The Freedom Star

by Jeff Andrews

  “Sean, a moment of your time, please.” Morgan motioned to his Irish immigrant overseer.

  Sean straightened, rubbing the small of his back as he sheathed his knife. “Aye, Mr. McConnell?” He wiped his brow and made his way through the tobacco to Morgan.

  “What’s our progress, Sean?”

  “Well, ye know, sir, the second barn’s ‘most half full. We’ve made up valuable time since the ending of the rains. With a wee bit o’ luck, we should have the harvest under cover on the morrow, Friday at the latest.”

  “Look at that sky.” Morgan pointed, then rubbed the tingling in his arm. “Weather’s coming from the south. Set out torches and work them through the night. I can’t afford to get caught with leaf in the fields if we get another storm like last year’s—that hurricane cost me one fourth of my crop.”

  “Aye sir, that I’ll do, and I’ll have Florence make up some ‘pone so’s we can be feeding the nigras here in the fields—it’ll save us some time, ye know. Don’t ye be worrying none, Mr. McConnell.”

  “I know you’ll pull us through, Sean. You always do.” Morgan turned the horse toward the main house.

  “Afternoon, Massa McConnell. The leaf be looking mighty fine this year.” Mamma Rose smiled, revealing a gap where a front tooth used to be. She held a stick of tobacco.

  “Yes, it is, Mamma Rose, mighty good, and you’re looking right pretty yourself this fine day.” He touched the brim of his hat and smiled at her laughter, then continued his ride up the lane.

  Morgan dismounted by the side porch, handing the reins to Joseph. “Rub her down real good, boy, then turn her to pasture.”

  Joseph nodded and led the horse to the barn.

  Ella looked up from her knitting when he entered the front parlor. “How is the harvest, dear?”

  “Rain’s coming. I told Sean to work them through the night. We have to get the leaf in the barns. Where’s Patrick?”

  “He rode out two hours ago; said he had business over at the Johnston place.” Ella lay her knitting on her lap and folded her hands. “Is there a problem?”

  “I’ll need him this evening. Sean’s been in the fields since before dawn and once the weather arrives, we’ll be pushed to keep the fires burning in the drying barns.” Morgan eased into his wing-backed chair and rubbed his arm.

  “Sarah Johnston came by earlier,” Ella said. “She’d been to town and picked up a letter for you at the post office. I left it there on your side table.”

  Morgan put on his spectacles and opened the envelope.

  August 22, 1861

  Dear Sir,

  I trust this letter finds you in good health. Please forgive my intrusion. I am most embarrassed to have to bring to your attention a situation regarding your slave, Isaac. To be blunt, I must report that he is missing. I entrusted one of my horses and a wagon to Isaac two weeks past. I also provided him a pass for the afternoon. However, as the necessity of this letter attests, his return has been delayed. I have been in touch with the owner of the farm where he was visiting, and he assures me that Isaac departed his place on schedule to return to our home before the sun set. He also shared that Isaac seemed in a rational and sober state at the time.

  As Isaac is a tireless, capable worker, and a bright young lad, this would appear to be very much out of his character. I cannot discern a reason for him to absent himself. He showed exceptional progress with his carpentry, and he appeared quite satisfied in these, his most recent surroundings.

  Sir, as he was entrusted to my care, I must take full responsibility and will, of course, reimburse you for your loss, should he not return.

  My fear is that Isaac has befallen some mishap not of his own doing. Please know that I will spare no effort in uncovering his fate. I will continue to correspond as events warrant.

  Your humble servant,

  Thomas Day, Jr.

  Morgan lifted his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He slowly shook his head.

  “What seems to be the matter, dear?”

  “Letter’s from that Tom Day fella, down in Milton. He says Isaac’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Ella covered her mouth as if to stifle a gasp. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Run off.”

  “Not our Isaac, he wouldn’t run. He’s such a good boy . . .”

  “Day doesn’t think he ran away. Could be he’s fallen victim to some rogue or highwayman. Day will keep us informed.”

  _____

  “You’s too young.” Florence threw the rag on the table and stared at Tempie. She took a deep breath. This day had been coming for some time, but it might have waited another year. “I seen how you’s filling out them dresses in a womanly way, but that don’t mean you’s old enough to be getting serious about no man.”

