good Christmas, don’t you reckon?”

  Isaac nodded as he sat, dangling his legs over the side of the porch. Being home had made it special.

  “Got something for you,” Henry said as sat down beside Isaac. “Didn’t want to give it to you this morning in front of everybody. Anyway, figured you were tired of those children’s books, so . . .” He handed him a sack.

  Isaac reached in the bag and withdrew a clothbound book. On its cover was a man dressed in rags wearing a broad-brimmed grass hat.

  “Rob-robin . . .” Isaac’s finger followed the letters as he tried to sound out the words. “Robinson, Robinson Crusoe?” He looked at Henry.

  “Yes. It’s about a fellow who gets kidnapped by pirates and then he’s marooned on an island. He finds himself a native fellow he names, ‘Friday.’ Reminded me of us. Now, don’t let Papa or Patrick catch you with it.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Isaac tucked the book under his shirt. “I ain’t got no present for you.”

  “Having you home for Christmas was present enough. Now get, before somebody sees you with that book.”

  _____

  Isaac set his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle.

  “Go on down by the quarters and say your good byes,” Henry said. “I’m going to see if your mama has some biscuits I can take along for the ride. I’ll catch up.”

  Isaac waved and turned his horse. “I’ll be waiting by the post road.”

  He rode slowly down the lane, turning into the clearing where a few slaves sat in the morning sun mending tools. Others were busy hanging wash or cooking in large cast iron pots over the campfire.

  “Hey there, Banjo,” Isaac called out. “Hey, Aunt Lilly. Y’all take care ‘til I gets back this way.”

  “You stay safe down there in North Carolina, you hear?” Lilly shook out a quilt as she spoke and hung it across the top rail of the fence.

  Isaac studied the quilt’s pattern. Embroidered on a four-inch square of cloth toward the top was a star. Through the center a vine made of rags wound its way around the other squares, each with their own unique design. The outer squares added a colorful border. To the white folks, it was a simple bed rug, but to those on the run was a map to the Promised Land.

  Isaac cautiously scanned the grounds, then lowered his voice. “Freedom Train running tonight?”

  “Sh-h-h. No telling what ears might be listening.” Lilly stepped closer. “A feller from over Danville way is running. I’s hanging the quilt in case he passes this way needing directions. Pattyrollers be out and about too, so you watch yourself.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Lilly. Henry’s riding with me to Milton, so I’ll be safe enough. You take care. I’ll see you in a month or so.”

  Lilly patted his knee as Isaac turned his horse. He nudged the animal into a trot, turning to wave as the slave quarters faded into the pines. A short distance later Isaac laid the reins across the horse’s neck and entered the grove of trees encircling the small cemetery. He dismounted next to the only fresh grave.

  “July, wish I’d a been here for your burying. For me and Tempie and Joseph, you was the grandpa we ain’t never had. We’s sure gonna miss you. I been praying, asking the Lord to show you that world you ain’t never seen when you was just a slave. I know you’s in a better place now.”

  Isaac tossed a handful of dirt on the grave and remounted. He nudged the horse, guiding the animal back onto the trail that led to the post road and then glanced back at the cemetery. How could a man live out all his life on just one farm? Didn’t he ever think about running? About freedom?

  The lasso jerked Isaac from his saddle. He landed hard, knocking the wind out of him. When he struggled to sit up, a boot crashed into his side.

  “You one of them McConnell niggers? What’re you doing out here by your lonesome, boy? You stealing a horse? Let’s see your pass.”

  Isaac cleared his head and looked up. Two men stood over him, one holding a shotgun. Isaac didn’t know him. The other, whip in hand, was Clancy.

  “Ain’t got no pass. Me and Henry’s riding to Milton—”

  The butt of the shotgun caught Isaac on the side of his chin. Hands grabbed him. A hard slap landed across his face.

  “I know you ain’t speaking of Henry McConnell, ‘cause that’d be ‘Master Henry’ to you, boy. You don’t talk about white folks disrespectful like that.” Clancy grabbed Isaac by his collar and yanked him to his feet. “What do you know about that runaway from over Danville? You McConnell niggers got him hidden out somewhere?”

