by Jeff Andrews
Jebediah refused to budge. “I’s plumb wore out. This here nigra’s waiting on the wagons.”
“For sure? What if they pass you by?”
“Then I sleeps by the roadside and you can fetch me after the war’s done. These old bones ain’t moving no more tonight.” Jebediah rested his head on a clump of grass and pulled his hat over his eyes. “No sir, can’t move no more . . .”
Isaac joined the others, falling into the mechanical shuffle of a tired army on the move.
Darkness enveloped the column. One foot in front of the other, eat dust, hurry up, stop for no apparent reason, then hurry again. Isaac gazed at the heavens. There was the drinking gourd, and yonder, the Freedom Star. They were headed north by east. Would Pa be looking on those same stars tonight? Would he be thinking that now was his time for running? Isaac stumbled over a fallen soldier and caught himself.
Chatter died with the darkness, leaving the rattling of equipment against exhausted bodies and the shuffling of feet through the dry Virginia dust the only sounds of the night. Isaac fought to stay awake. On either side, men appeared to be sleeping as they walked. Did they even know they were walking?
The column halted. An officer hurried down the line, hushing the regiment. “We’re lost, boys. Some jackass took us plum past Groveton and we’re behind the Yankee lines. Now, y’all stay real quiet like and turn yourselves around.” He spoke with a frustrated urgency. “We’re going back the way we come.”
The sleeping, walking ghosts awoke, intent on escaping a possible enemy trap. Other than an occasional whispered curse, the column moved silently. The march took on a sense of urgency. Soldiers continually glanced over their shoulders. Would the enemy close in and make them pay for violating the northern lines? Yankee campfires flickered in the woods beyond the road.
After what seemed like an hour, the column halted again.
“Local pickets only,” the lieutenant called. “We’re in reserve. Bivouac north of the road over there, the Warrenton Turnpike.” His voice didn’t hold a fear of detection.
Isaac glanced at the stars. It had to be two, three in the morning. He was ready for some sleep. He moved off the road and rolled out his blanket close to Henry’s. “You expect we’ll be fighting tomorrow?”
“I can’t say,” Henry replied, “but if we do, you come along with me and see it for yourself. Once you’ve faced the elephant—been through a battle—nothing else will ever seem near as frightening again.”
“I expect you’s right, Massa Henry, but Isaac don’t need no fighting.”
“You won’t have a choice. Once the shooting starts, you’ll be drawn to it, just like a honeybee to clover.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
August 1862
Isaac bolted upright as the distant pop of musketry shattered the early morning calm.
“Just skirmishers,” Henry mumbled. “Go back to sleep.” He rolled over, pulling a corner of his blanket over his face.
But Isaac couldn’t sleep—the war was close, closer than it had ever been. Was today his day? Would he be bedding down on freedom’s soil come evening? He stretched, then wandered across the dirt road and made water. In the eastern sky, grays and pinks streaked the dawning horizon. The sporadic musket fire continued, then a deep “boom,” more violent than the thunder of any summer storm, shook the ground. Smoke rose from the hillside a mile away. The musketry ceased. It was too early for serious fighting. He’d best get some coffee going. Isaac drifted back to the camp, gathering firewood along the way.
The morning passed quietly. The sun was directly overhead when Henry finally rolled over and gave a sniff to Isaac’s cooking. “Sowbelly again?”
“Ain’t got no chickens. Ain’t got no eggs, neither. You wants dinner, you eats sowbelly and corn or, if’n you’d rather, you’s welcome to corn and sowbelly.” Isaac tilted the cast iron skillet, displaying the sizzling meat.
“Corn? Where’d you find corn?”
Isaac pointed to the fields across the road. “Good harvest there going to waste.”
Henry scratched his head with both hands and walked to the fire.
“Them guns up north,” Isaac said, pointing to the ridge where the earlier cannon fire had originated, “is they Yankee?”
Henry nodded and stuffed a piece of cornmeal bread into his mouth. “The lieutenant was saying Jackson’s somewhere up yonder.”
“Jackson,” Isaac said, “he one of your Confederates?”