  “But Mama, he’s sweet on me. Look, he brung me flowers.” Tempie paused from the dough she was kneading and pointed to the jar by the window. Yellow buds opened toward the sun.

  “If’n that boy wants to risk sneaking over here to meet you down by the quarters, that’s fine, but if I hears of you sneaking over to Johnston’s farm again, I’ll . . .” She wiped her hands on her apron and shook her head. “It’s too dangerous, baby. Everybody knows them pattyrollers is out and about most nights now. Is you disremembering how your brother tangled with that Clancy fella last year?”

  “Seems like Isaac come off pretty good. He weren’t the one got kilt.”

  “You hush. Your brother didn’t have nothing to do with that. The poor boy got throwed off his horse, and that’s all.”

  “But I ain’t helping no runaways, Mama, I’m just looking to spend some time with a fella.”

  “Then spend it on McConnell land,” Florence said. ”You’s safe here. Can’t say the same if’n you’s sneaking off somewhere else.” She pointed to the hearth. “Pull that oven out and check to see if’n it’s hot enough.”

  Tempie wiped her hands, then grabbed an iron hook and swung the Dutch oven away from the fire. She lifted the lid and held her hand over the pot. The fat coating the inside of the oven glistened. Steam curled from the edges. “It’s ready, Mama.”

  “Fine. Put them two birds in the pot and add that rice and sauce.” Florence pointed to a bowl on the table.

  Tempie added the chickens and rice, then swung the pot back over the fire and used tongs to place coals on the lid.

  “Mama, mama,” Joseph yelled, racing through the open doorway and knocking his sister aside. “Miss Ella says come quick. Massa’s having fits.”

  Florence grabbed her youngest by the shoulders. “Slow down boy; now what’s all this about Massa McConnell?”

  “Miss Ella says he’s dying, Mama, hurry . . .” Wide-eyed, Joseph pointed toward the big house.

  “Tempie, pull that pot off the fire and come with me. Joseph, show me where.”

  They ran to the big house. Florence hurried down the center hall toward the parlor and Ella’s wails. Morgan was slumped in his chair, his head tilted to one side. Ella knelt, hugging his knees.

  “What happened, Miss Ella?” Florence grabbed Morgan’s hand. Cold, damp. Eyes open, but not focused. One of his pupils appeared enlarged. He struggled to breathe.

  She unbuttoned his shirt and placed a hand on his chest. “His heart’s beating, Miss Ella, but he got something serious wrong. Somebody needs to fetch Doc Blackman. Where’s Massa Patrick?”

  Ella fought back a sob and shook her head. “I . . . I don’t know. He went to the Johnston’s. I don’t know when he planned to return. Oh, God, don’t take my Morgan.”

  “How about Miss Polly, she around?”

  “On . . . on a buggy ride with some children from church.” Ella sobbed again. “What ever shall we do?”

  “Don’t fret none, Miss Ella.” Florence gently touched her shoulder. “Florence is gonna take good care of Massa McConnell.” She turned to Joseph. “Boy, go fetch your pa and tell him we needs Doc Blackman. If he ain’t down by the quarters, go to the creek. He took his pole when he
headed out this morning.”

  Florence motioned to Tempie. “Fetch my remedy bag—it’s hanging beside the chimney over in the cookhouse—and get some water boiling, then fetch garlic from the herb garden.” She pointed to Morgan. “Miss Ella, you has to help me get him to the sofa.” The two women tugged and pulled on his arms until they raised him, then, with one under each arm, they dragged him to the sofa and laid him down.

  “Oh God, Florence, tell me he will be all right.” Ella hovered, fanning her husband with her folding fan. “I can’t imagine losing my Morgan. Whatever would I do?”

  His eyes seemed to follow Florence as she propped his head with a pillow. “Miss Ella, don’t you worry. Abraham done gone to fetch the doctor and Florence is right here to take care of both of you ‘til he arrives.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  September 1861

  “On your feet,” Constable Branson hollered. “Get your black hides out here where a body can get a good look at you.” He slapped the whip across the soles of Isaac’s feet.

