The Freedom Star

by Jeff Andrews

  Morgan lay on his back. A fetid stench filled the room. His eyes followed her as she lifted his blanket.

  “Appears you done fouled yourself, Massa. It ain’t nothing new for Florence, I treats lots of sick folk down to the quarters. I’ll have you cleaned in no time.” She pulled the blanket out of the way. “Tempie . . .”

  “Yes, Mama.” Tempie stood in the doorway, her face twisted in a frown.

  “Fetch me a pitcher and a bowl—and some rags.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “First thing we has to do is get you out of these soiled clothes.” Florence began to lift the nightshirt over Morgan’s head. His gaze flashed from the doorway to Florence. She smiled and pulled the blanket up again just as Tempie returned.

  “Set that over here,” Florence said “Then pull them doors shut when you leaves.”

  Tempie set the pitcher and bowl on the side table and dropped the rags next to the bed. She reached for the brass latch and pulled the pocket doors closed across the wide doorway.

  “Now we’s private,” Florence said. “It’s just you and me.” She placed a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “Massa, this here’s gonna be hard on you, you being a proud man and all, but you knows Florence is gonna take good care of you, so you just make up your mind to stop fretting and trust ol’ Florence.” She smiled. His eyes welled, then closed tightly for a long moment. When he opened them again the fear was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  November 1861

  “Cato, you stop that.” Tempie giggled and pulled away from the lanky boy.

  “It’s just a tickle to put a smile on your face. Come on, sit beside me.” He dropped to the grass under a spreading oak and patted the ground next to him.

  Tempie tucked her dress up under her knees as she sat. Moonlight danced on Cato’s face, highlighting an impish smile. She and Polly had played make believe so many times, finding princes or handsome knights to marry, but play-acting never felt like that. What was he thinking? She peered at her chest. Wasn’t all round yet, not like a grown woman’s. She sighed. “Cato, Mama says I can’t be coming here no more. She’s fretting about them pattyrollers.”

  “Ain’t nothing to worry about. They’s out on the roads, not back up here in the fields. I been crossing this land from our farm to yours for better’n two years now, and I ain’t never had no trouble.”

  “Just the same, if you wants to see me next Saturday, you’d best come on down by the McConnell’s slave quarters. You runs faster than me, and if them whites is patrolling, you can run the creeks and jump the fences.”

  “I ‘spect so, but I feel strange down there—like we’s being watched. Your Aunt Lilly and that Mama Rose, they’s all the time pointing at us and whispering . . .”

  Tempie smiled. Her Aunt sure enough teased that boy the last time he was there. Maybe he wanted some alone time, just the two of them. She snuggled against him. “Weather’s turning. Winter’ll be on us soon. Setting ‘round that big fire will feel mighty good—better’n shivering out here like we’s doing tonight.”

  Cato pulled Tempie’s shawl tight around her. He smoothed the loose cotton wrap and settled his arm on her shoulder.

  Tempie shivered, but not from the cold. It felt good, being close up like that. What if he tried to kiss her? Maybe she’d let him. What if he didn’t try?

  “Tell me about Isaac,” Cato said. “You hear anything?”

  There they were, alone, and all he wanted to talk about was Isaac? She glared. “Ain’t heard none since Miss Ella said he’d gone missing.”

  “You think he’s running?” Cato folded his arms over his knees.

  “He talked some about running. He helps folks coming through on their way north, so he knows what to do, but this don’t feel right—it ain’t his time.” Tempie pulled her shawl close around her, but it couldn’t replace the warmth, or the excitement, of Cato’s arm.

  “You ever think about running?” Cato shoved a stalk of grass between his teeth.

  Tempie stared into the distant sky. “I thinks about being up north, about being free, but some nights I lays awake, and I hears them dogs off in the woods—not knowing if they’s chasing deer or tracking my kin—and I gets scared.” She placed her hands on the damp grass, leaned back, and looked at Cato. “Still, being free has to be something special. Maybe someday, with the right fella . . .”

  Cato tossed the grass stem aside and stood. “The hour’s late.” He held out his hand. “Pattyrollers or not, we’d best be getting home.”