“Boy, don’t you follow the war?” Henry smiled. “Thomas Jackson, from over at V.M.I. They call him ‘Stonewall’ now, after he stood up to the Yankees last summer at Manassas.”
Isaac raised an eyebrow. “We don’t get no newspapers down at the slave quarters.”
Henry started to speak, but his words were cut off by cannon fire and musketry from the direction of Jackson’s forces. Smoke rose from the woods. The firing quickened.
“I reckon it’s begun.” Henry stood, gazing toward the spectacle unfolding before them. “General Longstreet will be calling on us for sure. Best get ready to move.” Henry dropped his plate and rolled his blanket.
_____
Isaac paced. The eerie calm throughout their small encampment seemed in stark contrast to the brutal destruction taking place no more than a mile to the northeast. If today was his day to escape he’d have a lot of shooting to get through first. Maybe he should reconsider.
“Ye’re wearing a bloody path in that bloody meadow,” Sean said with a smile. “Yer more nervous than a Rhode Island Red stretched across the chopping block. A wee bit o’ the barley might settle your nerves.” He held out a bottle. “And besides, the afternoon’s late, they’d not be bringing us to the battle so close to the ending.”
Isaac shook his head. “Mama don’t hold with drinking. If she caught the devil’s brew on my breath, she’d do me a whole lot worse’n any of them Yankees could.”
“Devil’s brew, indeed. ‘Tis the sweet nectar of the high holy saints of Erin.” Sean raised the bottle, then took a swig.
“Put it away, Sean. We’re forming up.” Henry pointed toward the gathering troops as he returned from a meeting under the company tarp. “Longstreet’s pushing the Yankees to our front. We have a chance to turn their flank and General Anderson is sending us in to do just that.”
The sun was high in the western sky. Isaac took off his hat and shielded his face. Late afternoon. Smoke, dust, sun beating down—he might as well be back home pulling tobacco bugs.
Drums beat a staccato urgency. “Company, fall in.” The lieutenant drew his sword.
“Stay close to me.” Henry pulled Isaac by the sleeve as they found their position to the rear of the company.
The regiment formed in two ranks, with sergeants and corporals to the rear as file closers, responsible for pushing stragglers forward and closing gaps in the line caused by enemy fire. Several slaves behind the regiment carried muskets. Isaac nudged Henry and whispered. “I won’t carry no musket.”
“You’ll change your tune when the shooting commences—and if it comes to pass that you need one, there’ll be plenty to choose from.” Henry put a finger to his lips and pointed as Colonel Hodges drew his sword and faced the Fourteenth Virginia.
“Men of Virginia. General Jackson holds on our left. General Longstreet is attacking to our front. Yonder is the enemy.” He pointed his sword toward the smoke covered high ground to the northeast. “The Yankees hold the very field where, last summer, General Jackson stood like a stone wall. They defile sacred ground stained by the blood of brave Virginians. We are the army’s right flank. We will drive the invaders from our state. You carry the honor of Virginia with you today. Do not fail her.”
The men gave a rousing cheer. As the celebration subsided drummers beat out the quick step and the regiment marched off, bayonets fixed and muskets at the carry. Isaac glanced around, waiting for orders. When none came, he fell in step behind Henry.
The regiment moved in line, colors unfurled. To ei
ther side, other regiments joined the attack. A shell burst overhead. Isaac’s heart pounded faster. His stomach twisted in a knot—would he puke? Was Henry also scared?
Another unit pushed up a grassy slope to their front. Smoke rose from the distant heights, mixing with clouds that now enveloped the battlefield. The Fourteenth Virginia waded a stream, then struggled to realign itself as it climbed the next hill. The roll of drums continued the cadence.
Muskets, haversacks, canteens, and bedrolls dropped or abandoned by men in a rush to save their lives littered the ground. The regiment halted at the top of the hill. Soldiers rushed forward to pull down a rail fence, then the drummers struck up a beat and the unit moved again.
As Isaac stepped over a winding fence his gaze fell upon a solder in blue. The boy lay over the bottom rail, hugging the fence post. He stared straight at Isaac, a curious, frightened expression on his young face. A dark pool spread on the dry grass beneath him.
