by Jeff Andrews
“Come morning, we’ll cook up this here pullet, but for now, we has to put some miles between us and them armies.” Isaac hooked the bird’s head under his rope belt and clambered through the hedgerow. “Dark as it is, we’ll be safe on the road. You got a name? What does they call you?”
The soldier fell in step beside Isaac. “William, William Richardson Brown, but folks up home just calls me Billy.”
“Good to meet you, Billy. Folks down home just calls me Isaac.” He smiled.
“You ain’t gonna tell nobody I’m running, is you?” Billy asked.
Isaac glanced at the boy. “Nobody never said you was running, so how can I tells what I doesn’t know?”
Billy nodded. He took several steps before he spoke again. “Your master, he wounded bad?”
“Took a bayonet through his shoulder, but it missed his vitals. Miss Hannah, she’s doctoring him, she said he might could live, if’n he gets tended to good.”
Billy blew into his hands, then rubbed them together. “I heard tales about them prisons. He ain’t gonna find doctoring there.”
“What’s you saying?”
Billy shoved his hands in his pockets. “Just saying I hears stories; short on food, short on doctoring, wounded don’t get better, they just dies.”
“Them Yankees ain’t gonna doctor Massa Henry?” Isaac asked.
“Maybe exchange him, if he’s lucky.”
Isaac cocked his head. “Exchange him?”
“Trade him for Union soldiers that were captured by your rebs. I seen them exchanging prisoners the day after the battle, up by that Dunker church on the road to Hagerstown, ‘cept I reckon they’re finished exchanging for now, since your whole reb army hightailed it back across the Potomac.”
“Maybe he’ll still get his self exchanged. Could be Miss Hannah is setting to work on that right now.”
“Maybe, but it don’t sound like his chances are good.”
“We got a rider coming.” Isaac pointed up the road at a figure in the distance silhouetted against the night sky. “Best hop that fence and lay low ‘til he’s past.”
They slipped between the fence rails and hid behind a sheaf of corn stalks. The rider approached from the east and passed at an easy gait. “Yankee,” Isaac whispered as he peered from behind the cover. “Appears to be an officer.”
“Weren’t no provost patrol. Most likely a courier.” Billy dusted off his britches with his cap.
Isaac studied the stars. “We got us two, maybe three hours before daylight. We’d best be moving, then find us a place to hide.”
_____
Sunlight caught the tops of the trees as Isaac slid down a leaf-strewn embankment with his canteen. Billy might be waking soon. Isaac would get a fire started and cook up their bird.
He knelt by the creek. Icy water floated leaves over glistening stones. He uncorked the canteen and held it under. Was Henry going to that prison camp? Billy said it was a bad place . . .
“You, halt!”
Isaac spun around, crouching as he peered through the trees. The voice seemed to come from where he’d left Billy.
“Hands in the air, now!”
Isaac crawled up the bank until he overlooked the small clearing where he and Billy had slept.
Three Yankees surrounded Billy, their muskets at the ready. One soldier wore the chevrons of a sergeant. “A deserter, eh?” He shoved Billy with his musket.
“N-no sir. I ain’t deserting, I just got separated from my unit during the fighting.”
“And what unit would that be?” The sergeant smiled and glanced at his comrades.
“Twenty-first New York, Patrick’s brigade, sir.” Billy inched away from the sergeant.
“Now, let me see if I got this right. You fought in that cornfield over yonder —kilt you a passel of Johnny Rebs too, I’ll wager—then you just happened to find yourself wandering ‘round miles away from the army on this here road to New York? Is that what you’s saying?”
Billy wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His gaze darted from one soldier to another. He retreated. “It ain’t like that, I ain’t deserting, I just got separated . . .”
The sergeant smashed Billy in the stomach with the butt of his musket. “Hog tie this yellow-bellied coward. The Colonel’s got a special place for your kind—in front of a firing squad.”
The other soldiers grabbed Billy’s arms. He tried to pull away. “No, it ain’t like that. Please, mister . . .”
“Gag the coward so I don’t have to hear his bellyaching,” the sergeant commanded.
One of the soldiers stuffed a rag in Billy’s mouth.
“Come on, men. We got more of these yellow bastards that need catching.” The sergeant turned and walked toward the road. The two privates grabbed Billy and dragged him along.
Isaac remained hidden behind a tree until the footfalls faded through the dry leaves and the forest settled once again into the quiet of an autumn morning. He dug into the dirt with his heel. There wasn’t anything he could have done. That boy was going off to be shot dead, all because he was scared of getting shot dead. It made no sense. Isaac had been plenty scared too. That sunken road was no place for folks who didn’t like getting shot at—and Henry’d be scared too, if he knew about that prison . . .
“Tarnation.” Isaac scrambled to his feet. “Ain’t no sense being free if I can’t do my own deciding.” He followed the upturned leaves that marked the path taken by the provost patrol and their young prisoner.
_____
“’Tis a surprise to see thee again. Henry will be pleased.”