  She took his hand and he pulled her up, holding her close. Their eyes met, then Cato stepped back and dropped his hands to his side. “Saturday night? How’s about you meet me over by the old smokehouse? I know it’s on Johnston land, but nobody ever goes there, and the white folk, they don’t pay it no mind. If’n you likes, we can set a small fire in the fireplace, and we’ll be alone.”

  She stared at him. Alone? So he could chew grass and talk about her brother? They could do that at the quarters. “No, don’t think so.”

  Tempie flounced away, then slowed as she reconsidered. She turned toward Cato. “Same time?”

  _____

  “Massa McConnell, you has to drink this here willow tea. I done made it good and strong and it’s gonna help get you back to rights.” Florence slid her arm under Morgan’s head and lifted, putting the cup to his lips.

  Morgan shuddered. It felt as though his lips moved, but all he managed to utter was an agitated mumble. That was the most God-awful stuff he’d ever tasted. Willow bark tea? Pressed garlic? Was she trying to kill him? It had to be her revenge for not putting that new roof on the cookhouse.

  “There, another big sip and you’s all done, then I’s going to change you. Good thing your insides is working proper. Now, don’t you fret none, Massa. You’ll be cleaned up and comfortable again in no time, then we begins your exercising, just like the doctor said.” She smiled.

  He wasn’t some damned helpless infant. He didn’t need a woman doing for him, especially a slave woman. Where was Patrick, or Ella? They should have known that wasn’t right, some nigra woman tending to his private needs like that.

  He couldn’t move his head, but Morgan took in his surroundings as best he could by moving his eyes. Parlor . . . he was in the back parlor. His eyesight was no longer blurry—at least now he could see. Thank you, Lord. He’d thought he’d gone blind. Hell, there she was with those damned rags again. God, so humiliating. His face warmed. Could she see him blushing?

  “There. Let Florence take care of these, then she’ll be back and work them arms. They’ll get strong again if’n you uses them.” She lifted the pile of rags. Her footfalls trailed down the hall.

  He must have blacked out, but he couldn’t recall. He didn’t remember Doc Blackman being there neither. Why wouldn’t somebody tell him what was going on? Why couldn’t he talk? He couldn’t move his arms. My God, he couldn’t even feel his arms. What had happened? God, he was scared . . .

  “Give me that hand.” Florence took his right hand. She massaged each finger, kneading them from the knuckles to the tips. Morgan closed his eyes and relaxed.

  “Squeeze.”

  He looked up. Her focus was on his hand. Something laid across his palm—her fingers? He couldn’t move his head to see.

  “Squeeze, hard as you can.”

  Squeeze her fingers? He’d try . . .

  “Massa McConnell, you has to squeeze. Ain’t gonna get strong lessen you does like I tells you.”

  He was squeezing—squeezing hard as he could . . .

  “That’s good, Massa McConnell. I seen your fingers wiggle some. Try again.”

  Lord God, please . . . . He studied Florence’s eyes as she watched his hand. Anger? No, more like disappointment. His fingers hadn’t moved.

  “Now, we’s gonna work that arm, get them big muscles moving.” Florence pushed his arm until it bent at the elbow, then pulled it fully extended. She repeated the motion again and again. “Gonna take
some time, but you’s gonna use this here hand. Ain’t no apoplexy keeping you down.”

  Apoplexy? Oh God, was he going to die?

  “Florence!”

  Morgan turned his eyes toward the angry voice. Patrick stepped into view. Good, he’ll tell him what happened. Had they gotten the crops in? What day was this, anyway?

  “I told you, none of your potions or cures,” Patrick said. “You just clean him up twice a day and feed him as best you can.” Patrick looked down at Morgan as though studying a curiosity.

  “But Massa Patrick, the doctor said exercising was good for your pa. It’ll make him strong again, and—”

  Patrick yanked Florence away from the bed. “For the last time, do as you’re told. No doctoring, he’s beyond that. His dying will be a mercy. Now, get out.”

  Her rapid footsteps faded down the center hall. The back door opened, then slammed closed.

  What was wrong with that boy? Patrick knew they didn’t treat their nigras that way. He’d have to have a talk with him . . .