He couldn’t be more than sixteen. Isaac turned away, fighting a wave of nausea.
The regiment held at the crest of the hill while units ahead pushed the Yankees. A swath of bodies in blue along a dusty lane marked what must have been the final, fateful stand for some brave but unlucky regiment. The Yankees were skedaddling with great urgency. Isaac wouldn’t find his way behind their lines today.
The lieutenant passed the word to stand easy.
“Looks to be closing on supper time,” Henry said. He pointed to the overcast sky. “You reckon it’ll rain?”
Isaac studied the clouds. “A good soaking will settle the dust, wash away that terrible stench too.” He waved his hand in front of his face. “What in tarnation is that?”
“Death,” Henry said. “I smelled it some at Seven Pines, more at the hospital. It sticks to the inside of your nostrils.”
Isaac wrinkled his nose. “It don’t seem right, all that killing.”
The long roll of the drums called the regiment back to attention. They moved out, swinging to the right and climbing another ridge, then down onto a well-worn road. They turned to the west and climbed a low rise. Suddenly, a chaotic sea of blue swirled to their front. The colonel gave the order to fire by companies. The lieutenant stepped to a position to the side of the company and issued the command. Isaac shuddered as the line of muskets roared. The field of blue disappeared behind a curtain of white smoke.
“They’re running!” Henry pointed to the field below them filled with Union soldiers, some running, others limping, all struggling to find a path away from the battle. “We’ve got ‘em, Lieutenant,” Henry hollered above the din. “We can roll them up. We must attack.”
Before them the entire Union flank lay exposed and undefended. The lieutenant looked toward the fleeing enemy, then to Colonel Hodges. The colonel responded with a frustrated shrug. Rain began falling as evening settled around the Fourteenth Virginia. The Yankees withdrew across the creek bordering the northern edge of the battlefield. Apparently, the Confederate generals were not interested in pursuing.
The burned out shell of a house stood in the center of the hill, surrounded by broken wagons, dead animals, and hundreds of dead and dying boys in blue. Isaac stared at the carnage. Across that creek somewhere, Raleigh waited, but the Yankees were running too hard. He wouldn’t be crossing any lines tonight.
Chapter Forty
September 1862
Tempie slipped out to the porch of the main house. The pain was constant now. Could she sneak a few minutes of rest between chores? She rubbed the knotted muscles in the small of her back, then dropped into one of the rocking chairs. Humid morning air closed around her. Sweat and tears moistened her cheeks. She clutched her stomach. She didn’t want no baby. All that bleeding and hurting all the time—why couldn’t it be like it was before?
“Girl, what’s you doing up there?” A gruff voice called to her from behind.
Tempie jumped.
Standing beside the porch, Big Jim gazed up at her as he wiped his brow.
“Shouldn’t be sneaking up on folks.” Tempie folded her arms with a huff. “Breakfast’s done and Mama ain’t got chores for me again ‘til noon.”
“Tobacco needs cutting,” Big Jim said. “With your brother gone, we’s shorthanded. Get on down to the fields and help with the harvest.”
“But Mr. Jim, I’s feeling poorly,” Tempie said. “This here baby’s making me terribly discomfortable.”
“That’s what you get for spreading them legs. Now get on down to the fields before I takes my rawhide to your sassy little tail.” Big Jim snapped the whip above his head.
Tempie glared at the large man. Was he’s thinking he’s top rooster? He wouldn’t be acting so high and mighty if her pa was there. “Your whip don’t scare me none.” Tempie pushed up from the chair and grabbed her stomach. Clutching the rail to steady herself, she slowly straightened. “I’ll be there shortly, Mister Jim. No cause for your fussing.”
“See you does, girl.” Big Jim shook the coiled whip at her. “You people is all the time thinking you’s too good for working them fields. You be learning, you’s just another darky on this here farm.”
Tempie eased down the steps and walked around back to the cook shack.
Florence sat on the small porch plucking a chicken. She glanced up as Tempie approached. “You’s looking peaked, child. Go rest a spell on my bed until dinner.”
