by Jeff Andrews
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“I do think about us,” Raleigh said. “I try not to, but I can’t help myself.” The long-stemmed dandelion she casually dangled in her fingers matched her pale yellow dress. White lace edged her bonnet.
Isaac took her by the hand. They strolled beneath the old oaks lining the lane to the Patterson house. In neighboring fields, green shoots reached for the sun after days of soaking rain. A shimmering haze edged the cobalt sky.
“But, you says we got no future—”
Raleigh stopped and turned toward him. “I mustn’t lead you on. It isn’t fair, not to either of us.” She looked into his eyes. “You’re a slave, I’m free. What does our future hold if you can be hired out or, heaven forbid, sold away at any moment? I can’t live my days fearing that the man I marry will be torn from me at the whim of some owner who needs a few extra dollars.”
“My white folk won’t sell me. They’s not slave traders, they’s farmers, and Pa, sure, he travels some for Massa McConnell, but never no more’n a few weeks at a time.”
Raleigh shifted her gaze to the fields.
“What if I was free?”
“What do you mean?” She turned, a questioning look on her face.
“What if I runs away, maybe up to Philadelphia? Then would it be different?”
“If you’re up north and I’m in Carolina, and there’s two armies fighting a war in between, how is that better?” She sighed. “Besides, you’ll be hunted, and even if they don’t catch you, you’ll never be able to return to North Carolina.”
“You can run with me, we’ll go north together.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’d slow you down. The dogs would be on us in no time. You’d get whipped, then sent back to Virginia, and likely as not I’d get sold at auction.”
“They can’t sell you. You got papers.”
Raleigh tossed the dandelion toward a pair of geese. “I’m free because I have papers, and because the people who freed me are here to speak for me. Out there,” she drew her hand across fields of new corn, “a black woman is a slave unless some important white man says otherwise. If I was to be caught with a runaway, no patroller would waste his time—or lose his profits—trying to prove me a free woman.”
Isaac raised his hands in protest. “I can’t be no slave, I can’t be no runaway, I has to be free? What if I gets to that promised land and then I sends for you?”
“Isaac, I . . . maybe . . .”
He cut off her words with a kiss.
“Missy Raleigh? Missy Raleigh? You gots to come quick!” Ezekiel waved frantically as he hobbled down the lane. When he caught up to Isaac and Raleigh he bent over clutching his stomach and sucked in several deep breaths. Finally, he straightened. “Missy Raleigh, Missus Patterson took ill. Massa says she’s having . . .” he took another deep breath and exhaled, “one of her spells. Massa says he needs you up to the house.”
“Tell Mr. Patterson I will be along shortly, and tell him there is no need to worry.”
Ezekiel hurried back up the lane.
Smiling, Raleigh turned to Isaac. “The missus has a weak constitution. When food becomes disagreeable she suffers a bilious attack. If Mr. Patterson is alone with her when it happens, he becomes overly excited. I must attend to her.”
When they arrived at the farmhouse, Raleigh immediately went inside and Isaac took a seat on the top step. Soon, Ezekiel came out and settled next to him on the edge of the porch. He gazed at Isaac. “You ain’t like them others.”
“What others?” Isaac said. “What do you mean?”
“Many a buck’s come by courting, but Miss Raleigh, she don’t give ‘em no never mind.” Ezekiel dangled his feet beneath the porch. “She’s sweet on you though.”
“How do you know?” Isaac stared at Ezekiel. “She say so?”
“Boy, don’t you know nothing about womens? It’s in her eyes.” Ezekiel pointed two fingers toward his own eyes. “I sees how she looks at you. She’s thinking on them possibilities.”
Isaac wrapped his arms around his knees and lowered his head. A toe protruded from a hole in the side of his shoe. “Maybe she’s thinking on possibilities, but she ain’t found none yet what suits her. She says I need papers, if’n I wants anything more’n a few hours of just sociable visiting. Can’t be no slave, can’t be no runaway, got to have papers . . .”
“So, how’s you going to get you some papers?”
“Don’t know. I ain’t figured out nothing about that. Maybe I runs north, but Raleigh ain’t much taken with that idea. Reckon I has some thinking to do.”
