The Freedom Star

by Jeff Andrews

  Isaac fled to the far side of the cell.

  “Constable Branson, he locked up and headed home ‘bout nine o’clock. Courthouse clock rings the hour, so’s you knows the time. He returns most mornings around eight to feed us, if’n he remembers. They calls me Perkins, Moktar Perkins. Who is you?”

  “They . . . they calls me Isaac.”

  “Got caught running, did ya?”

  “I had me a pass, but I lost it. I been visiting my woman and this here pattyroller, he was just a young’un, he snatched me.”

  “Sounds like a heap of bad luck, sure enough.”

  “Come morning I’ll be telling Massa Branson and he’ll talk to Mr. Day—he’s my boss man. Mr. Day, he’ll get this fixed. I’ll be heading up to Milton again real soon.”

  “You ever work cotton, boy?”

  “Tobacco,” Isaac said to the silhouette of a man across the cell. “But I’s learning carpentry. I might have my own place up in Philadelphia one of these days.”

  “Dreaming of that freedom land, are ya? I been running too. Left my whites in Mississippi during planting time. Got caught stealing chickens a few miles south of here ‘bout a week ago.” He shrugged. “A man gots to eat.”

  Isaac lowered his voice. “I thinks on running right often, but Pa says it ain’t our time. He carved me a token to remind me about that journey to the freedom land. It had the North Star on one side, the drinking gourd on the other.”

  “Sounds real nice. Perkins would sure like to look on that.”

  “I lost it. Wish I had it now.” Isaac rubbed his hand across his chest. “It brung me comfort.”

  “You keep looking, boy. That star’s out there.”

  Isaac nodded. “What happens now? They telling our people we’s here?”

  “Don’t reckon it works like that, boy. If’n he sells you, constable keeps the money. If’n he gives you to your massa, he just gets a small reward. Boy, you’s headed south, sure enough. Now get some sleep. You’ll be learning that cotton business soon enough.”

  Cotton? He didn’t want to learn cotton, just wanted to get home to Mr. Day’s—and see Raleigh again . . .

  Isaac pulled his knees under him and dozed. When he awoke, a pale light cast shadows from the window bars onto the brick wall.

  Isaac studied the small cell. No furnishings. A single tin plate lay in one corner. A wooden bucket rested beside the far wall. Flies swarmed above a narrow brick-lined trench built into the floor on the far end. No deeper than the span of a man’s open hand, it ran to a hole in the outer wall.

  Perkins curled in a ball, appearing hard asleep. From the gray of his whiskers he looked to be close to his pa’s age. He wore nothing more than a pair of britches cut off and frayed below the knees. Dark welts, some festering, covered his back. Until yesterday, Isaac had never known the sting of a whip. Perkins’s scars told a very different tale.

  Isaac leaned against the wall, then recoiled as his wounds touched the coarse brick. He peeled his shirt away from his back, eased it over his head, and held it out. Slashes of dried blood stained the shredded fabric.

  A grunt. Perkins stretched and groaned, then stood and hobbled to the trench. He lowered his britches and made water.

  The cell door clanged open. “Back off or you get no grub.” Constable Branson stood in the doorway, whip in hand. He set a bucket of water on the floor, then tossed two pieces of black bread in the direction of the tin plate. “Give me your empty.”

  Perkins tied up his trousers, then placed the empty bucket at the constable’s feet.

  The constable grabbed the bucket and slammed the door. Metal scraped against metal as a heavy bolt slid into place.

  “Some days he forgets.” Perkins tossed Isaac a piece of bread. “Some days we gets chitlings too, can’t never tell. Water’s for drinking, mostly. If you has to make a pile, wash it down the trench—but don’t be wasting none—one bucket’s all we get today, and maybe tomorrow too, if’n he forgets.”

  Isaac turned the bread over. The crust, soggy in places, crumbled in his hand. There was a sharp, bitter smell. “Bread’s turning . . .”

  “Eat. You ain’t getting fed again today.”

  Isaac took a small bite. He gagged, then grabbed for the tin cup and washed another small bite down with water.

  “Tell me about Isaac. You married? Has you any childrens?”

