by Jeff Andrews
Cato sighed and stood, brushing leaves from his back. He helped Tempie to her feet, then pulled her into his arms. They kissed again. “I don’t want to hear no nonsense about going down to the quarters no more,” he said. “You meet me here next Saturday?”
Tempie tilted her head and gazed into his eyes. She’d never thought of Cato as tall, but now he seemed to tower over her. “Next Saturday? Maybe . . .” She smiled, taking a few steps toward the open field.
“No ‘maybe.’ You be here for sure.”
She blew him a kiss, then sashayed into the woods. Once away from the warmth of the fire and Cato’s arms, the air felt cold again. She walked faster, wishing his arm was still around her. Maybe he didn’t know much about kissing, but she sure enough liked how he did it.
Tempie hurried through the broken corn stalks to the wagon path, then skipped, slapping her arms to fend off the damp chill. On the inside, a glow warmed her in a way she’d never before known. He wasn’t ignoring her, he’d just been shy. Once he got past that shyness, he was a right fine catch. But did he like her as much as she liked him? Maybe, someday, they’d run away together to New York City, or perhaps Boston. That would sure be fine.
Tempie followed the trail into the forest. Down along the creek bottom it soon became black as chimney soot. How could she see? If only that old moon would come out.
She picked her way along the narrow trail, glancing skyward, following the open spaces where treetops stood apart and defined the trace of the path. At least it was too cold for snakes. Thank you Lord, for small blessings.
The path twisted, following the stream, then turned at a crossing. A row of stones served as a footbridge. She tried each stone with her foot, making certain of the hold before taking the next step. She lost her balance in mid-stream, thrust her arms to the side, then caught herself and hopped across the last two stones, dragging a foot in the frigid water, giggling as she found the dry ground on the far side.
“Well, well,” a graveled voice snarled from the darkness. “What have we got here?”
She pulled up with a start.
“You a runaway?” A tall form appeared from the shadows. A match flickered, cupped in a large hand.
She shielded her eyes from the sudden glare. “Who’s there?” She asked, trembling.
“I know you. You’s the daughter of that cook on the McConnell place. I reckon you growed some since I last seen you.” The match went out and a rough hand touched her shoulder. She brushed it away and pulled back.
“Hey, I ain’t going to hurt you none. Just studying the merchandise. You’s a fine young flower, ripe for the picking.” He brushed the back of his hand across her breast.
“Leave me be.” She slapped his hand. “I ain’t no flower, and my massa ain’t gonna allow nobody to get on with one of his slaves.”
“You’re a feisty one, that’s for sure.” The man grabbed her shoulders and held her tight. “Your master’s dying. He can’t do nothing. Besides, if you tell him, or anybody, your mama, your papa, maybe even that little pickaninny brother you got, they’re all gonna feel my blade.”
What was he talking about? Tempie sobbed. Her shoulders heaved uncontrollably. Lord, make him stop. This couldn’t be happening . . .
He wrestled her to the ground, tugging at her dress. “I aim to have me some fun, so quit your fighting . . .”
Tempie clawed his face.
He slapped her with the back of his hand. “You little bitch, if you do that again I’ll slice you up and feed you to the dogs—and I’ll cut that little brother of yours too. Now, you settle back and just enjoy.”
She struggled, but his weight pinned her against the damp leaves. She stifled her cries. He was talking crazy. Said he was gonna kill Joseph? Oh, God, make him stop . . . Cato? Where was Cato ?
He shoved a calloused hand down the front of her dress, fondling her small breast.
God, he smelled—cigars and . . . and whiskey?
“P-please, mister, please stop . . .”
Beard stubble scraped against her chest. A hand reached under her dress, groping, touching . . .
“No, stop . . . oh God, no . . .”
His weight dropped heavily on her. Something dangled in her face—a trinket around his neck?
He forced her legs apart and pushed into her.
“God, it hurts, hurts so bad . . .”
Bare branches overhead, fleeting clouds, stars dotting the winter sky—all faded into a swirling fog. His animal grunts became distant, no longer a part of her world. She floated above the forest.
