by Jeff Andrews
“Thank thee. Bandages are in short supply.” She stared at Isaac. “Thee wears the garb of the rebellion. Is thee Confederate?”
Isaac shook his head. “Just a slave looking to find the road to the Promised Land, but first I has a friend what needs doctoring.”
“Where is thy friend? Has he been tended to?”
“No ma’am. I just now brung him over. He got stuck with a bayonet—run him clean through.”
“See that copse of trees?” She pointed to a grassy area in the shade of three large trees. “If thee will fetch thy friend, I shall look at him there.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Isaac bowed, then raced back to find Henry.
“Henry, I has to take you over yonder. There’s a white woman who talks funny, she says she’s gonna mend you. Help me get you up.” Henry didn’t respond. Isaac tugged on Henry’s jacket, pulling him to his feet, then scooped him up in his arms and carried him to the trees.
“Place thy companion over there.” The young lady pointed to an open spot between two Yankees.
Isaac gently laid Henry on the ground and stepped aside. The girl knelt, unbuttoned Henry’s jacket, and lifted his blouse. “Thee said a bayonet? This wound appears severe. Has he lost much blood?”
Isaac nodded. “Bleeding most all night, I reckon.”
“Hand me a bandage, there.” She pointed to the bundle of rags.
Isaac gave her a bandage.
She dipped the rag in a bucket of water and cleaned Henry’s wound. “Thy friend has been blessed.” She tossed the bloodied rag aside and bound the wound.
“Ma’am?” Isaac knelt beside her, offering another bandage.
“The wound is high in his shoulder, above his vitals. With prayer and rest, he has a chance.”
“Doctors be fixing him soon?”
“The doctors are much too busy operating on the gunshot wounds, they will not see him today. Be thankful thy friend was not shot.” She nodded toward the operating tables. “Those who manage to survive the surgeons do so at the cost of a limb. Thy friend’s wound is serious, but I pray it will not be mortal.” She studied Isaac for a moment. “Thee appears to be wounded as well. Come.”
She cleaned and bandaged Isaac’s shoulder. “What shall I call thy friend?” Her freckled face peered intently behind wisps of blonde hair.
Isaac stammered, “H-Henry, Henry McConnell.”
“And what is thee to be called?”
“Isaac, I’s to be called Isaac.” He placed his hand on his chest and nodded.
“Yes.” she smiled. “Son of Abraham . . . and thy surname?”
“Ma’am?”
“What is thy last name?”
Isaac shook his head. “I . . . I ain’t got one of them, least not that I knows. Folks just call me Isaac.”
“Well, Isaac, you have a fine first name. That should do for any man. And you may call me Hannah, Hannah Bunting. Will thee be remaining with thy friend, I mean, with Henry?” She placed a hand on Henry’s good shoulder.
“Reckon I’ll stay ‘til he’s on the mend, then I’ll be off to Philadelphia. I has a woman waiting there.” Isaac settled against a tree.
“And a most fortunate woman, I would suppose. What is she called?”
“They calls her Raleigh, ‘cause that’s where she was born.”
Hannah glanced at Henry. “And thy friend, I suppose he has a girl waiting somewhere too?” Her cheeks flushed.
“Henry? He don’t have no woman, not since the war. Used to be, he liked chasing them girls, but I reckon this here fighting is getting in his way.”
Hannah pursed her lips, then quickly looked away. “I have never met a slave before. Thee must tell me of all the horrors. Is it as Harriet Stowe has written?”
“Don’t know about no Harriet Stowe, nor nothing she been writing, but it’s just living, same as anything else, ‘cept somebody’s all the time telling you what for and cracking the whip if’n you doesn’t do right.”
“Sounds absolutely inhumane.” she gazed at Henry. “Does he own thee?”
“Me and Henry, we growed up together. I expect now that Massa McConnell, that’s Henry’s pa, now that he’s laid up with his apoplexy, must be Henry is my massa.” Isaac took off his hat and fanned it in front of his face. “Don’t matter none though, ‘cause I’s heading north.”
“And well thee should. ‘Tis an evil thing, one man believing he can own another. Thee must never go back where thee will again be placed in bondage.”