“I can’t, Mama. Big Jim says I has to go on down and work the fields.”
“Land sakes,” Florence said. “Can’t that man see your condition? I declare, he’s getting too full of his self. Somebody needs to set him straight.”
“Don’t be getting riled, Mama. I’ll be fine.” Tempie dipped a ladle in the bucket on the bench and drank the cool spring water. She poured another dipper over her bandana and dabbed it on the back of her neck. “I’ll be back in time to help with dinner.”
“No bother, child. Just fixing this here bird for Banjo and Jim. Massa Patrick is off to South Boston and Miss Ella, she and Polly is up to Richmond again. Said she’s visiting her brother’s family. Maybe Polly will bring you back a bolt of cloth so’s we can make some clothes for that baby.” Florence smiled, patting Tempie’s stomach.
“That’d be nice, Mama.” Tempie forced a smile as she tied the bandana on her head and started toward the tobacco fields.
_____
“Here, you drink this.” Florence lifted the glass to Morgan’s tightened lips. “Don’t you be fussing with me.” He was always difficult at medicine time. She pinched his nostrils. His mouth opened. She poured in the potion. His eyes flared. He gagged, then swallowed.
Florence wiped his chin, then rolled the wheelchair next to the open window. “There ain’t no sense in you fighting me every day. You knows them medicinals is fixing you up—and real good, too.” She took his hand in hers. “Now, it’s time for your exercising. The horse don’t win no race except he be run hard in practice.” She held her hand on top of his. “Push.”
Morgan pushed against her hand until his arm straightened above his head. He turned slightly and faced her with a twinkle in his eye. “I win . . .” The raspy whisper posed a playful air.
“Sure enough, Massa, you be winning most every time now.” She placed a knotted stocking in his hand. “Squeeze this.” He worked his fingers around the large knot, squeezing, then releasing.
“Pulling teats . . .”
Florence leaned closer, placing her ear next to his mouth. “What’d you say, Massa? Florence ain’t but barely hearing you.”
He coughed, then tried again. “Like milking . . .”
Florence laughed. “Maybe I’d best roll you out to the barn and shove you upside that ol’ milk cow. Least ways then we’d get some work out of you, instead of all this here lazing around.”
He held his hands in front of him, appearing to pull at imaginary teats, then glanced at Florence with a twinkle in his eye.
She shooed him with the back of her hand. “You’d best be behaving or I’l
l give you another dose of my special medicines.” Florence peered out the window, running her fingers along the sill, then turned and faced him. “I ain’t heard none from Miss Polly. You get any letters from Massa Henry?”
He shook his head. The movement was almost imperceptible.
“Been worrying on my Isaac, Massa Henry too. They’s both good boys. Shouldn’t be off fighting no war. I prays they’s safe.” She adjusted the crocheted lap robe covering his legs. “I prays on my Abraham too . . .” Florence turned and looked out the window, hiding a sudden tear.
“Tempie . . . ?” He whispered.
Florence turned. “She’s doing fine. Be birthing that baby most any day. She ain’t saying who the daddy is, but I reckon it’s that Cato boy over to the Johnston place.”
“Child . . .”
Florence leaned closer. “Yes, sir, her baby be coming real soon.”
He scowled and shook his head, struggling to form the words. “No, Tempie . . . she’s just a child.”
_____
Tempie dropped the stick filled with tobacco on the back of the wagon, then grabbed an empty pole and returned to the row where Lilly and Mama Rose worked at cutting the plants.
Lilly glanced at Tempie, then straightened and placed her hand on Tempie’s forehead. “Child, you’d best take some rest.”
Tempie stuck the pole in the ground and leaned against it. “Every time I stop working, Big Jim hollers. If’n he sees me resting, he’ll put that whip to me.”
“You been going most all day, child.” Lilly put her hand on Tempie’s stomach. “You set on down and don’t be worrying none about Big Jim.” She peered down the long row. Across the field, Big Jim was yelling at one of the other slaves, then he smacked the man on the side of his head with a coiled whip.
Tempie turned toward Lilly. “But—”
“Hush.” Lilly pointed to the ground. “You sit.”