_____
A voice . . . calling her name?
“Mama . . . ?” Her eyes opened.
The night held only silence wrapped in a mottled blanket of shadows. She lay still. A wintery sky slowly came into focus above. Twigs and leaves pricked her bare legs. Why was she there? What had happened? Cato . . . ?
A dream? She moved her leg. “Oh God, hurts so bad . . .” The stench came back—sweat, tobacco, whiskey. “Lord, no . . .” Tempie rolled on her side and pulled her legs up, curling into a ball. Her sobs broke the silence.
“Mama? Please, Mama . . .” She touched the scrapes on her cheek from his rough beard. She couldn’t tell her mama. Couldn’t tell anyone. Lord, what had he done?
She reached down to where it hurt, then jerked her hand away. What was that? Tempie yanked a fern growing along the path. Ignoring the pain, she took the leaves and scrubbed herself dry, then pushed to her knees and took a deep breath. “I’s clean now, won’t nobody know.” She stood on wobbly legs smoothing the wrinkles on the front of her dress. “Can’t tell nobody . . .”
Tempie steadied herself against a tree. Slowly, the ringing in her ears faded. She brushed back her hair and stumbled down the path toward the McConnell farm.
Chapter Twenty-six
December 1861
“Massa McConnell,” Florence said. “I has to talk with you. I been praying and asking the good Lord to tell Florence what to do.”
Morgan opened his eyes. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, filling the room with a warm glow. Morning? Yes, and a good one. Coffee on the porch, then riding down by the creek. He had to get up . . .
His legs, his arms . . . nothing moved, and then the bed sagged. Florence was sitting beside him, brushing his hair.
“Massa McConnell, the Lord tells Florence she has to be a good woman, and the Lord knows she tries. You remembers that preacher man what come out from that white folk’s church down South Boston to say words over poor ol’ July?”
Sure. It was the least he could do for old July . . .
Florence turned down the blanket and began to change Morgan’s diaper. “Well, he said the Lord expects us nigras to be obedient, and that’s what Florence tries to be. Preachers all the time saying, ‘Nigras, you has to obey your masters if’n you wants to go to heaven.’”
How he hated having others tending to his private needs—so damned humiliating . . . but what the hell was bothering her? He searched her eyes. Wasn’t fear . . . what then? Get on with it, woman. Damn, he wished he could talk . . .
“Anyways, you remembers when Massa Patrick tells Florence no more remedies and no more exercising them ol’ muscles? Well I goes to the Lord and I prays, ‘cause Florence, she wants to be obedient, but she knows her remedies. Lord say, ‘Florence, why you ask me this question? You know what’s right.’ I says, ‘Lord, I’s scared I makes you angry if’n I ain’t obedient.’ And you know what the Lord says?” She stopped her cleaning and looked into Morgan’s eyes. “Lord says, ‘Florence, you obey your heart.’ Well, Florence’s heart tells her Massa ain’t getting no better, lessen he has remedies and exercise, so we’s gonna keep that up. It’ll be our secret.”
Patrick had blocked his recuperation? Of course. Now it was beginning to make sense.
She pulled the blanket under his arms and began massaging the fingers on his left hand. Sunlight danced off her black hair, a glow encircled her head, si
lhouetting her face and hiding her expression. Morgan strained for a better look, but he couldn’t move his head. Finally, she bent to adjust a pillow and her profile came into view. She wore a gentle, but determined smile.
Patrick had her scared to beat all, yet she was sticking her neck out for him. He’d have to work with her . . . he strained to push with the arm she pumped back and forth.
“That one side of your face still be drooping, Massa McConnell,” Florence said as she touched his cheek. The doctor says one’s got more damage than the other. We’d best exercise both sides. First, you drink this here.”
No, not that snake oil . . .
She held a cup to his lips. “Florence mixed this special, just for you. Leaves from the maidenhair tree, a little garlic, a pinch of catnip . . . there, you drink it on down. It’ll make you better.” She poured the liquid into his mouth.