“No ma’am, I ain’t going back. I reckon I’s done with slavery.”
“Good.” She stood and brushed the grass from her dress. “I must tend to the others. Will thee be here to watch over Henry?”
“Yes ma’am. I expect I’ll be right here just resting up against this here tree.”
Chapter Forty-three
September 1862
“Where am I?” Henry opened his eyes, blinking at the waning daylight. Pain coursed through his chest.
“Hush,” Isaac said. “You been hurt real bad. Lie still.” He adjusted a frayed blanket around Henry’s shoulders.
“Are we in Virginia?”
“Maryland,” Isaac said. “You’s in a Yankee hospital. Miss Hannah, she been taking good care of you.”
“Who?”
“Miss Hannah,” Isaac said. “A Yankee woman what tends to the wounded.”
“How . . . how long have I been here?”
Isaac gazed skyward. “Going on four days. You took a bayonet in that shoulder. I brung you over here to get you mended.”
Henry tried to raise up on one elbow. Pain drove him back down. “Yankees? You brought me to a Yankee hospital?”
Isaac plucked a stalk of grass and shoved it between his teeth. “All your Johnny Rebs skedaddled across the Potomac. This here is the only doctoring you’s gonna get.”
“How is thy patient, Isaac?” A young woman in plain garb nodded to Isaac as she approached, then turned to Henry and smiled. “Good evening, Henry. ‘Tis nice to finally meet thee.” Even in the fading light her deep blue eyes sparkled.
“I . . . I . . .” Henry shot Isaac a quick glance.
Isaac gestured toward the woman. “Massa Henry, this here be Miss Hannah Bunting.”
“We have neither porridge nor meat,” she said. “Fill up as best thee can on this hardtack.” She handed each a hard, thick cracker. “The Union soldiers fare only slightly better. I will try to find something more tomorrow.”
“Isaac says you’ve been tending to me,” Henry whispered in a raspy voice. “Thank you.”
“’Tis the kindness one of God’s children offers another,” she replied. “I should expect no less of thee, were the circumstances reversed.”
“Meaning no disrespect, ma’am,” Henry said. “But you’s speaking in a curious tongue. Are . . . are you American?”
She smiled. “Pennsylvanian. Germantown Monthly Meeting, Society of Friends. Perhaps thee has heard of our work in the abolition movement?”
Henry scowled. “Quaker?”
“Yes. I came here with the Sanitary Commission to help relieve the suffering of all victims of this terrible war, blue or gray—even slave owners.” She cocked her head to one side and smiled.
Henry laid back on the blanket, clutching at the sharp pain in his chest. Even slave owners? She was a testy one . . .
“Here’s another over here.” Two Union soldiers approached the copse of trees. One pointed at Henry.
“What is thy need, sir?” Hannah looked at the taller soldier.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am.” The taller soldier touched the brim of his cap. “The provost marshal ordered us to gather up all these here rebels and take em’ yonder where they can be guarded.”
“Can’t thee see this man is injured?” Hannah stepped in front of the provost guards. “To move him now could prove fatal.”
“Sorry ma’am, orders is orders.”
“And what then? Will thee see to it he gets proper medical attenti
on?” She placed her hands on her hips.
“I don’t rightly know, ma’am. They ain’t promising our own boys will get looked at. I can’t say what this here Reb can expect. Reckon they’ll give him a bandage before they send him off to Fort Delaware, but that ain’t none of my concern.”
“Fort Delaware? Does thee know the horrid stories that are told of that place?”
The soldiers looked at one another. The shorter of the two shrugged.
“Our monthly meeting has written a letter to President Lincoln demanding that he close that wicked prison at once. God frowns on such inhumanity.”
“I expect he do, ma’am.” The taller soldier pointed at Isaac. “Is this here nigger a rebel too?”
“Certainly not.” Hannah gestured toward Isaac. “This poor man has spent a lifetime in bondage. Now, he has found sanctuary behind the Union lines. Finally, he is free.”
The taller soldier glanced at his companion and smiled. “Good. Then he’s free to pick up this here rebel and haul him yonder with the rest of them prisoners, lessen you’d rather we just drag him over.”
