by Jeff Andrews
Chapter Thirty-five
June 1862
“Lift your foot, Papa.” Polly helped Morgan into the wooden wheelchair that Banjo had picked up at the mercantile the day before. His head rested against the chair’s rattan back. Arm and leg rests held him in position. Lord, it felt good to sit upright again. Would Polly notice the smile welling within him, or would facial muscles that were no longer under his control mask his delight?
“It took two weeks to get this shipped from Richmond,” Polly said, “and Mother says we were fortunate to get it at all. With all our wounded boys, most chairs go to the army now.” She cinched a leather strap around his chest, then carefully pushed the chair forward. The wheels bounced over the edge of the carpet. They moved slowly into the hallway, pausing at the side door.
“I need to get help, Papa. I don’t want to spill you all over the porch on your first outing. Wait here.”
Morgan nodded. Wait there . . . of course.
In a moment, Polly returned with Banjo.
Banjo tipped his hat and smiled. “Morning, Massa McConnell, you’s looking well this fine summer morning.” He scratched his head as he studied first the chair and then the step down. “Miss Polly, I do believe we has to back into this. Like so.”
Banjo turned the chair, facing Morgan into the hallway, then pulled. Morgan rolled backward, bouncing as the rear wheels dropped from the door’s threshold to the porch.
“Now, Miss Polly, you gives Banjo a holler when you needs to get Massa back up off’n that porch. Maybe I comes by later and builds you a ramp. You has a good day, now.” Banjo tipped his hat and returned to his chores.
Polly turned the chair around and faced Morgan toward his barns and fields.
Nothing much had changed. A few of the outbuildings showed fresh coats of whitewash. The tobacco looked good; should yield twelve hundred pounds per acre.
“Papa,” Polly said, ”enjoy the breeze while I fetch us something to drink.” Her footsteps trailed into the house and down the hall.
The mid-summer heat trickled sweat across his brow, but the sun was an elixir for his spirits. Morgan turned slowly, stretching muscles weakened by months of bed rest. The farm appeared well-tended. Patrick must have been finding success, but at what cost? Poor Florence—Patrick never should have sold Abraham . . .
“Here’s a drink for you, Massa McConnell.” Tempie stood beside him holding a glass filled with a green liquid. “Mama fixed it special.”
Oh God, not more of her potions. Their healing powers didn’t matter—they tasted awful.
“Open up, Papa.” Polly lifted the glass to his lips.
He sipped, then gagged. Lord, it was worse than sour weed . . .
“Once more.” She tipped the glass.
Polly smiled, handing the glass back to Tempie.
With effort, Morgan turned toward them. The girls were the same age, but now Tempie seemed older, different . . . like she’d lost her sunshine.
“There’s a wagon coming, Papa.” Polly bounced on her toes and pointed. A wagon pulled over at the end of the long lane, let off a passenger, then turned and continued on its way.
Tempie’s soft footfalls faded into the house as a lone figure sauntered up the lane in a familiar gait. The lane disappeared into a swale, hiding the visitor from sight. Morgan remained focused. The lane eventually lifted the traveler back into view, closer now. Gray jacket. Butternut pants. Something white wrapped around his head? He swung his arms in a jaunty stride. Morgan strained against the leather straps, grabbing Polly’s hand. The name formed, first in his heart, then on his lips. He forced a raspy whisper. ”Henry . . .”
_____
Dust swirled around Henry’s boots as he ambled up the lane. He gazed across the green tobacco fields. Thank goodness the rains hadn’t washed them out, at least not yet. Slaves were busy pulling tobacco bugs—Lord, how he’d hated that job. Hey, there was Isaac. “Isaac! Hello, Isaac.” Henry smiled and waved as he strolled toward the cluster of slaves.
Isaac straightened and leaned on his hoe. “Morning, Massa McConnell.”
Henry backed away, glancing over his shoulder as though expecting to see someone behind him. He turned and studied his friend. “’Morning, Master McConnell’? I get shot up in the war and all you can say is, ‘Morning, Master McConnell’? Have you been in the sun too long, or are you trying to get me riled?” He landed a playful punch on Isaac’s shoulder.