“How’s he doing, ma’am?” Isaac stared at the still form under the blanket.
“I am concerned. In the days since thy departure he has worsened. I fear the prison camp will be his undoing.”
Isaac knelt and lifted Henry’s blanket. “He ain’t looking none too good. Maybe, if’n he’s ill, he won’t have to go to that prison?”
Hannah dipped a rag in a bucket and dabbed Henry’s brow. She shook her head. “The guards gathered a group yesterday, some much worse than Henry. They sent them off in wagons. It is only a question of time.” She dropped the rag in the bucket and closed her eyes. Sunlight danced on freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. She sighed. “What became of your dreams of Philadelphia and, what was her name, Raleigh? I thought thee would be in Pennsylvania by now.”
Isaac gazed across the field of wounded. “When’s they coming for the prisoners again?”
She shook her head. “I have no knowledge of their intentions. What is thee thinking?”
“Can he travel?” Isaac stood.
“No.” Hannah stammered, “he is weak. He does not have the strength. I would be afraid . . .”
“His chances better traveling north to prison or traveling south?”
Hannah stared at Isaac. “The direction matters not . . .”
“He’ll be dead if’n he goes to that prison,” Isaac said. “Maybe he’ll live if’n he gets back with his own kind.”
“Yes, Fort Delaware would certainly be fatal, but how . . . ?”
“Will you take care of him?” Isaac pointed at Henry. “If’n we’s traveling, that is?”
“I . . . my place is here, with the wounded, with all the wounded. I could not . . .”
“One, maybe two days, then you comes back.”
“But what of the guards?” She gestured toward the few sentries guarding the prison hospital.
“Might be tonight, maybe morning.” Isaac stood. “You be ready.”
Hannah began to speak, then simply looked at Isaac and nodded.
_____
The mule twitched his ear as Isaac snapped the reins. The army supply wagon lurched forward, rumbling up the dirt road past rows of white canvas tents. He glanced at the long box in the wagon bed. Pa would have pulled it apart and made him build it over, but there wasn’t time—it would have to do.
Union soldiers moved aside as the wagon passed. Isaac held the mule to a walk. Occas
ionally, a soldier might see the passing wagon and seem to notice the black teamster in a soiled linen shirt tipping his blue kepi and smiling. “Morning sir. Top o’ the morning, sir.”
He crossed Antietam Creek, then took a long route around the Union camps, coming into the prison area from the east.
A sentry stepped in front of the wagon, his musket at high port. “Halt. State your business.”
Isaac touched the brim of his cap, then pointed toward the back of the wagon. “I’s fetching one of them dead rebel boys for the long ride home.”
The sentry glanced at the coffin, nodded, and stepped aside.
Isaac tipped his hat as the mule sidestepped, found his footing, and pulled. The wagon rolled through the gate and into the field of Confederate wounded. Isaac guided the mule past a shallow trench where rebel prisoners were burying their fallen comrades. A short distance beyond, doctors working over a makeshift table sawed at the leg of another unfortunate victim. The morning’s collection of amputated limbs was already knee high. Isaac covered his nose with his bandana and twitched the reins. The mule quickened his step.
Henry lay in the shade, his head propped on a rolled blanket. He stared as Isaac climbed down from the wagon. “Thought you lit out for that freedom land.”
Ignoring Henry, Isaac turned to Hannah. “He seems a mite better this morning.”
She nodded. “I pray that is so.”
“Isaac . . .” Henry called in a weak voice. He rolled to his side and coughed, then laid back on his makeshift pillow. “I figured you’d be in Philadelphia by now.”
“I come back.”
“No . . .” Henry grabbed Isaac’s trouser. “You was supposed to be marrying up with that Raleigh girl and starting your carpenter’s shop.”
Isaac knelt beside Henry. “Got business here needs tending to first.”
Henry struggled to one elbow. “You don’t owe me that. You done enough. Go . . .”
Isaac turned to Hannah. “Reckon he’ll be able to travel?”
“Damn it, What about Raleigh?” Henry grabbed Isaac’s arm. “How long do you expect her to wait?”
Isaac turned away. Would she wait? What if she was already spoken for?
“Isaac, you remember that night down by the creek when you told me how you was just property? I’ve been thinking on that. You were right.”
Isaac stared at Henry.
“Go north. Your place is in Philadelphia. I’m giving you your freedom, go . . .”
Isaac smiled. “It ain’t yours to give, Henry McConnell.”
“I . . . I don’t understand.” Henry’s gaze darted from Isaac to Hannah. “What . . . ?”
Isaac held up his hand. “You McConnells owned my body, but y’all never owned my soul. I found my freedom on that road to Philadelphia,” he said, pointing toward the low hills to the east. “I ain’t no slave crawling back to his massa; I’s a free man, making a free choice. Now, when you and me gets back to Virginia, folks there might be believing I’s your slave, and maybe we’d best be letting ‘em think that, but you and me, we’ll be knowing the truth, ain’t that right, Henry McConnell?”
