by Jeff Andrews
“Your papa, Massa McConnell, he held back money from every job Pa worked. He set it aside so’s Pa could buy his children, buy us our freedoms.”
“Sure sounds like Papa.” Henry smiled. “He was partial to Abraham, that’s for certain . . .”
“Now Massa Patrick’s the boss, he says there weren’t no deal.”
“Figures.” Henry nodded. “I’ll speak to him. But that ain’t reason enough for running, you have all you need right here—”
“Don’t have no freedom.”
“Freedom? Hell, you have a good home, we keep you well fed, we give you clothes—”
Isaac jiggled the pole, dancing the bait along the creek bottom. It was time Henry faced the truth, but how to tell him—what were the right words? Isaac took a deep breath and looked at him. “You remember when we was hunting up country and you talked about Virginia boys fighting for their land?”
“Sure,” Henry said. “That night in the cave. We enjoyed some of your good possum stew . . .”
“Was rabbit,” Isaac replied. “And you’s fighting now ‘cause you has land, you has a home, you has your freedom. Isaac ain’t got none of them.”
“Sure you do. Your home’s here, on McConnell land.” Henry took in the landscape with a sweep of his hand. “You’re a part of all this, a part of our family.”
“Pa’s home ain’t here. He’s off to Mississippi, working the white man’s cotton. I won’t never see him again.” Isaac stared at Henry.
Henry lowered his voice. “That was wrong, sure enough, but it weren’t my doing.” He clutched his knees to his chest.
“You’s a McConnell, right?” Isaac didn’t wait for an answer. “You want to know why Isaac runned? I runned ‘cause I doesn’t want to be sold south. ‘Cause up north I’d be free, free to own my own business, marry the woman I loves, have babies what can’t be sold.”
“Is that was this is all about?” Henry said. “You want to get down to North Carolina and see that girl of yours? Hell, I’ll write you a pass—”
Isaac slammed down the fishing pole and jumped to his feet. “Who writes you a pass, Henry McConnell? Who writes you a pass when you goes sparking one of your lady friends?”
“What?”
“Who writes you a pass?” Isaac poked Henry in the chest.
Henry searched Isaac’s face. “You’re talking crazy. I don’t need a damn pass—”
“’Cause you’s white? You don’t need no pass ‘cause you’s better than Isaac?”
“No . . .not better, just . . . different. It’s how things are supposed to be.”
“Ain’t how black folk think it’s supposed to be.”
“Damn it, Isaac. You’re pushing me . . .”
“You’s the ones in charge ‘cause white folks is smarter, right? Seven times thirteen . . .”
“What?”
“Seven times thirteen.” Isaac pointed at Henry. “If you’s so smart, Henry McConnell, seven times thirteen.”
Henry shook his head and shrugged. “You know I ain’t good at numbers . . .”
“Ninety-one. You ain’t no smarter than me, Henry McConnell, you just holds the power. You say ‘marry this one, work that job, sleep here, and if’n you runs away to be free, you’ll be feeling the whip.’”
Henry jumped to his feet. “Stop this right now. You got no right—”
“No right?” Isaac stared, his face inches from Henry’s. “No right, ‘cause a nigger’s just property. Isaac ain’t got no right—no more’n pigs in the sty nor mules behind your plow. Isaac got no right ‘cause you and all your white kin is scared—scared that if’n the black man gets rights, you can’t be stealing from us no more. If’n the black man gets rights, you can’t be laying that whip across our backs.”
“Damn it, Isaac, we don’t use the whip—”
Isaac glared, then turned away, pulling his shirt up over his back.
“My God,” Henry whispered, “who did that to you?”
“I’s a slave, Henry McConnell.” He lowered his shirt and faced Henry again. “I’s a McConnell slave.”
“I . . . I didn’t know.” Henry bowed his head. “Things will change . . .”
Isaac started to walk away, then hesitated. He turned and pointed at Henry. “You’s a big toad in a little puddle. You thinks you knows everything, but you’s just seeing your own little mud hole. It ain’t a problem no McConnell is gonna fix. The problem ain’t how you white folks is managing your property, the problem is that we is your property.”