Isaac’s gaze met Henry’s for a moment, then he looked away.
“Hey,” Henry said. “Who stuck a burr under your saddle?”
“I reckon things has changed since you been gone,” Isaac replied, slowly shaking his head. “Ain’t like before.” He pointed to the main house. “I ‘spect that be your pa setting up there on the porch. Best not keep him waiting.”
Henry searched for a sign, a clue, anything. Finally, he stepped away. “I don’t know what’s stuck in your craw, but we need to talk—and soon.”
_____
Pain throbbed behind his eyes as Henry shuffled along the lane toward the house. Was it the glaring midday sun, his wound, or Isaac’s curious greeting that triggered this latest relapse? Never mind, it would pass quickly—they usually did.
Morgan appeared to be seated in a chair set on wheels. Ella stood beside him, the sun warming her smile. Polly was behind, her hands on Morgan’s shoulders. She bounced on her toes as though she would take off running if given the slightest encouragement. Tempie stood behind his family, her hands folded in front of her, her expression revealing no emotion.
“Mother . . .” Henry climbed the steps and gathered Ella in his arms.
“Your head.” She gently touched his bandage. “Henry, dear, what happened?”
“The bullet just grazed me.” Henry laughed. “Them Yankees can’t shoot straight.”
Ella smiled tightly, tears welling in her eyes.
“You get any of them?” Polly asked. “Did you make ‘em pay?”
He studied his sister for a moment. “Land sakes, girl. I’d a never recognized you. You look all growed up. Must be time to get out that shotgun and start scaring away the suitors.”
“Oh, Henry. Don’t be silly . . .” Polly giggled, throwing her arms around his neck, then she stepped back and pointed to his sleeve. “What are these?”
“Didn’t my letter arrive? Captain Bruce came by the hospital a couple of weeks ago and promoted me all the way to sergeant—he said it was for heroism there at Seven Pines. Ain’t that something?”
“Isn’t that something,” Ella said. “And I thought Captain Claiborne was your commanding officer.”
Henry grinned. “Isn’t that something.” He winked at Polly. “We held elections in May. Captain Claiborne wasn’t reelected.” Morgan sat stiffly, his gaze transfixed on some distant field. Henry knelt, taking Morgan’s hand. Morgan turned, his moist eyes now fixed on Henry. His grip tightened. He gave Henry an almost imperceptible nod.
“Come tell us all about the war and how you received those awful wounds.” Ella took Henry’s arm and led him across the porch. When they reached the door, she turned to Tempie. “Tell Florence we require a special dinner tonight. Our Henry’s come home.”
_____
Henry tossed the dusty wool uniform in the corner. Florence could clean it later. He put on a fresh suit and studied himself in the mirror, then tugged at the civilian clothes hanging on his lanky frame. Army life had cost him a few pounds.
As he descended the stairway, Henry was greeted by the familiar aroma of Florence’s fried chicken. Ella and Polly were already seated in the dining room. Florence wheeled Morgan to his place at the head of the table.
Ella smiled. “Your father wanted to join us.” She extended a hand toward the far end of the table. “He takes his meals privately in the back parlor, but he will enjoy our mealtime chatter.” She motioned to a vacant chair. “Please, take your seat.” She turned to Polly. “Would you ask the blessing?”
“Certainly, Mother.�
� Polly folded her hands and bowed her head. “Lord, bless this food which we are about to partake, and thank you for bringing Henry home safe. Amen.” She looked at Henry and smiled. “Tell us all about the war, Henry. How many Yankees did you kill?”
“Hush,” Ella said. “Let your brother enjoy his dinner.”
“Aw, it’s all right, Mother.” He winked at Polly and reached for a drumstick.
“They feed you like this in the army?” Ella pointed to the fried chicken and biscuits.
Henry shook his head. “Not likely. We were almost out of food last winter. No greens at all. Fresh meat was scarce. We lived on corn meal and whatever fish we could pull from the James River. Where’s Patrick?”
“Tending to some business in South Boston,” Ella replied. “He’ll be along shortly.” She pointed to his bandage. “How did you receive that terrible wound?”