“Ezekiel, come take this, please.” Raleigh stood in the open door holding a white earthen washstand bowl.
Ezekiel sprang to his feet and crossed the porch.
Raleigh looked at Isaac. ” The missus is feeling poorly. She’ll want me close by. We’d best end our visit for today.”
“I understands,” Isaac said. “Maybe I’ll come back in a week or so?”
Raleigh smiled. “Maybe . . .”
Ezekiel took the bowl, but stumbled as he turned, splashing the contents across Isaac’s chest. Isaac jumped back, pulling the wet shirt away from his body with both hands. He glanced at Ezekiel, then at Raleigh.
She laughed. “You look like a scared chicken on the chopping block. It’s only a little bile; it won’t hurt you. Here, leave that shirt on the porch.” She turned to Ezekiel. “Go fetch Isaac one of your fresh ones.”
Ezekiel jumped from the porch and ran toward the barn.
“I’ll launder that,” Raleigh said, pointing to the soiled garment. She smiled. “I guess now you’ll have to come back to get your shirt, maybe next week?”
Those beautiful eyes—what could they be saying?
Chapter Eighteen
July 1861
The sun hovered a hand’s width above the horizon—daylight a plenty for the return journey to Milton. Isaac relaxed the reins, settling the horse into an easy gait. He rubbed a callus on his hand as he considered Raleigh’s words. Freedom papers . . . sounds good, but how could he get them? She’d purchased hers, and Pa’d mentioned an arrangement with Massa McConnell—perhaps Isaac could make one too, work extra jobs and earn enough to buy his freedom.
A quarter mile up the road a rider on horseback appeared heading toward him. Isaac steered to one side, making room for the lone traveler to pass. Soon, the rider was upon him, a young man, more like a boy, his long, reddish-blond hair stuffed under a wide brimmed hat. His partially unbuttoned collarless red shirt exposed a sunburned neck. The cuffs of his frayed denim trousers hung over dirty ankle high boots. Freckles covered his face. Sixteen, seventeen at the most. Isaac nodded to the traveler.
The rider held up a hand as he drew alongside the wagon. A shotgun lay across his saddle. “W-where’s you h-headed, boy?”
He didn’t look like a patroller—he was just a boy. What could he want with Isaac? “Evening, sir. I’s heading to Milton.”
“Y-you running?” The boy stared at Isaac, then shot a nervous glance behind him. He pointed the shotgun at Isaac and asked again, “Y-you a r-runaway?”
“No sir, just hauling lumber for the man I works for.” Isaac jerked a thumb toward the back of the wagon.
The boy peered behind him again and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He lifted the shotgun to the crook of his arm. A finger slid inside the trigger guard. He thumbed back one of the hammers. “Sh-show me your p-pass.”
Fear flashed in the boy’s eyes as Isaac reached for his pass. His hand found a smooth shirtfront—no pocket. “I has a pass, it’s in my other shirt. Shirt got spilled on, so’s I left it to be laundered.” Isaac patted his shirt and his britches, searching for the pass he knew wasn’t there.
“T-that’s b-bull.” The boy spit a streak of tobacco juice on the wagon wheel. “W-what we g-got here is a r-runaway. Y-you probably stole that there w-wagon, the horse too.”
“Didn’t steal nothing. This here’s Mr. Day’s wagon, from up Milton. I
works for him. Folks here abouts, they know me, you can ask down to the Patterson farm, they’ll tell you.”
“F-first day patrolling and I already c-catched me a nigger. Reckon I’ll g-get me a nice reward.” He spit again and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “And y-you’ll get a b-bullwhip across your b-black ass—or maybe a lynching.”
The boy’s just scared. He had to make him understand. “It ain’t stolen, mister . . .” Isaac took in the wagon with a sweep of his hand. “This here is Mr. Day’s wagon. He give me a pass.”
“O-one more w-word outta you and I’ll b-blow a hole clean through your lying hide. Now t-turn this here wagon around. We’s going to Yanceyville.”
They headed south, the boy riding beside the wagon, his shotgun resting on the saddle, pointing at Isaac.
Mr. Day was sure gonna be mad. He’d told him about being careful, but Isaac still forgot his pass.