  Clancy’s fist landed hard to Isaac’s stomach. He buckled. Clancy jerked him up by the collar, then flung him back to the ground. Isaac’s head slammed against the packed dirt. The world swirled around him. His head pounded as he tried to focus. The pounding grew louder. Hoofs? Horse’s hoofs . . .

  A shot rang out.

  “You! Hold fast or I’ll put a ball through your hide.”

  Isaac rolled over. The sun silhouetted a rider looming above him. Isaac wiped dirt from his eyes. Henry?

  Henry leaned forward in the saddle. Smoke curled from the barrel of the pistol in his hand.

  “Mr. McConnell,” Clancy said, “glad you come along. We just caught this here nigger trying to steal one of your horses. We was fixing to truss him up and bring him back to you.”

  “He wasn’t stealing anything, and you got no business here on McConnell land. I’m counting to five, Clancy. If you’re still here when I finish, I’ll blow your head off.”

  “The word’s out on you, McConnell.” Clancy shook his fist. “Folks is talking. They’s saying you’s soft on your niggers. Fact is, they’s calling you a nigger-lover behind your back.”

  “One . . .” The hammer on the Navy Colt clicked to full cock. “Two . . .”

  Clancy and his partner clambered aboard their horses and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  “You all right?” Henry asked. He took the reins and steadied Isaac’s horse.

  “I . . . I’s fine, just bruised a might.” Isaac staggered to his feet and brushed himself off. He rubbed his neck. Something was missing. He felt again. The rawhide cord—his star. Isaac dropped to his knees, searching the weeds along the path.

  “You lose something?”

  Isaac clawed at the dried grass and catbriers.

  “Hey, you need help? You want to go back and get some mending before we ride on?”

  Isaac shook his head and climbed slowly into the saddle. His hand went to the place where the star had been. “Daylight’s a-wasting. We’d best get on to Milton so’s you can be back before dark. Them two might not treat you so good if’n they was to find you on the road at night.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” Henry said. “Here.” He tossed over a small sack. “I was saving these for later, but I expect you could use ‘em now.”

  Isaac caught the bag and looked inside.

  Gumdrops.

  Chapter Thirteen

  February 1861

  Sheets of freezing rain turned the road and surrounding fields into dark, formless shadows. Isaac pulled his slicker tightly around his shoulders and hunkered on the wooden seat. The horse plodded, as though in a trance. Isaac twitched the reins. “Hey there, wake up.” He chuckled. “Shoot, I’d be sleeping too, if I wasn’t so durned cold.”

  The road turned. Isaac reined to the left but a rear wheel caught the edge of the roadside ditch. He grabbed the seat with one hand while slapping the horse’s rump with the slack of the reins. The wagon teetered, then slid sideways down the muddy bank and jarred to a stop.

  “Tarnation! First time Mr. Day trusts Isaac to make a delivery and he busts up the wagon.” He looped the reins around the brake handle and jumped down.

  Rain stung his f
ace as he examined the wheel. The axle looked fine. Nothing appeared broken, but a rear wheel was mired in mud clear to the hub.

  Isaac turned to the horse. “We’s stuck some. Getting us unstuck is all on you, ol’ boy.” He stood to the side of the wagon and slapped the horse’s rump with the free end of the reins. “Ya-a.”

  The animal lurched forward. The wagon shuddered, then settled back into the mud.

  Isaac put his shoulder against the rear of the wagon and pushed as he flicked the reins again.

  Nothing.

  “Got to pry that wheel loose. You hold on there.” He searched under the tarps in the back of the wagon and retrieved a sturdy plank. Isaac wedged the board beneath the trapped wheel and flicked the reins again. “Hey! Get on there!” As the horse pulled, Isaac leaned down on the board. The wheel did not budge.

  He wedged the board further under the wheel and snapped the reins once more. “Get! Ha!” The horse dug into the slick mud, straining against the harness. Isaac threw his weight against the lever. The wagon shuddered, then suddenly pulled free, dropping Isaac face first into the ditch.