“Isaac, damn it, I . . . I don’t have the answers.” Henry rubbed the back of his neck. “When Papa used to explain it, it always made sense. Now, I’m not so sure.
“You know what you need?” Henry said. “You need to get away from here, put some miles between you and this farm. Why don’t you come with me when I go back to the army? Food’s not so good, but you could doctor it a mite—the fellas would sure appreciate that.”
“Isaac don’t want your army.”
Henry stepped forward, his hands extended. “You’re more like me than my own brother. I don’t know how we got in this mess, not just you and me, I mean all of us, we’re all stuck in that same little puddle, and I don’t know how to fix what’s wrong, but I know this, you’re still my friend—”
“Friend?” Isaac spit. “You mean your man Friday kneeling in the dirt with your foot on his black head? Is you disremembering about how you owns me? Isaac ain’t no friend, Massa McConnell, Isaac’s just your property.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
July 1862
“Boy, you’s fixing to catch yourself a whupping.” Banjo pitched a clod of manure into the wheelbarrow, then leaned on his pitchfork.
“I won’t catch nothing,” Isaac said, “long as you keeps this barn clean and that woodpile full.” He wrapped Lilly’s ashcake in his bandanna. “I’ll be back before anybody knows I been gone.”
Banjo pushed his straw hat back on his head and wiped his brow. “Florence gonna be mad if you runs off. She’s still working on Abraham being gone.”
Isaac leaned against the barn door and gazed at the paddock. Massa McConnell’s dapple mare pranced around a puddle, pawing at a gray and white barn cat. What if he had a horse? It was a full day’s walk to Milton, then another day or more getting over to see Raleigh. Probably not a good idea. If a horse was missing, someone would notice, but if a nigra was missing, nobody would pay no mind—as long as chores got done. He reckoned he’d walk.
He turned to Banjo. “You tell her tonight, but you wait ‘til after dark, and you tell her not to fret none. I’ll be back soon enough. I ain’t running, just visiting.”
_____
Tempie’s plain cotton dress pulled tightly against her stomach as she bent and lifted the large Dutch oven from the fireplace and struggled to carry it to the table.
Florence wiped her eye. Lord, that child’s been hiding it good up to now, but not even a loose dress could cover that tummy no more. She couldn’t put off talking with her any longer.
Tempie set the iron kettle on the table and began ladling black-eyed peas and pork knuckles into tin plates. Isaac and Joseph would be in from the fields soon, and Banjo always appeared whenever food was served.
Florence wiped flour from her hands and faced her daughter. “Getting close?”
Tempie looked up, her eyebrows raised in a question.
Florence pointed at her stomach. “Be time for birthing soon, by the looks of things.”
Tempie slid her hand across her stomach, slowly smoothing her dress. She held her gaze with Florence for only a moment, then dropped onto the wooden bench beside the table and lowered her head, covering her eyes. “Mama,” she sobbed, “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’s scared . . .”
Florence knelt and wrapped her arms around her baby’s shoulders, pulling her close. “Now child, don’t you fret none. Everything’s gonna be just fine, your mama will see to that.”
Tempie buried her face in Florence�
��s shoulder and clung tightly. “Oh, Mama, I’s so scared . . .”
Florence stroked her hair and rocked her slowly, trying to hush Tempie’s sobs. “You ain’t the first girl to find herself in a family way, child. Everything’s gonna turn out just fine, you’ll see. Does Cato know?”
Tempie sat back and took in a deep breath, wiping her eyes with the palm of her hand. “Ain’t his baby.”
Not Cato’s? Florence held her at arm’s length and studied her little girl. “Who then . . . ?”
Tempie shook her head slowly, then burrowed into her mother’s arms. The tears began anew. Florence held her tightly, patting her shoulder. “Everything be fine, child. Don’t you fret. When you’s ready, we’ll talk.”
_____
Thunder rumbled through the night, chasing a pair of doves from the treetops along the creek. Rain began to fall, splashing against Isaac’s uplifted face and splattering against the dry, dusty road. “Thank you, Lord,” he whispered. A good storm might keep those pattyrollers in their homes, not out looking.