His young captor spit, breaking the monotony of hoofs treading on packed dirt. Was his finger off that trigger? Maybe Isaac could jump him, take his gun? No, that would just get him in more trouble. He’d trust the people in Yanceyville to figure this out, then he’d be headed back to Milton.
The last rays of daylight reflected in the upper windows of the white clapboard homes as they entered Yanceyville. “Over there.” The boy pointed. “That b-brick building.”
Isaac did as instructed, reining the horse in front of a one-story structure. A faded sign above the door read, “Constable.” Isaac formed the word on his lips, but made no sound.
“Get down.” The boy poked Isaac with the barrel of the shotgun. “Set yourself yonder, by that wall. Y-you stir and you’ll be p-picking buckshot out your ass.”
Isaac squatted beside the brick wall. The boy knocked on the door. A short man with a gray beard appeared wearing a dark vest over a stained white shirt. Matted hair stuck up in the back as though he’d just awakened from a nap. The man rubbed his eyes, listening as the boy talked. Isaac couldn’t hear what was said. Several times the boy motioned in Isaac’s direction with the shotgun. Finally, the older man went inside. Isaac smiled to himself. The constable man would be setting things straight. He’d find out about Mr. Day and then he’d send Isaac back to Milton.
The constable reappeared with a set of iron shackles and a whip. He tossed the shackles at Isaac’s feet. “You, lock those on your ankles and turn the key. Make ‘em good and tight.”
“Sir, I ain’t no runaway. Isaac . . .”
The whip cracked against Isaac’s arm. “Shut up and put on them irons.”
Isaac’s stomach churned. The man wasn’t hearing Isaac—didn’t want to hear him. He clamped the shackles onto his ankles.
“Test ‘em.” The constable pointed to the boy. “If he didn’t lock ‘em tight, you smack him and have him do it again.”
The boy tugged at each shackle, then removed the key and handed it to the constable. “T-they’s good. D-does I g-gets my reward now?”
“What you’ll get is my boot up your ass if’n you don’t get out of here—and if you go out patrolling again, you’d best partner up. You’s lucky this here nigger didn’t jump you and cut you wide open. They’s savages, you know. He’d as soon cook you for supper as look at you. Now get. If there’s any reward, I’ll let you know.”
The boy’s shoulders slumped. He climbed on his horse and rode away.
“You, get up.” The constable poked Isaac with his boot.
The shackles weighed on his ankles as he stood. “Sir, I ain’t no runaway. I works for Mr. Day . . .”
“Shut up, nigger. This way.” The constable pointed with the whip toward the open door.
The chains forced short steps. Isaac stumbled and caught himself on the doorframe. “Sir, Mr. Day, up in Milton . . .”
Like an angry barn cat, the whip raked across his back. Isaac fell to his knees. Another blow gashed his flesh, then another.
“When I tell you to shut up, that’s exactly what I mean, boy. Now, get in that cell. I ain’t got time to stand here and give you what for.”
Isaac pulled himself hand over hand up the doorframe. The constable jammed the butt of his whip into Isaac’s bloodied back. Isaac stumbled into a small room illuminated by a single lantern on a wooden desk. Another shove forced him through a darkened doorway. He fell against a cold stone floor as a heavy door clanged shut, cutting off the lantern’s light.
Chapter Nineteen
July 1861
Henry shoved the wheelbarrow up the earthen embankment and dumped another load of dirt in front of the logs supporting the breastworks. The mid-summer sun scorched his neck, already sunburned from weeks of preparing field fortifications. He’d known Virginia summers, but the dust of South Boston was nothing compared to the humidity of Virginia’s Tidewater. In June the Fourteenth had moved from Camp Lee down the peninsula to Fort Allen, a small redoubt on Jamestown Island, south of Williamsburg. Fort Allen anchored the southern flank of Colonel Magruder’s defensive line. Here they would halt, or at least impede, any Yankee advances up the peninsula against Richmond.
Work on the defensive positions filled every day from reveille until evening colors. For those still healthy, the workload increased as sunstroke and disease depleted the regiment’s ranks.
Heat waves shimmered above the horizon in a cloudless sky. Henry wiped his brow. Next to him, a soldier leaned against his shovel, then staggered and collapsed.