Henry took a bite of chicken and rested his gaze on Morgan. “Seven Pines Crossroads, it was the first of June,” he said as he chewed. “We’d pushed the Yankees and all was looking good, then suddenly they hit our flank and all hell broke loose—” He quickly covered his mouth. “Sorry, Mother. ”
“Continue . . .” She smiled.
“Anyway, the Yankees had us on the run. Those woods were thick as anything—like down there by the creek, only stretching for miles. The reserves pulled up on this rise and tried to make a stand. I was climbing up the embankment to join them when, wham!” Henry slapped his fist into the palm of his hand. “It felt worse than getting kicked by a plow mule.”
Morgan flinched.
“I awoke in the hospital—most God-awful place you’d ever lay eyes on. Blood everywhere, and piles of arms and legs just festering in the sun—”
“Henry, not during dinner.” Ella tapped the table and covered her mouth with her napkin.
“Sorry, Mother.” He smiled at Polly, who appeared to be hanging on his every word. “Chimborazo Hospital sets on a hill overlooking the James there in Richmond. There must be forty acres of buildings, all set in these neat rows. They say it’s the largest military hospital ever there was.”
“Did they take good care of you?” Polly set her biscuit on her plate and focused on her brother.
“Never saw a doctor but once. They was all the time doing surgery and such, so they don’t have time for tending to the less serious wounds, but don’t you know, they had women working there.”
“Well, of course, you ninny,” Polly said. “We have Florence and Tempie right here.”
“White women,” Henry said. He turned to Ella. “Mother, there were white southern women working jobs side by side with free blacks. I never thought I’d see the day . . .”
“White women, you say?” Ella dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Well, there’s no accounting for those with no social standing.”
“One was a Richmond society woman. Her husband had been an officer, killed up there at Manassas Junction.” Henry paused while his mother considered this new reality.
Ella took a deep breath but remained silent.
“They had a preacher man too,” Henry said, “a Reverend Jasper. He come around and held services every Sunday. Most everybody attended.”
Polly pulled back in mock surprise. “Imagine that, a preacher holding church services. Whatever will they think of next?”
“He was a slave.” Henry gave Polly a satisfied smile.
“This war’s a terrible thing,” Ella said. “It’s simply tearing apart our institutions and our fine Commonwealth. Tempie, clear these dishes and bring us some of Florence’s peach cobbler.” She smoothed the tablecloth beside her plate and looked across at Morgan.
A horse galloped to a halt outside and a voice yelled for Joseph to come tend to the animal. Shortly, boots clumped across the wooden floors.
“Florence, I’m starving,” Patrick shouted. He rounded the corner, halting in doorway as he surveyed the gathering, then he pointed to their father. “He should be in bed, and I thought I told you not to be wasting our money on those useless contraptions.”
“We will discuss that later,” Ella replied, glaring at Patrick. “Have you not noticed? Your brother has returned from the war.” “Henry? Yes, of course.” Patrick looked surprised. “Welcome home, brother.” In two strides he was beside Henry’s chair, clasping him by the shoulders. “Good to see you in one piece.” He pointed to the bandage. “More or less . . .”
“A minor wound,” Henry said. “Just a few headaches every now and again. Jeff Davis says I should be back to winning the war in a few weeks—as soon as I’ve checked up on things here. The tobacco’s looking good . . .”
Patrick slid into his chair and unfolded his napkin. “If the weather holds, we’ll cut better than eleven hundred pounds an acre. Prices are steady, though the federal blockade is putting pressure on. I hear rumors the English are looking to buy foreign tobacco. If they do, it will destroy our profits.”
“Patrick, we were just finishing, but I’m sure Florence has saved some for you.” Ella turned and called to the rear of the house. “Florence, have Tempie bring Patrick his supper.”
Tempie set a plate in front of Patrick loaded with chicken, snap beans, and biscuits. He took a bite, wagging the drumstick as he spoke. “You know that nigra of yours run off.”
“What are you talking about?” Henry said. “Who?”
“That boy of yours, Isaac. You said he wasn’t a runner. Well, about a month ago he took off. I had to pay forty-five dollars to the fellas that captured him up by Richmond.”
The strange reunion with Isaac flashed through Henry’s mind.