He gagged, fighting to swallow before he choked. A shiver ran through his body. Lord, that was the most God-awful concoction he’d ever imagined.
“That’s good, Massa. You’s making faces. Them muscles be finding theyselves again. Now, let Florence get back to working that arm.”
Hands strong from a lifetime of kneading dough worked the muscles of his forearms. “I shouldn’t be bothering you none with Florence’s troubles, but you knows my boy, Isaac? He been missing now since before harvest. Ain’t like him. He’s a good boy. He wouldn’t never run. I’s worried, Massa, I truly is.” Her hands massaged his bicep.
“Morning, Papa. Morning, Florence.” Polly’s cheerful voice filled the room. “You seen Tempie?”
Florence stopped massaging Morgan’s arm but continued to hold it in her grip. “She went off after breakfast. That child’s been acting strange. I ‘spect she’s worrying about her brother, same as all of us.”
“What’s that you’re doing, Florence?”
“The apoplexy done took your papa’s muscles. This here exercising might just bring them back.”
“Can I help?”
“You sure enough can, child. Just do like I shows you—up and down. There, that’s good . . . now, tight, got to squeeze tight to get the blood moving.”
“This is easy.” She smiled at Florence, then Morgan. “Papa, can you feel this?”
Yes, he could, and God bless her.
“One thing, Missy Polly,” Florence said. “Your brother, Massa Patrick, he don’t hold none with Florence’s remedies. He’ll be getting angry, if’n he sees Florence—or Miss Polly—exercising on Massa McConnell.”
“Patrick thinks he’s the boss now, but he can’t tell me what to do,” Polly replied. “If I want to help Papa, he can’t stop me.”
“Just the same, child, you’d best keep this our secret. Morning and night, every day, even if Florence can’t be here, you has to make him move—like this here.” Florence took his jaw in her hand and opened and closed his mouth, rotating the jaw as she moved it.
“Don’t worry, Florence. I won’t tell a soul.”
Greenery draped the mantle behind Polly. Could it be Christmas already? Where had the time gone? He didn’t reckon he had much to celebrate.
_____
Florence hung the pot on a blackened iron hook and swung it over the fire, then turned to Abraham, who was seated at the table. “I don’t know what’s wrong with that child, she’s so quiet, ‘cept this morning, when I hears her retching out back. You suppose she’s taken ill?”
“Could be,” Abraham said. “But I reckon she’s just suffering from growing up worries. She still seeing that boy from over at the Johnston’s place?”
“Cato? She ain’t said nothing about him for days. Might be that child’s just worrying herself sick over love.”
Abraham walked behind Florence and wrapped his arm around her waist. “I ’spect you’s right, Flo. It could be our baby’s feeling her first broken heart. In time, she’ll be back to her ol’ self—playing with Polly, filling up this here cabin with all her laughter. . .”
She turned into the shelter of his arms. “Lord, I prays it ain’t nothing more. That child just ain’t been herself.” Florence gazed into Abraham’s eyes. “I worries more about Isaac. You hearing any news down by the quarters?”
“Nobody’s heard nothing,” Abraham said. “If he was running, we’d a known by now.”
“Lord,” she whispered. “I prays the Lord will watch over that boy. I can’t be having two of my childrens in trouble all at once.” She buried her face in Abraham’s chest. He held her close and smoothed her hair.
_____
“Morgan, dear,” Ella said. “We have a letter from Henry.” She pulled a chair beside his bed and leaned forward. “I feel silly, talking like this to an invalid. I don’t even know if you can hear me, and if you do, that you understand anything I’m saying. Patrick said the doctor doesn’t think you’re in control of your faculties, but I expect that reading to you can’t do any harm.” She patted his shoulder and gave a small laugh.
Morgan stared into his wife’s face. Lord, Patrick had her believing too. She figured him for an idiot, nothing more than a potted plant that required occasional watering.
“Oh, Morgan, Henry’s doing so well. They’re still down by Newport News. Listen:
Dearest Family,
We are in winter quarters on Mulberry Island. The awful storms of this past autumn destroyed most of our tents, so we have taken to building small cabins of lumber and mud. I would dearly enjoy a winter in any of our slaves’ quarters, as it would be quite an improvement over what our noble army has provided.