“Townsend, quick, take his arm. Over there, to the shade.” Henry pointed.
The other soldier grabbed the fallen rebel. Together, they dragged him to what little shade the redoubt provided. Henry splashed water from his canteen on the fallen soldier’s face. Slowly, the man regained consciousness.
“Four more were taken to the hospital today,” Henry said. He offered Townsend the canteen. ”Water?”
“The colonel’s a doctor, you know.” Townsend took a drink. “He trained up in Pennsylvania. He’s saying the regiment’s having a touch of the typhoid fever.”
“Then it seems like we ought to pull back to Richmond and leave all these skeeters and flies to the damned Yankees.” Henry pulled a bandana out of his pocket and mopped his brow. “If Virginia boys can’t tolerate this stinking place, think what it’d do to those blue bellies.”
Townsend laughed. “Probably wipe ‘em out within a month, but hell, let ‘em come anyways. This here fort, and them four guns we’re mounting, they’ll stop durn near anything.”
The breastworks rose above a ditch dug eight feet deep and fifteen feet wide on the enemy’s side. Confederates could stand behind the embankment and fire down on any hapless attackers.
“I do believe you’re right, Townsend. When I stand in front of Fort Allen and see what those Yankees will face, shucks, I can’t imagine being ordered to attack such an obstacle. I sure hope the Yankees get that order soon, though, ‘cause I’m itching for a good fight.”
The Fourteenth had missed all the fighting so far: Big Bethel, a small Confederate victory just down the Peninsula, and Manassas, a grand rebel victory further north.
“McConnell, gather your boys and fall in for drill.” The sergeant shaded his eyes as he looked up at the redoubt.
“Drill? Hell, all we do is drill, and if we ain’t drilling we’re shoveling dirt. We need us a shooting war.” Henry brushed off his britches and straggled back to the tent area.
Muskets stood four to a stack, interlocked by their bayonets, teepee style, at “stack arms.” The men formed two ranks behind their muskets. The sergeant centered himself on the platoon, looked up and down the files, then leaned back and bellowed, “Platoon, take-arms!”
At each stack, a soldier from the rear rank stepped forward, took his musket, and resumed his position. Two soldiers in the front rank then grasped the remaining weapons. They lifted the three muskets, raising the stack, and brought the butts of the muskets together, disengaging the interlocked bayonets. One of the soldiers passed the extra musket to the rear rank and then all four soldi
ers brought their weapons down to their right sides at the position, “ordered arms.”
“Platoon, right-face. Shoulder-arms. Forward, march.” The platoon stepped off smartly.
Drill lasted an hour and a half. Three soldiers fell out from the heat. At the end of the drill, the sergeant marched the platoon back to their tents and faced them to the front. On the command, “stack-arms,” the muskets were returned to their stacks of four.
“Supper in ten minutes. Platoon, dismissed.”
Henry turned to Townsend. “Do they think we can exist on that gruel they call soup? I was already lean when I joined up. I haven’t cast a shadow now for more’n a month.” Henry patted his flat stomach.
Townsend fanned the air in front of his face. “Course, the stench from the sinks, plus all that horse shit piling up in this little acre of paradise, that’s enough to wipe any thought of food from a civilized mind.”
“Maybe that’s the plan.” Henry slapped Townsend’s back. “The shortage of rations won’t be noticed, except on those rare days when a sympathetic breeze lifts the fragrance of this stinking hole from our midst.”
Chapter Twenty
July 1861
Sweat stung the gashes left by the whip on Isaac’s back. He rolled over. The cool brick floor momentarily soothed the burning.
Had he slept or passed out? Dank air held the stench of a summer outhouse. He struggled to his knees. The movement tore at fresh scabs. Lord, such pain. He’d best move slow or he’d reopen the wounds. Careful . . . . He reached into the darkness: cold, rough, a brick wall. He hit something that moved and rattled. He groped . . . a tin cup? He set it against the wall and then crept forward again, brushing against an object covered in a rough cloth. A leg? Isaac jerked back his hand.
“I reckon it’s past midnight,” a deep voice spoke from the shadows.
Isaac recoiled.
“You gets used to the dark in time.”