  Patrick stared at Morgan, then reached down and drew the blanket around Morgan’s neck, tucking it under his shoulders. “You’d best stay warm, Father. Doc Blackman says there’s a small chance you might recover, but I expect the farm is mine to run for now, and I plan on a few changes. For one, the slaves will learn what it is to do an honest day’s work. Now get some rest.” He smiled and turned away. The heavy clomp of boots trailed down the center hall.

  Small chance he might recover? He’d show him. It was still his farm, and Patrick couldn’t change that.

  _____

  “Sir, sir . . .” Isaac banged on the thick wooden door with the tin cup. “Massa Branson, you out there? Isaac has to tell you something. I belongs to Massa McConnell, up South Boston way. He loaned me to Mr. Day, there in Milton. Isaac ain’t no runaway. Isaac don’t never run.” He dropped the cup and slumped against the door. “Ain’t nobody out there. Nobody listening. I beats on that door all the day long, gets nothing back but cussing and whipping. Dear God, don‘t let Isaac be sold south. I can’t be working no cotton fields. I has a family to care for, Raleigh too, if’n she’ll have me.”

  Isaac slid to the floor and clutched his knees, rocking to and fro. “Please, Lord, I been a sinner, I knows. I kilt me a man up there in Virginia. Didn’t mean him no harm, but he’s dead, just the same. And me and Henry, we stealed them pies off the sill last summer, and Lord, I doesn’t pray near often as I should, but I’s real sorry. Please, don’t let Isaac be sold south to no Mississippi cotton farm.”

  He collapsed against the wall, leaning his head on his knees. Maybe Mr. Jones was right. Maybe God didn’t hear slave prayers.

  Voices in the outer office caused Isaac to press an ear against the door.

  “I don’t answer to no nigger,” Constable Branson said. “I don’t care who you is, and I ain’t got your nigger boy in this here jail no how.”

  “Then you won’t mind opening the cell . . .”

  “I’ll be goddamned if I’ll open my jail for any damned nigger. You get on out of here right now or you’ll see the inside of my cell, all right, and that’s for sure.”

  “You are on notice, sir. My attorney shall be here within the day, and he will have an order from the county judge to open that door.”

  That voice—Thomas? Yes! “Mr. Day! Mr. Day!” Isaac banged on the cell door. “I’s right here. This is Isaac. I’s here, Mr. Day.”

  Isaac strained to listen. Had he heard?

  The cell door flew open.

  “I told you to be quiet, you goddamned nigger . . .”

  The whip sliced Isaac’s face and arm. He rolled away, but the leather cut into his back.

  “I’ll have you sold south before any damned lawyer can see a judge. This here’s Friday. Court’s closed ‘til Monday. Come Sunday, I’ll have folding money in my pocket and you’ll be no more’n a bad memory headed to that land of tall cotton.”

  The cell door clanged shut.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  December 1861

  Winter gusts rattled the brittle corn stalks. Tempie pulled her thin coat close. A tapestry of stars sparkled throughout the moonless sky. She hurried across the wagon path and slipped into the woods. Ahead lay the clearing and the stone chimney. She crept behind a large oak and watched. Without the moon, the clearing became a confusing pool of shadows. Was Cato there?

  She waited.

  Movement? Yes, there, near the chimney . . .

  “Cato?” she whispered.

  No answer.

  She ducked behind the tree. Mama was right, she shouldn’t be out there. The next time that boy wanted to see her, he’d best come on down to the quarters.

  “Cato?” She called, peeking around the tree.

  A dark, indistinct, figure stepped from the shadows.

  “Cato, is that you?” Her voice trembled. Lord, it had better be—or she was fixing to take off running.

  “Tempie?” Cato whispered. “Where was you? I been setting here most of the evening.”

  “Boy, you had me scared out of my wits,” Tempie said, patting her heart as she walked toward him. “Why didn’t you answer?”

  “I wasn’t sure it was you.”

  “Can’t stay long,” Tempie said. “Besides, it’s cold out here. Didn’t you say you was gonna light a fire?”