  “Naw, no children.” Isaac said. “I was visiting my girl yesterday. She’s a free woman, working for the Pattersons up north of here. I lives in Virginia, but my massa loaned me to Mr. Day, up in Milton, to help get some furniture orders filled. You?”

  “I jumped the broom twice,” Perkins said. “Back in Louisiana I married a pretty young thing, ’42 or ’43 was the year. We had us a passel of childrens, seven last I counted, then I runned away. When they caught me, I got sold down to Mississippi. Didn’t have no way to get over to Louisiana, so I found me another woman. She lived on the next plantation and her massa, I ‘spect he took a liking to her, ‘cause when he found out I jumped the broom with his little wench, he went all crazy, had me hung by my thumbs and whipped something terrible.”

  “You got whipped just for jumping the broom?”

  “I ‘spect I ruined his fun. He couldn’t abide putting his little white pecker where my black‘n had been. ‘Bout that time was when I skedaddled.”

  The sound of chains clanking against paving stones echoed from beyond the barred window. Isaac raised on his toes and peered out. Three black men in shackles were being loaded into a wagon.

  Perkins laughed. “Another freedom train done come to the end of the line. Best get used to it, boy. Them’s the sounds of niggers heading south.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  August 1861

  “Company, Fall in.”

  Henry snapped to attention.

  Lieutenant Bruce saluted the company commander. “Sir, the company is formed.”

  Captain Claiborne returned the salute, then commanded, “At ease.” He pulled off his gauntlets as he paced in front of the formation. “Gentlemen, pack haversacks with three day’s rations and forty rounds per man. We move at dawn to meet the enemy at Newport News.”

  A wild cheer rose from the formation.

  The captain raised both hands, silencing the company. “Cavalry will be on our flanks. We will demonstrate in front of the Yankee positions until they crawl from behind their barricades and fight. Let no man shirk his duty. Remember, we fight for the sovereignty of old Virginia.”

  The company erupted in another raucous cheer.

  _____

  “Finally, we’ll face the elephant.” Henry rested against the trunk of a tree and wiped the barrel of his musket. He took aim at an imaginary target.

  Townsend sat on a wooden crate, staring at the hardtack cracker in his hand. “Are we supposed to eat these or throw them at the Yankees?”

  “I hear tell the Yankees have been eating high on the hog,” Henry said. ”Once we chase ‘em back down to Fort Monroe, we’ll toss all this southern hospitality and dig into some New York vittles—steaks, chicken, fresh greens. All we have to do is scare off a mess of blue bellies.”

  “You scared, McConnell?”

  “Hell no. I’ve been training for this for the better part of a year. I’m ready.”

  “You ever kill anybody?”

  “A bear once, and a mess of deer. It can’t be much different.” Henry checked his ammo pouch.

  “Deer don’t look like your brother.” Townsend wagged the cracker in Henry’s face. “And they don’t shoot back.”

  “I swear, Townsend, you sound downright tentative.”

  “I’m just considering the possibilities. By this time tomorrow, some of us could be sleeping beneath the sod.”

  _____

  The pounding of hooves wrested Henry from a fitful sleep. Horse drawn cannons and caissons rumbled through camp, lending an air of excitement to the steamy predawn Tidewater morning. All around him, soldiers hurried to strike can
vas, load wagons, and distribute ammunition. Henry gobbled a quick breakfast of cornmeal and sowbelly, washing it down with chicory coffee. Finally, they’d have the chance to show those Yankees how Virginians could fight. He tied his bedroll, shouldered his musket, and took his place in formation.

  Six hours later, somewhere outside the city of Hampton on the eastern tip of the Tidewater peninsula, the captain commanded, “At ease.”

  Henry slumped to the ground and uncorked his canteen. He took a long swig, washing the dust from his throat, then wiped his mouth with the rough woolen sleeve of his gray shell jacket. “We’ve marched and counter-marched all the damned day,” he said. “If the Yankees are up there over that bridge, they damned sure ain’t looking for a fight.”

  Townsend nodded. “So tell me again why General Magruder wants to parade us in front of those guns yonder?” He removed his kepi and wiped his brow. Townsend looked as bedraggled as Henry felt. For that matter, the entire platoon showed the effects of the forced march and an afternoon of parading for no apparent purpose other than the entertainment of the enemy.