Heading south, Isaac crossed rolling tobacco fields, finally pausing along the muddy banks of the slow moving Dan River. If he followed the river upstream, he’d be in Milton come daybreak. In the distance, a dog’s bark pierced the quiet pattering of raindrops on the leaves overhead. Most likely it was just some cur treeing a possum. Still, he’d best be careful. Tonight, Isaac needed to think like a pattyroller.
He followed the river, dashing across open fields and picking his way through dense thickets, always listening for the patrols. Finally, as the rain eased, a pink glow touched the eastern sky. Directly across the river lay the town of Milton. Mr. Jones would be awake and cooking breakfast. Isaac could grab some food and hide out until nightfall. He slid down the muddy bank and slipped into the cool water.
_____
The glow of an oil lamp cast shadows through the bunkhouse window onto the wet grass. Isaac eased the latch open and poked his head inside the door. “Hey, does you have some bacon for a poor, hungry soul?”
“Lordy! Gabriel, wake up!” Mr. Jones hollered. “Look at this here river rat what’s come a-begging at our door.”
Gabriel hopped out of bed and grabbed Isaac by the shoulders. “Boy, you gave us a scare. We took you for dead, then Mr. Day told us you got caught by that pattyroller. Is you back with us again?”
Isaac closed the door behind him and took a seat at the table. “Not here for long, I just need a place to hide.”
“Lord, you’s in trouble, ain’t ya, boy?” Gabriel scowled. “You running?”
“Not north,” Isaac said. “I sneaked off to see Raleigh. Last I seen her was before I was put in that jail.”
Mr. Jones set a plate of eggs and squirrel in front of Isaac, then took a plate for himself and sat across the table. “Mr. Day said that constable down Yanceyville tried to sell you south.”
“Sure enough,” Isaac replied. “Perkins, the fella what was locked up with me, he got sold, then the men what bought him shot him down when he tried to run. He said he weren’t never going back to them cotton fields.” Isaac poked at his food, glancing up as Gabriel took a seat next to Mr. Jones. “Pa got sold south too.”
Gabriel rested his elbows the table. “Thought you said your white folks didn’t sell their nigras.”
“Everything’s done changed,” Isaac said. “Massa McConnell got took with the apoplexy and now Massa Patrick’s running the farm. He favors whipping and selling.”
“So, what’s you gonna do?” Gabriel asked.
Isaac wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I can’t be staying on that farm much longer. Henry’s off fighting the war, and that Patrick, he’s no good. I ‘spect I’ll visit Raleigh some, then get on back before I’s missed—but I’ll be running again, and soon.”
“North?”
“I been thinking some on that,” Isaac said. He pointed at Gabriel with his fork. “I hear tell there’s a passel of runaways hiding over in that Dismal Swamp. I ‘spect it’ll be easier to get there than to go north, what with all that fighting going on.”
Gabriel nodded. “I heard about them maroons over in the swamps. Knew a fella two years ago, he lit out for there. Ain’t heard if’n he made it, but he never showed up ‘round these parts no more.”
“Get some rest while I cleans up.” Mr. Jones gathered the plates. “What’s Raleigh gonna say about you running? I thought she don’t want no runaway for her man.”
“Don’t know what she’ll say, but I can’t be staying at that McConnell farm no more and take the chance of being sold.” Isaac climbed into the same bunk he used when he worked for Mr. Day. “That Dismal Swamp is a whole lot closer to the Promised Land than Mississippi is. Maybe I’ll find my way north, get behind them Yankee lines.” He rested his forearm over his eyes. “If I’s sleeping, will you wake me come evening?”
_____
“Isaac, whatever am I to do with you?”
The familiar voice shook Isaac from his slumber. A lantern bathed the bunkroom in light. He rubbed his eyes and sat up.
“Hello, Isaac.” Thomas stood by the table holding a cigar.
Isaac glanced quickly at Gabriel, seated across the table.
“No,” Thomas said, “they didn’t tell me you were here. I stumbled upon you quite by accident. So, to what do we owe the pleasure?”
Isaac rubbed the back of his neck. “I come to see Raleigh.”
Thomas smiled. “Ah, yes. ‘Pains of love be sweeter far than all other pleasures are.’”
Isaac shrugged and shook his head.