  He grabbed his hat from the icy water, wiped mud from his face, and then wrung out the hat, shoved it on his head, and glared at the horse. The horse responded with a bemused look.

  “Y’all just hold up on your funning there, mister. If’n you hadn’t took that turn so close Isaac wouldn’t be in this here mess.” He scrambled up the bank and checked the pine dining table lashed in the back of the wagon.

  “Ropes held good.” Isaac yanked the lines that tied down the load. “Nothing broke. We ain’t in no trouble if we gets it delivered tonight.” He patted the horse’s rump, then climbed back into the driver’s seat. “Ain’t just your problem, ol’ boy. We both missed that turn. I’m hoping when we gets to the Patterson place they’ll let ol’ Isaac warm some by their fire before we head back to Mr. Day’s.”

  Freezing winds swirled through his drenched clothing, chilling Isaac to the skin. He gripped the reins with frozen hands. He couldn’t sleep now. If that horse wasn’t gonna watch the road, Isaac had better.

  “Mr. Day said the Patterson farm was halfway to Yanceyville, but Isaac ain’t never been to Yanceyville, so how’s he to know when he’s halfway?” He shook the reins. “Hey horse, you know where halfway is?”

  The night was late when the wagon rolled up the tree-lined lane to the large two-story farmhouse. A single light shone from a downstairs window. Isaac climbed from the wagon, stretching his tired, stiff body. He looped the reins twice around the hitching rail, then climbed the steps and knocked on the door. Shadows danced across the porch as a light inside moved. The door opened a crack. Light fell across Isaac’s face, causing him to blink.

  “What do you want this time a night, boy?”

  “Sir, I come from Mr. Day’s, up Milton way. I has a table for Mr. Patterson.” Isaac couldn’t control the tremble in his voice or the shake of his hands. He removed his hat and bowed slightly.

  “Damn, boy, you’re half frozen! Get in here.” The door swung open. A short, gray haired gentleman with a full beard stood aside, his belly pressing against the buttons of his waistcoat. He waved toward the glowing fire. “What in tarnation is Day thinking, sending his nigras out on a night like this?” Mr. Patterson shook his head. “Here, set down on that stool and warm yourself.”

  Isaac hurried to the hearth.

  Mr. Patterson walked to the darkened staircase and cupped his hand beside his mouth. ”Raleigh,” he called, “fetch a blanket and brew a pot of tea. We have us a boy here who like to froze himself to death.”

  Isaac pulled the stool close to the fire. Mr. Patterson stirred the ashes and added a log. Coals glowed red, then flames leapt around the newly added wood. Isaac scooted back as the heat brushed his face.

  “Thank you, sir. Wagon went in a ditch. I fell in trying to unstuck a wheel.”

  “I can see that, boy.”

  Footsteps padded down the stairway as Isaac stared into the dancing flames. Mr. Patterson handed him a blanket. The footfalls trailed off toward the back of the house. Isaac wrapped the blanket around his shoulders.

  “Where’s your wagon, boy?”

  “Out front, sir. I’ll go fetch your table—” Isaac started to rise.

  “You sit, boy.” Mr. Patterson pointed to the stool, then walked to a door that led to a back room. “Raleigh, when you finish there, go wake Ezekiel and tell him to get that table off the wagon out front, and have him put that horse up in the barn too. Be sure he gives that poor beast a good rub down.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Isaac said. “Mr. Day will be appreciating your kindness.”

  “No sense in letting a good animal die from exposure. No sense in you trying to get back to Milton tonight neither. You get warmed. I’ll have my house girl bring you dry clothes.” Mr. Patterson started up the stairs, then paused and turned toward Isaac. “You can sleep in the barn tonight.”

  A door creaked followed by soft footfalls. “Here, drink this.” The voice was clear, like the song of a wood thrush. Isaac turned. She stood beside him holding a steaming cup of chamomile tea.

  Isaac stumbled to his feet, dropping the blanket to the floor. That same pale blue dress, now covered with a dark blue apron . . .

  He gazed into large, almond eyes.

  She smiled. “We have not been to church lately. Missus Patterson took ill, so we have not made the trip to Milton.”