“And Abraham’s been sold too,” Polly blurted.
“I believe Patrick described it as a means of reducing our risk.” Ella folded her hands in her lap and smiled at Patrick.
“He was helping runaways,” Patrick said, “so was Isaac. I needed to teach all of them a lesson.” He spoke matter-of-factly between bites of chicken. “I plan to sell Isaac too, if he doesn’t settle down.”
Henry’s fist tightened. The pounding suddenly flared inside his head. Morgan’s gaze met his. Was that a nod, some recognition? He seemed to be saying what Henry had already decided—this wasn’t the time, not now. “Mother, dinner was wonderful. Please excuse me. I have some things to tend to.” He folded his napkin and placed it beside his plate.
Chapter Thirty-six
June 1862
From beyond the horizon, the sun’s lingering rays gilded evening clouds as Isaac settled on a log beside the crackling fire. On the far side of the fire ring, Lilly basted a catfish nailed to a plank and propped up facing the fire. Banjo wandered over and pulled up a stump. He sat and began quietly strumming the rough-hewn instrument for which he’d been named. He was soon joined by a slave named Jacob.
“I seen Massa Henry today,” Jacob said. “Did he go and get his self shot in that war?”
“I reckon,” Isaac replied, stirring the coals. “He ain’t said.”
“Boy, you’s mighty quiet tonight,” Lilly said. “Something bothering you?” She pointed to the planked fish. “How’s about some of this here catfish?”
Isaac shook his head. “I ain’t all that hungry, Aunt Lilly.”
He looked up as a figure stumbled through the brush next to the lane and stepped into the firelight. Slaves stopped whatever they were doing. A few pointed. The clearing grew silent, then Mamma Rose stepped from her cabin doorway and waved. “Massa Henry! Welcome home, sir. You’s coming to visit?”
“’Evening, Mamma Rose,” Henry said. “I’m looking for Isaac.”
She nodded toward the fire ring.
“Isaac, grab your pole,” Henry called. “We need to catch us some fish.”
“You want a taste of this’n?” Lilly pointed to the catfish tacked on the board in front of the fire. “It’s good as you’s gonna find in these parts.” Her broad smile reflected the glow of the campfire.
“Not tonight, Lilly,” Henry said. “Me and Isaac h
ave some catching to do on our own.” He motioned for Isaac to join him.
Isaac hesitated. Why should he spend time fishing with the boss man? Wasn’t it enough that he had to work his fields, mend his tools, and chop his wood?
“Come on,” Henry said. “What’s keeping you?”
Isaac turned to Lilly. “Appears the massa be needing me.” He rose slowly from his seat by the fire and took up a cane pole that leaned against one of the cabins.
They walked in silence past the slave cemetery, along the edge of the tobacco fields, and down to the creek where the limbs of the old oak stretched over the dark water.
Isaac brushed aside leaves and sat on the bank. He glanced at Henry. “Where’s your pole?”
“I didn’t bring one,” Henry said, settling on the ground beside Isaac. “You do the fishing—but I want some talking too.”
“Talking ‘bout what?”
“How about begin by telling me what the hell’s going on?”
“Don’t know what you mean . . .”
“I mean, this afternoon—that ‘Master McConnell’ stuff—and you running off, and helping other slaves to run away.”
“I caught the whip for not saying ‘massa.’”
“We don’t whip our slaves. Sean doesn’t even carry a whip—”
“And he ain’t working here no more, neither.”
“What? When—”
“Been a few weeks. Massa Patrick sent him packing. Big Jim’s your man now.”
“Big Jim?” Henry stared into the dark waters as he chewed on a grass stalk. “That doesn’t make any sense . . .” He bit off a nib, spit it out, and tossed the stalk aside.
“You ain’t got to pay a nigra like you does Mr. Sean, and if Big Jim ain’t hard on us slaves, he’ll be back working the fields. Do it make sense now?”
“Did you run away?”
Isaac threaded a grub onto the hook and dropped the line in the creek. He let the bait sink to the bottom, then turned to Henry. “Your pa ever tell you about the deal he had with my pa?”
“No, what deal?” Henry said.