  Cato put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “Come over by the chimney, I set a small fire and I brung this here blanket to set on.” He held up a threadbare cotton rag. “You’ll be warm soon enough.”

  Tempie smiled. That arm around her shoulders was warming her just fine.

  Cato spread the small blanket on a bed of pine straw, then knelt, striking a piece of flint with the back of his knife. Sparks caught in a nest of cedar bark shavings. He cupped the fuzzy ball of dried bark, held it close, and blew gently. A spark glowed, faint at first, then blossomed into a small flame. He set the burning wad under a teepee of dried twigs. The growing flames revealed Cato’s broad smile.

  “How you been, girl?”

  Tempie nestled next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. It was sure better than fussing with Aunt Lilly or Mama Rose and all their carrying on down at the quarters. Here they had their own fire and no one watching.

  “You mad or something?” Cato said.

  “What?” Tempie responded. “’Course I ain’t mad. Why’d you say that?” She lifted her head and looked at him.

  “I asked you a question but you pretended like I weren’t here.”

  “I was just enjoying the fire. Ask me again.” She returned her head to his shoulder.

  “I said, how is you? And Massa McConnell, how’s he doing? He still having troubles? And what’s they saying about Isaac?”

  Tempie rolled her eyes. “Massa had a letter from Mr. Day, down North Carolina. I heard Polly reading it to him, even though Miss Ella says Massa McConnell can’t hear none. Letter said he thinks Isaac was caught up by the pattyrollers. They’s checking the jails and such, but no sign of him yet.”

  “You warm enough?” He pulled her closer.

  “I’m doing right fine.” Tempie smiled. Somewhere in the next woodlot, an owl’s low, mournful cry drifted on the breeze. A warm glow flickered from the firebox. Was this the right time to ask how he felt? It seemed like he was all the time talking about everybody else. Maybe, just this once, he could put his mind on her.

  “Cato, you ever think about me, I mean, when you’s working the fields and such?”

  “Course I does. I thinks on you all the time.”

  “It don’t seem like you do. You only ever ask about Isaac, or Massa McConnell, or how does I like the weather . . .”

  He scowled. “That ain’t so. I asks about you all the time. I just now said how is you, but you wasn’t listening.”

  Tempie cocked her head. “Ask me again.”

  He seemed to hesitate, then mumbled, “H-how is you?”

  “I’s pleased to be here. How abou
t you?”

  Cato smiled. “I ‘spect I’s pleased too.” His arm tensed as he flexed the fingers resting on her shoulder. “Tempie, I . . . I doesn’t know much about courting and such. Truth is, I gets . . . scared, well, maybe not scared, just shook up a mite. You know what I mean?”

  “You ever kiss a girl?”

  Cato stared at the ground and shook his head.

  “I ain’t never kissed no boy neither.” Tempie searched his face. The muscles around his mouth quivered, as though he wasn’t sure what to do. Tempie put her hand behind his neck and pulled him to her, closing her eyes. Their lips touched, then slowly he pulled away. She opened her eyes.

  Cato lifted her face in his hands. “I . . . I ‘spect I needs more practice.” He smiled, closing his eyes again. They kissed once more, pulling each other close. Cato eased her to the ground.

  She reclined, draping her arms around his neck. “You’s a mighty fast learner, for a fella what never done that before.”

  “You ain’t mad? I mean, for kissing you again and . . .”

  Tempie pulled him beside her, silencing him with another kiss, then cuddled into the crook of his arm. The pounding of his heart through his shirt sounded like a runaway horse. So, was that what love really felt like? Nice.

  They lay together watching the clear ebony sky.

  “Tempie, you remember when I asked did you ever think about running?”

  “I remember.”

  Cato raised up on one elbow. “You said it would have to be with the right fella . . .”

  She placed a finger on his lips. “Ain’t ready for that talk yet, but when I is, I ‘spect you’s one I’ll be considering.”

  He settled back, apparently satisfied with her answer.

  They lay together. The fire dwindled to a scattering of glowing coals. Tempie glanced at the stars. Orion, the great hunter, had moved a ways since their evening began, rotating around what Pa called the “Freedom” star.

  “Evening’s getting on. I best be on my way before Mama gets worried.”