  Isaac stepped away from the hearth, wiping sweat from his brow. “I . . . I been most every Sunday.” He poked at the stool with his foot. “About gave up on seeing you again.”

  _____

  She faced away as Isaac peeled off the wet clothes and dropped them in a pile. He pulled on a pair of Ezekiel’s trousers and slipped the borrowed shirt over his head. “They’s a mite loose, but they’s dry.”

  She turned around and looked him over, then motioned toward the fire. “You may sit a spell longer—just until the chill is gone. Do you have a name?”

  “They calls me Isaac . . . ’cause I was the first son of Abraham. He’s my pa.”

  “Nice to meet you, Isaac.” She smiled and dipped in a mock curtsy. “My name is Raleigh, because that is where I was born.” She sat on the sofa facing the hearth.

  “Raleigh . . . that’s a nice name.” Isaac nodded. He took a sip of tea. “You been here long?”

  “I have been in Mr. Patterson’s employment for one year.”

  “He just bought you?”

  “No. I am a free woman.”

  “How is you free? Was your mama free?”

  “No, she died giving birth to me, but she died a slave. The Pattersons bought me when I was six years old. They raised me and taught me and, in return, I take care of their household needs.”

  “But you said you come here just last year?”

  She rose and walked to the fireplace. “I said I came into Mr. Patterson’s employment one year ago. When I was twelve, Mr. Patterson told me that if I worked hard he would pay me a small stipend to cover my needs. I told him my need was to be free, so he agreed to let me buy my freedom, one dollar at a time. A year ago he marked the debt paid and gave me my papers.”

  Isaac leaned toward her. “So, if you’s free, why ain’t you in New York, or Boston, or Philadelphia? Why’s you here?”

  “The Pattersons are the only family I’ve ever known. The Lord never blessed them with children, so they have no one to look after them in their old age. I guess I’m their family too.” She sighed. “You’d best get out to the barn now. Take the blanket. You’ll find saddle blankets in the tack room if you need more. I’ll bring you coffee and biscuits in the morning.”

  “You be at church this Sabbath?”

  Raleigh lowered her head. “I don’t expect so.” She wrung her hands, then looked up. “Now, go make your bed in the straw. And, Isaac . . .”

  He turned as he headed toward the door.

  “Stay warm.” She smiled.

  Isaac reached for h
is medallion. His hand wiped the front of his empty shirt.

  Chapter Fourteen

  April 1861

  “War! They’ve fired on Fort Sumter!” The cadet raced down the hallway banging on doors, shattering the Saturday routine of cleaning rifles, polishing shoes, and tending to uniforms. Cadets in every manner of dress rushed into the hallway. Henry tossed his musket on the bed and ran to the door.

  At the end of the hall, a cadet held up a page of newsprint. “The paper says Captain Beauregard commanded the southern cannon.”

  “Beauregard?” Edward said. “He didn’t last five days when he was up here as superintendent, but it sure sounds like he’s making up for it now.” He nudged Henry with his elbow. Nervous laughter passed through the crowd.

  “I hear tell West Point relieved him because of his secessionist leanings,” a cadet called out in a down east accent.

  The plebe with the newspaper held up his hand, silencing the crowd. “It says here Brigadier General P. G. T. Beauregard of the Confederate forces ordered his batteries to open fire on the U.S. fortress early Friday morning after negotiations between Beauregard and Major Anderson, United States Army, reached a stalemate concerning the surrender of Fort Sumter.”

  “Appears to me you make rank quickly in that rebel army,” a Vermont cadet added. Several cadets laughed.

  “Bet Sumter’s guns showed them rebels what for,” a lad from New Jersey said, waving his fist above the crowd.

  “Did we take casualties?”

  “Who won?”

  “Where’s the Navy?”

  Questions flew at the self-appointed town crier as he appeared to try to make sense of the terse news story.

  “Did who take casualties?” Henry glared at the gathering of cadets. The hallway became silent.

  He studied his classmates. The sameness of their uniforms belied the differences in their hearts. Many wore confused, questioning expressions. The realization began to sink in; Americans had fired on fellow Americans.