“Never mind.” Thomas waved his hand. “Just a verse from long ago. But your quest, I fear, is for naught. She no longer lives here.”
“She don’t?” Isaac jumped to his feet.
“No,” Thomas said. “Mr. Patterson passed away six months ago. Mrs. Patterson’s brother came down from Philadelphia and took her north. He stopped by to settle the Patterson’s account and told me they were sailing out of Wilmington on a blockade-runner, and that Raleigh was going with them.”
Isaac walked to the window. The reflection of the lamp in the glass hid the evening sky outside. Philadelphia? He pondered the news for a moment before turning back to Thomas. “I’d best be getting back to the farm before I’s missed.”
“What about that swamp?” Mr. Jones asked. He leaned on one elbow and looked up from his bunk.
Should they talk about such things in front of Thomas? It wouldn’t matter— Thomas wasn’t calling out any patrollers. “I reckon I needs to be finding my way to Philadelphia.”
“That could be quite risky,” Thomas said, gesturing with his cigar. “Do be careful.”
“I ain’t worked out the particulars on traveling north,” Isaac said, “but I’s becoming downright gifted when it comes to fooling them pattyrollers.”
“Just the same, use caution,” Thomas said, placing his hand on Isaac’s shoulder. “For your sake as well as Raleigh’s.” He looked Isaac in the eye and smiled.
_____
Clouds softened the night shadows, blending trees and bushes into dark, indistinct forms. Ground still wet from the previous day’s rain muted Isaac’s footfalls as he followed the river toward South Boston.
After several hours, Isaac reached the covered bridge, its arch looming above the dark river. Creeping as close as he dared, he eyed the small hut on the far side. Was the bridge keeper sleeping? A patchwork of planks, cross beams, and shadows crisscrossed the inside of the bridge. Isaac stepped carefully, masking his footsteps. He was almost halfway across when the loud “clop” of horse’s hoofs suddenly echoed through the cavernous structure. Behind him, the silhouette of a carriage filled the far opening. He couldn’t run—too much noise—and he’d be seen. Isaac slid over the low fence dividing the two lanes and lay prone, pressing himself against the fence. Lie still—become another shadow.
The sound of hoofs grew louder. Soon, the carriage was beside him. Then, just as quickly, it rolled on toward the far end of the brid
ge. Isaac remained frozen against the fence as the carriage stopped for its driver to pay the toll. No question, the bridge keeper was now awake for sure. Isaac had best stay put until he’d settled back to sleep. A lantern flickered near the keeper’s shack, then darkness.
Isaac lay on the hard boards, staring at traces of sky visible through cracks in the roof. What about Pa? Would he ever return? Isaac’s chances of getting to Philadelphia were better than the odds of Pa escaping those cotton fields. Was that bridge keeper back to sleeping? Isaac pushed to his hands and knees, watching the far end. Finally, in a crouch, he slipped quietly across the remainder of the bridge.
A shortcut across fields brought him to the post road, then a few more miles of easy walking placed him at the end of the lane leading to the McConnell farm. The glow of dawn warmed the eastern sky.
Home. Isaac relaxed and strolled up the familiar lane. Field hands stirred as he passed the slave quarters.
“Morning Isaac. What’s you doing down these parts so early? You in the fields today?”
“Just passing, Aunt Lilly. I ‘spect I’ll be down to the fields soon enough.” He waved and continued walking. Rounding the corner at the drying sheds, he met Henry coming down the lane on horseback.
Henry reined his horse. “Where you been?”
“Down to the quarters,” Isaac said.
“And last night?”
“Been around.”
“You run off?” Henry said. “’Cause if you did, I could have you whipped, you know that?”
“Now you’s sounding like a real McConnell,” Isaac said. “Just like your brother. Go ahead, fetch your whip.”
Henry lowered his voice. “Damn you, Isaac, I could—and he would. How am I going to keep him off your back if you go and run off? You know he was asking about you yesterday?” Henry pointed a gloved finger. “You know that?”
“What did Massa Patrick want with Isaac?”
“Big Jim couldn’t find you when it was time to go to the fields, so he reported you missing. Patrick came to me and I told him I had you running an errand.”
“Isaac don’t need nobody making up stories for him . . .”