Mail service has been approximate. Tell Polly I received her letter of October 27th only last week. It had been delivered in error to someone in the Boydton Calvary. At least the fellow was kind enough to send it over by courier. I do look forward to your letters and packages, so please do not hesitate to write, even though results are not always as we would hope from the postal service. Maybe if you sent my mail via New York? I hear tell the Yankees get theirs delivered quite regularly.
Food continues to be a problem, as is disease. We have lost more good Virginia boys to fever and dyspepsia than could ever be accounted for by Yankee bullets. I am doing well, however, and I hope to be home for a few days this winter. The colonel has authorized seven days’ leave for everyone, in their turn. The officers received the Christmas holiday. My time will be later. I hope you had a fine holiday celebration.
Yankee gunboats came up the Warwick River the other day and lobbed some shells at our pickets. A terrible waste of ammunition, as they had no effect, other than to provide some much needed entertainment. All’s quiet now, and looks to remain so. The Yankees do not appear eager for a fight.
Give my regards to Isaac. Tell him we’ll do some hunting while I’m home on leave.
Your obedient son,
Henry
“I suppose he hasn’t received any of our letters with all the latest news. Poor boy’s living in squalor. We ought to write President Davis—southern boys oughtn’t be treated that way.” Ella placed a hand on his shoulder as she stood to leave. “You need your rest. You look peaked.”
Henry was coming home? Thank God. Patrick didn’t give a damn that he was laid up—he seemed down right pleased to finally have control of the farm. Maybe Henry would sit and visit some. Polly was always good about that . . .
“Joseph! Abraham! Where’s all our niggers?” Patrick stormed up the center hall, doors slamming behind him. “Mother, where’s Joseph?”
The voice reverberated in the hallway. Morgan strained to understand.
“Did you check the barn, or out by the woodpile? What seems to be the matter?” Ella replied.
“This letter here from that Day fella. Did you read it?”
“You know I don’t read business mail. That’s for you or your father.”
“Day says his attorney has ascertained that the damned constable down in Yanceyville is holding Isaac and trying to sell him south. I have to send someone down there before that tin badge sell
s my slave and pockets the money. If you see Abraham or Joseph, tell them to get my horse saddled.” Boots echoed on the hard floor. The back door slammed.
Chapter Twenty-seven
December 1861
The cell door clanged open. “Get out here, boy. It’s time you made me some money.” Constable Branson kicked the sole of Isaac’s boot.
Isaac crawled to his feet. The constable poked him with the butt of his whip, shoving him through the door. Outside, the bright winter sun was blinding. Isaac winced and closed his eyes, but was careful not to raise his hands.
“Four hundred, and that’s my last offer.”
A familiar voice . . . Isaac blinked and turned to face the man who was speaking. Tall, skinny, light blue suit . . . the dandy.
“You know damned well this here nigger could sell for twice that amount in Alabama or Mississippi and nobody’d give it a thought,” Constable Branson said.
“So take him to Mississippi,” the dandy replied. “My offer is four hundred dollars in North Carolina, and I happen to know there’s been a lawyer fella snooping around, so you can sell him to me or you can give him back to his owner.”
“Dornhoffer, you ain’t no better’n a damned crook. Why I ought to lock you—”
The dandy raised his hands in protest. “You, sir, have no room to be accusing anyone of larceny. You, who steal from your neighbors and sell their slaves on the secondary market. I am merely a businessman; it is you, sir, who are the thief.”
Constable Branson tossed a key to the dandy. “Give me my money, then get my leg irons off that nigger.”
The dandy reached inside his coat and withdrew a smooth, dark leather billfold. Isaac silently counted as the man peeled off bills: three hundred and eighty dollars.
“Four hundred. Done.” He slammed the wad of money into the constable’s hand. “It has been a pleasure, sir.” The dandy unlocked the leg irons around Isaac’s right ankle and reached for the left foot.