“He has a severe wound. Will thee allow me to visit him and tend to his needs?”
“Shouldn’t be no problem, ma’am. There’s a passel of Johnny Rebs over yonder. You can tend to them all.”
She turned to Isaac. “Does thee mind?”
Pain shot through Henry’s shoulder as Isaac carried him to the plowed field filled with wounded men in gray. No fences separated prisoners from the other wounded and what few guards were posted appeared disinterested in their duties. Isaac placed Henry on the blanket Hannah spread for him.
“Ain’t no difference, here or where we was,” Isaac said as he gazed toward the evening sky. “Either way, you’s wet when it rains and hot with the sun.”
“I must take care of others before I turn in for the night.” Hannah knelt beside Henry, checking his bandage. “Will thee be all right until morning?”
Henry opened one eye. “I reckon so, ma’am. You’ve done some fine doctoring. Thank you.”
Hannah smiled as she stood. “Until tomorrow, then. Sleep in peace, Henry McConnell.”
_____
Campfires flickered across the vast battlefield. Isaac rose on one elbow. Beside him, Henry appeared to be sleeping comfortably. Miss Hannah had him on the mend. This was his time . . .
He rose quietly and wandered toward a group of Yankees seated on boxes around the nearest fire.
“You has coffee?” Isaac asked.
One of the soldiers glanced up. “You say something, boy?”
Isaac quickly snatched his hat from his head. “Begging your pardon, sir. Was wondering if’n I could get me a cup of coffee.”
“Coffee?” The soldier jerked a thumb in Isaac’s direction. “This here darky wants coffee.” His companions laughed. “Move along, boy.”
Isaac stood still.
The soldier who spoke looked up again. “You still here? I got a mind to haul your ass over to Shepherdstown and sell you to the first slave trader I see.”
“Begging your pardon, sir.” Isaac bowed. “Where’s the road to Philadelphia?”
“Yonder.” The soldier pointed behind him. “Now get.”
_____
The deserted road led past Union encampments and along fields untouched by battle. Isaac searched the cloud-filled sky. No stars to guide him, but this was his road north. He walked briskly, rubbing his arms to ward off the night chill. He’d walked roads at night before and he’d run from slavery before, but he’d never been free before. Tonight, Isaac wasn’t a runaway. Tonight Isaac walked this road a free man, as free as Henry McConnell, and he’d be walking this freedom road all the way to Raleigh’s door.
The pounding of hoofs announced a rider from the direction of the battlefield. Isaac dove behind a low fence and rolled into a tangle of briars. The soldier in Union blue raced past without giving Isaac a glance. No pattyrollers, just army business. Isaac laughed to himself. The closer he got to that Promised Land, the more skittery he’d become. He searched the road as he pulled himself out of the brambles. Maryland was still a slave state. He’d best be alert.
Clouds parted, revealing a scattering of stars to the east. Isaac pushed on. He’d walk at night. He was free, but Maryland slave owners might not see it that way. Would Raleigh be glad to see him? It had been what, a year since he’d seen her? What if she’d found another man? Lord, what if she’d married?
Dawn approached. It was time to hide. Isaac scrambled over a rail fence, slipped through a cornfield, and ducked into the forest beyond. He settled against an old tree and piled leaves around his legs. Maybe he was free, but it was still cold. Soon, he’d be in Philadelphia, a free man, same as Henry . . . He closed his eyes.
Chapter Forty-four
September 1862
Leaves rustled in the underbrush. Squirrel? Isaac opened his eyes. Sunlight filtered through a tapestry of autumn colors. He sat still, straining to hear. Nothing. He closed his eyes again and leaned against the tree. Just critters. He’d stay put ‘til nightfall.
A twig snapped.
Isaac twisted, peering around the trunk of the old maple. Was there something behind those bushes? Isaac sprang to his feet, hefting a fallen limb as a club. “Y-you come on out. Don’t make me come get you.” He crouched, his heart pounding, as he peered into the tangled undergrowth.
“Don’t shoot,” a meek voice answered. An arm appeared above the bushes, then another. Slowly, a soldier in blue stepped into the clearing.
Just a boy—and scared to beat all. Isaac lowered his club. “I ain’t got no gun. I ain’t gonna hurt you none.”