  “Like the captain said, we aim to lure them out for a fight, but they seem disinclined to take up the invitation.” Henry corked his canteen.

  “Okay, on your feet,” the sergeant hollered. “Time to get moving.” He kicked the soles of their boots as he sauntered by.

  Henry rolled his eyes. “One more time, for the sovereignty of old Virginia, right-face, shoulder–arms, forward, march . . .”

  “Shut up, McConnell.” The sergeant glared at Henry, then commanded, “Platoon, right-face, shoulder–arms, forward, march.”

  A faint breeze fluttered the stars and stripes above the Union ramparts on the far shore of Hampton Creek.

  When evening came, Henry and Townsend took up residence on the porch of one of the hundreds of small, two-story wooden houses that dotted the city. Up and down the narrow street, the remainder of Company K spread out, enjoying the hospitality of their southern kin.

  The door opened and an elderly woman toddled onto the porch with a pitcher of tea and two glasses. “Sorry I got no ice to cool you. What with this heat, I used the last of it back in June. My boy’s a soldier too; he’s with the Portsmouth Light Artillery. Are they here about?”

  “I don’t know ma’am.” Henry accepted the tea and took a deep gulp. “We’re the Fourteenth Virginia, from South Boston. We sure do appreciate you fixing us this here tea.” He took off his kepi and fanned himself. “We’re not used to this humidity. South Boston gets hot, but not like this.”

  “Folks here abouts take it for granted,’ she said. “You boys hungry?”

  Henry glanced at Townsend and smiled. “Yes ma’am,” he replied.

  The woman held up her hand as if to signal them to wait, then returned to her house. She reemerged a few moments later holding a platter piled high with fried chicken and bread still warm from the oven. “Help yourselves.” She handed Henry the plate. “Maybe, somewhere tonight, some other mother is doing for my boy too. God bless all of you that’s wearing the gray.” A tear crossed her cheek as she went inside.

  Henry pulled off his boots and rubbed his foot. “My dogs are howling tonight. I can’t recall the last time I did that much marching.”

  “Me neither,” Townsend said. “I aim to be asleep before that church over yonder chimes nine o’clock. I hope the sergeant will let us rise a mite late in the morning—I could sure use the rest.”

  Henry savored every morsel of the chicken, washing it down with sweet tea garnished with a sprig of mint. “Our first night campaigning,” he said, gesturing with a drumstick, “tough duty, I’d say.”

  Townsend nodded as he bit into a slab of bread smeared with apple butter.

  “You think the captain will let us stay here a few days,” Henry said. “Just until we win this here battle with the chicken?”

  “Hell, I’ll reenlist right now if I can serve out the war on Mrs. Nelson’s porch. She’s a better cook than my mother.” Townsend gulped his tea.

  “Your mother cooks?” Henry asked. “Don’t you have slaves?”

  “We had one once. He died. Couldn’t cook anyway. My father runs a small grocery. We don’t have need for no slaves—couldn’t afford to buy one no how.”

  Henry lay against the porch wall and fought back a belch. “Our Florence is the best cook this side of the Blue Ridge, but this here chicken comes mighty close.” He patted his stomach. “Tell the

  sergeant I’ll be ready for campaigning around noon.” He curled on his blanket and covered his eyes with his hat.

  _____

  “Up! Up! To your feet.” The sergeant stormed down the street, banging a bayonet on a cooking pot.

  “What in tarnation’s going on?” Henry sat and rubbed his eyes. Darkness covered the street. “What time is it, anyway?”

  Townsend rolled over and gave Henry a quizzical look. The sergeant came back and stood in front of Mrs. Nelson’s house banging his pot. “Company formation, on the street, now.”

  One by one, soldiers pulled their kits together, rolled their bedrolls, and grabbed their muskets. They formed up facing the houses on the opposite side of the street. As the platoon gathered, a voice from the back rank called out, “It ain’t dawn yet. What’s going on?”

  The sergeant centered himself on the platoon. “Captain said to brief everybody. We has us a mission.” The clock tower chimed eleven.