  Isaac brought his hand up to shade his eyes as sunlight from the outer office filled the cell door. The whip snapped across his arm and face, slicing into his flesh.

  “Don’t you be raising no hand at me,” the constable said. “What’s wrong with you, boy?”

  Isaac clutched his bloodied wrist.

  Constable Branson cracked his whip and herded Isaac and Perkins to the street.

  Two men waited by a carriage in front of the jail. The taller of the two had a thin, drawn face and wore a light blue suit. A gold chain dangled across his front from watch pocket to waistcoat. Boots, blackened and polished to a high shine, glistened under white gaiters. A blue top hat partially hid oil-slicked, coal black hair. The man stroked his waxed mustache with a pale, bony hand as he studied Isaac. Henry had spoken of such men once. Dandies, he’d called them.

  The shorter man wore faded denim Kentucky jeans and a homespun brown jacket over a plaid cotton shirt. His scuffed brogans looked no better than those on Isaac’s own feet. The butt of a pistol protruded from his belt.

  The taller man paced, examining Isaac and Perkins. He placed the butt of his buggy whip under Isaac’s jaw and tilted back Isaac’s head. “Open your mouth, boy. Let me see those teeth.”

  Isaac obeyed.

  “Very well, and you?” He tapped Perkins on the head with the handle of the whip. Perkins opened his mouth.

  “I can move this merchandise. I have buyers in Mississippi. How much you asking?” the man said.

  Constable Branson rubbed his chin, then pointed to Perkins. “This here nigger goes for three hundred dollars. That boy there,” he said, pointing to Isaac, “will run you seven-fifty.”

  Isaac glimpsed Perkins twitching nervously beside him. He’d been right. This dandy was in the business of buying people, and Isaac was on the block. Raleigh feared that might happen. If he were sold south, who’d tell her? Would he ever see her again? Beads of sweat gathered on Isaac’s brow. His heart pounded.

  “Seven-fifty’s too steep for my troubles. My buyers are looking for field niggers. If I can’t get a decent price up here I can’t make a profit down south.”

  “Six-fifty, but that’s as low as I go. This young buck’ll sell right fine on the local market.”

  “Then I‘ll purchase just the one.” The man in the blue suit shook his head. “He’ll bring a profit in Vicksburg. I have more merchandise to look at in Durham. I’ll be by in the morning to pick him up.”

  _____

  The cell door clanged shut behind him. Isaac stumbled, catching himself as he fell against the wall. He eased to the floor and stretched on his side, his festering wounds still too raw to lean against the rough brick. Perkins sat across the cell.

  “Looks like I’ll be leaving ya come morning, boy.”

  “What’s they gonna do with you in Mississippi?” Isaac said.

  “Perkins can’t go to Mississippi. Ain’t traveling that road no more.” What little light entered the high barred window painted Perkins in a warm glow.

  “They’s done bought you,” Isaac said.” Come morning, you’s headed south whether you likes it or not.”

  “Boy,” Perkins said, shaking his head. “I’s been in them cotton fields too long. The blacksnake whip done cut me for the last time. Moktar Perkins ain’t no white man’s field nigger no more.” He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.

  That man was talking nonsense. Isaac turned on his stomach, resting his cheek on his hand as he studied his cellmate.

  Perkins sighed, then his breathing relaxed.

  Was he sleeping? How could the man sleep knowing he’d been sold south? At least Isaac hadn’t been sold, not yet, anyway. He tried to nap, but visions of Raleigh, Mama, Pa, Tempie, Joseph, even Henry floated through his mind. If he was sold south, he’d never see any of them again. And what about Raleigh . . . how long would she wait? Would she find herself another man, one free to travel where he wanted and live wherever he chose?

  _____

  The rattle of keys in the lock woke Isaac from a fitful sleep. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Sunlight glowed through the window.

  “The shackles stay here,” the constable said from outside the cell. “You can tie him up, if you feel the need.” The iron bolt scraped through the brackets, then the heavy door creaked open. Standing in the doorway with the Dandy behind him, Constable Branson tossed a key at Perkins’s feet. “Get them shackles off, boy. You ain’t taking my leg irons south. They cost me good money.”