The soldier trembled, his hands still in the air.
“Come on over here.” Isaac waved the soldier toward him. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
Hesitantly, the young soldier lowered his hands and took a step toward Isaac. “Y-you’re a Negro . . .”
“It appears that surprises a lot of you Yankees.”
“But you’re wearing the rebel gray.”
Isaac tugged at his gray jacket. “I ain’t no Johnny Reb—was a slave though.” He settled against the tree and pulled a piece of hardtack from his coat pocket, breaking it in half. “You hungry?”
The boy took the offering, then brushed off some leaves and sat beside him.
Isaac handed him a canteen. “What’s you doing out here, so far from the army?”
The boy peered nervously at Isaac, then returned to chewing the hardtack.
Isaac stared into the morning sky. “Me, I’s heading to Philadelphia. I has a woman waiting there.”
The boy stood and brushed himself off. “T-thanks for the food and the water.”
“You can’t set a spell? Where’s you headed?”
The boy searched left and right, then settled his gaze on Isaac. “I’m from New York.”
“You running?”
“Ain’t running.” He backed away. “It ain’t like that.” A tear streaked his cheek.
“None of my business.” Isaac waved his hands in front of him. “Ain’t none of my never mind.”
The boy turned and slipped through the brush toward the road.
Isaac pulled his cap down on his forehead and closed his eyes. That boy was running, sure enough. Sunlight filtered through the treetops warming the September morning. Isaac drifted . . .
_____
Pounding hoofs and the clatter of sabers on the road above wrested Isaac from his nap. He opened one eye. The young Union soldier stood before him again, glancing cautiously over his shoulder.
“Best to move at night,” Isaac said. “Patrols don’t see so good then.”
The soldier pointed to the ground next to Isaac. “Mind if I sit?”
Isaac shrugged.
The Yankee pointed toward the road as he leaned against the tree. “Mess of folks moving around up there—couriers, patrols, and such. Reckon I’ll just sit a spell.” He settled beside Isaac. “You running, I mean, you being
a slave and all?”
“Massa Henry,” Isaac said, “he’s the man what owned me. He got his self wounded, so now them Yankee doctors is looking out for him. I reckoned it was time for me to mosey on up north and find my freedom.”
“I’m heading north too.” The soldier nodded. “I’m done with soldiering.” He poked the leaves with a stick. “You seen all the fighting back yonder?”
“Sure enough,” Isaac replied. “Me and Henry was down on this farm lane with some boys from Mississippi. The fighting was something awful—bodies all piled atop one another, bleeding and dying.”
The soldier traced a line in the dirt with his stick. “Me, I was in this here cornfield. Lost most of my company. We pushed them Rebs out, but they come back, hollering and screaming that rebel yell. It liked to curl the hair on my neck. The corn was taller’n a man when we first went in, but them Texacans opened with their cannon and muskets and mowed that field flat.” He paused, then looked at Isaac. “I seen men cut in half. My cousin, Johnny Marshall’s his name, he got shot clear through his eyeball. His brains splattered all over me.” The soldier brushed his jacket. “There weren’t no place to hide.”
Isaac scanned the woods. “We’s safe enough down here. We’ll head north, come nightfall. Best get some rest.” He lowered his cap over his eyes and propped his chin on his chest.
“I ain’t no coward,” The Yankee snuffled.
Isaac lifted the brim of his cap and looked at the soldier. “Come night, you can help me find us some food. For now, get some sleep.”
_____
“Sh-h-h. Stay low. Ain’t you never stole no chickens up there in New York?” Isaac waved the young soldier toward the shadows. “Wait here. If’n you sees anybody, make like a whippoorwill.”
He wiggled through the rail fence and snuck around the corner of the barn. A row of nesting boxes sat under a shed roof, surrounded by a fence of woven twigs. Sleeping birds cooed quietly as Isaac lifted the gate and slipped inside. He cupped his hand over the head of a nesting hen, clamping down on her beak, and snapped her neck. He held the hen close, covering it with his arms, muffling the flapping wings. The hen house returned to the soft rhythm of sleeping birds. Isaac crept back to his accomplice.