  “General says the Yankees aim to use Hampton to billet their troops this winter. There’s talk they might be housing runaway slaves here too.” The sergeant paused and rubbed his hand over his face as if he didn’t want to continue. “Our orders is to burn the town.”

  A murmur rumbled through the formation.

  “What about the folks what live here?” One soldier asked.

  “Hey, they’s been good to us . . .” said another.

  “Hampton’s a southern town,” a soldier called from the rear rank. “What Yankee-loving peckerwood come up with that crazy idea?”

  The sergeant waved his arms. “Hush up and listen. You go on back to them houses that put you up. You tell them folks living there they got one half hour to gather their belongings. One half hour—no more.” He paused, then added, “Tell them General Magruder sends his deepest regrets. Dismissed.”

  The platoon stood in place. Not a soldier moved.

  Captain Claiborne strolled up the street and stopped in front of the sergeant. “Is there a problem, sergeant?”

  “No sir.”

  “Very well. Carry out your orders.”

  The sergeant saluted, then did an about face and again hollered, “Dismissed.”

  The platoon slowly dispersed and soldiers returned to their temporary homes. Henry glanced at Townsend. “You want to tell her?”

  “Hell no. You were a corporal once, leadership material, I recall you saying. Sounds like a situation that calls for leadership.”

  “Thanks, buddy.” Henry dropped his pack and climbed the steps. He knocked on the door and waited, then knocked again. The light of a candle flickered through the window.

  Mrs. Nelson opened the door, holding her candle aloft. She wore a light floor length nightgown with full sleeves. Gray hair cascaded over her shoulders. “Yes? Do you boys need something? More tea, perhaps?”

  Henry pulled off his kepi. “Ma’am, we’ve been ordered . . . I mean, well, I got some bad news.” Her eyes filled with anticipation. “What I mean is, we’ve been ordered to evacuate the town. You have thirty minutes to get dressed and gather whatever you need.”

  “Them Yankees coming again?” She said. “I put up with ‘em before, I’ll manage.”

  “No, ma’am,” Henry replied. “The town’s to be burned. You have to leave.”

  “No Yankee’s going to burn our town as long as you sons of Virginia are here defending us. You boys give ‘em hell.” She smiled and shook her fist.

  Henry ran a hand through his hair and shot a glance at Townsend. “Mrs. Nelson, ma�
�am, General Magruder has ordered the town burned so the Yankees can’t use it for billeting. We’ll be laying the torch to your home in thirty minutes.”

  Her chin dropped and her green eyes opened wide. She locked Henry in an icy stare and set her jaw, then stepped inside and slammed the door.

  Henry gathered his belongings and scuffled to the street where the platoon would reform. He stared at Mrs. Nelson’s tidy little home. It wasn’t right, Virginia boys burning out their own folks. This wasn’t how a war was to be fought. How could he write home about such terrible deeds? And when the news did reach South Boston, how could the Fourteenth ever march those streets again with flags unfurled and heads held high?

  Mrs. Nelson stepped onto the porch wearing a tattered blue housecoat over her nightgown and carrying a small valise and a daguerreotype of a young man in uniform. She placed her belongings on the rocking chair, then turned and pulled the door closed, stooping to straighten the rug in front of the door. She gathered her belongings and walked to the street. Her gaze met Henry’s; tossing back her head, she quickly looked away and stormed up the street.

  By midnight the Fourteenth had shifted to the south side of the city to defend against Union interference from Newport News. With their backs to Hampton, the company manned the picket line, searching the darkness for Yankee activity, while to their rear, a diabolical firestorm roared through tinder-dry wooden structures. One by one, soldiers turned, as if drawn to the inferno, but Henry stood his post. If he refused to acknowledge the fiery maelstrom, perhaps he could deny the guilt that swelled within him. Yet, even as he looked away, he couldn’t escape the conflagration reflected in the tears of his fellow soldiers.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  September 1861

  Morgan reined in the dappled mare at the edge of a muddy field where slaves hunched over rows of yellow-green tobacco. The men split stalks and cut the plants while women and children hung the cut tobacco over six-foot long wooden sticks. When the sticks were full, slaves loaded them on wagons and drove them to the drying barns where they hung in the heat of hardwood curing fires.