  Perkins turned the key and freed his legs. He rubbed the raw skin where the iron cuffs had chafed his ankles, then he turned toward Isaac. “It’s been real nice, boy. You finds that star you be searching for, you hear?” The other shackle clanged to the floor.

  Isaac stood. Words would not come. He searched Perkins’s eyes. They sparkled. Tears? No, joy. Where was the fear? Isaac held out his hand. Perkins grasped it in both of his leathery hands and smiled.

  “Get a move on, nigger.” The constable shoved Perkins with his whip, slamming the cell door closed behind him.

  Isaac grasped the iron bars on the window above him. Sunlight warmed his hands. The voices outside grew faint. Isaac closed his eyes. Perkins’s image was fresh in his mind. All those years of picking cotton, his back scarred from countless whips. The man lost his family—not once, but twice. Was that what awaited Isaac? He pressed his forehead against the cool brick.

  “Hell, he’s running!” The voice called from outside the window. “Stop him. Stop that damned nigger.”

  Two pistol shots echoed against the cell walls.

  Isaac released the bars and slowly slid to the floor.

  _____

  Florence tended to Morgan in the back parlor, eavesdropping on the doctor and Patrick as she worked.

  “I gave your mother a potion to help her sleep,” the doctor said. “She’s been through a lot, poor woman. Let her rest until the effects wear off.” The doctor nodded toward Florence. “Your nigra woman there did a fine job.”

  “I apologize again for not getting out this way yesterday, but I was up country tending to a patient and the storm kept me there overnight. I didn’t get your message until I returned this morning.” Doctor Blackman closed his bag and folded his spectacles, placing them in his coat pocket. “It’s apoplexy, there’s no doubt in my mind.”

  “Will he recover?” Patrick glanced at his father, then back to the doctor.

  “Hard to tell.” The doctor put his hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Some have an almost complete recovery. Others may linger for years, never again speaking or walking on their own. Just no way of knowing.”

  “What will he need?”

  The doctor bent over Morgan and examined his eyes. “The willow leaf tea your nigra concocted was helpful. I’d recommend continuing that. Also, after he gets some rest, regular stimulation will get blood to his limbs. Some patients respond well to vigorous exercise. Others remain backward, as unresponsive
as any idiot.”

  “Thank you, doctor. I’ll send for you if there’s any change in his condition.” Patrick walked the doctor to the door.

  “Hope this rain hasn’t damaged your crops, Patrick.”

  “The tobacco’s already in the barns. We’ll be fine, but thank you for asking.”

  The front door creaked open, then slammed shut.

  “Florence,” Patrick called. “Come here.”

  She hurried to the front parlor. Patrick was seated in Morgan’s chair. “Yes, sir, Massa Patrick?”

  “You may go back to your cooking now. I will tend to any needs my father might have.”

  “Yes, sir, Massa Patrick. You needs me to bring you some of my remedy? It’ll fix him up real good.”

  “Father doesn’t need any African potions. You just get back to cooking.”

  “Begging Massa’s pardon, sir, they ain’t African medicines—Indian woman up Roanoke way taught me . . .”

  “I don’t give a damn who taught you, keep your witch’s brews out of this house. Your job is to cook, not sass white folks. I’ll tend to my father’s needs.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, Massa Patrick.” Florence curtsied and left the room.

  _____

  Florence set a platter of eggs on the table. Polly and Ella were already seated. Tempie poured coffee while Florence set china plates at each place. “Miss Ella, you want I should fix up something soft to feed Massa McConnell? He needs to be eating.”

  “That will not be necessary, Florence. Patrick says he’s taking charge of Mr. McConnell’s recuperation. You may leave a plate of eggs and sausage, maybe a biscuit. Patrick is in the back right now tending to his father.”

  “Florence . . .” A weak voice called from the parlor.

  Patrick stood in the doorway, pale and shaken, his countenance a greenish pallor. “Get that cleaned up . . .” Patrick pointed to the rear parlor, then raced out the front door. Sounds of retching came from the direction of the porch.

  Florence glanced at Ella. “Excuse me, ma’am.” She curtsied, then hurried to the rear parlor.