Henry let go of Isaac’s arm and lay his head back. He sighed. “Damn it, you was a pain in the ass slave anyway. Can’t be any worse if you’re free. But I’d still rather you was heading north . . .”
“That boy weren’t never real quick on the learning.” Isaac smiled at Hannah. “This here be taking him some time to get used to.”
_____
Isaac poked the small fire with a stick. “Miss Hanna, you understands, you gots to act like you’s his sister. Won’t nobody raise no questions. Once we’s in Virginia, them rebs will tend to Henry and you’ll be back here before you’s missed. Then I’ll be on that road north again.”
Hannah wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked back. “Thee really thinks this will work?”
“Has to. I ain’t got no better idea. Besides, the good Lord made stealing that mule and wagon too easy—like it was his plan all along.”
“Borrow. Thee borrowed the mule and wagon. I know thee will arrange to have both returned to their rightful owners in due course.”
“Borrowed. Yes ma’am.” Isaac smiled. “We’d best get him loaded.” Isaac stood and walked to Henry. “You ready?” He slid his arms under Henry and lifted. “Climb on up. I’ll pass him on to you.” Isaac lowered Henry to the wagon bed. Hannah supported him while Isaac climbed up.
“Gentle now, Miss Hannah. You see to it I doesn’t bang his head or nothing.” Isaac lifted Henry again and lowered him into the rough pine box.
“You sure about those breathing holes?” Henry stared wide-eyed from the makeshift coffin.
“No, I ain’t real sure,” Isaac said. “Couldn’t make no holes what’d be noticeable, but if’n you stops breathing, just knock twice.” He began setting the lid in place.
Henry held up his hand, stopping the lid. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
“Maybe you’d rather take your chances with them Yankees at Fort Delaware? Hush, you’s supposed to be dead.” Isaac nailed down the lid.
Chapter Forty-five
September 1862
“Morning ma’am.” The sentry tipped his cap. “Where would ya be heading at such an early hour?”
Hannah seemed unsure of what to say. The mule snorted, then nuzzled a clump of grass. Finally, Isaac jerked his thumb toward the back of the wagon. “It’s her brother, sir. We’s taking him home. The poor woman’s grieving something awful, him being dead and all . . .”
The sentry peered in the back of the wagon. “Coffin, huh? Must be an officer. Sorry about your loss, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his hat and stepped aside.
“Thank you, sir. We has many a mile to travel and the captain’s already getting ripe, so we’s in a mite of a hurry.” Isaac touched his own cap in a return salute, then flicked the reins. “Tch, tch. Get on there, mule.” The wagon rolled onto a farm lane headed toward Sharpsburg. Soldiers stepped aside, giving no attention to the wagon or its passengers.
“Ripening? Honestly, Isaac, how does thee think of such horrid things?”
“Just giving that good soldier one more reason to hurry us on. If’n he’s like most folks around here, I expect he’s seen all the dying he cares to see.”
“Thee never ceases to come up with a surprise. So, where did thee find that coffin?”
“Barn over yonder.” Isaac nodded toward the fields behind them. “I borrowed a few planks from the back of a stall and made use of their tools. You best wipe that smile off your face—you’s supposed to be mourning.”
Hannah blushed, covering her mouth with her hanky. “Thee is so convincing. I must do better at playing my role.”
Isaac reached behind and banged his fist on the coffin. A muted knock came in response. “Reckon maybe I’ll be leaving him in there a spell. Least trouble he’s been since I can’t remember when.”
Hannah giggled, then quickly covered her mouth and peeked from under her bonnet with a look of apology.
Broken wagons, abandoned muskets, clothing, and military equipment of every description littered the road from Sharpsburg to Shepherdstown. A dozen riders approached from the south, an officer in blue riding in the lead. The soldier riding beside him carried a guidon snapping in the breeze. The officer raised his hand, halting the patrol in front of the wagon. “Morning, ma’am.” The lieutenant saluted, then pointed to the back of the wagon. “A relative?”
“My brother.” Hannah held her hanky to her mouth.
“Sorry for your loss ma’am,” the lieutenant said. “Rebel?”
She nodded.
“What outfit?”
A panicked look came over her.
“Nineteenth Mississippi,” Isaac replied. “He done met his maker on that sunken road on the far side of Sharpsburg.”
The lieutenant gave Hannah a suspicious glance, then addressed Isaac. “You do all her talking, boy? Maybe we’d best take a look . . .”
> “He was only trying to spare me the grief of having to talk about my poor, departed Henry. Look if you must, but I fear he has become a mite ripe.” Tears streamed down Hannah’s cheeks.
“No need, ma’am.” The lieutenant waved his hand. “I’ve been impertinent. Please accept my apologies. It’s a long road to Mississippi and the September sun is warm.” He backed his horse away from the wagon. “I trust you will not have too unpleasant a journey.” He touched the brim of his cap. “Good day to you, ma’am.” The lieutenant spurred his horse and galloped off at the front of his patrol.
“Ripe?” Isaac pointed to her face. “And where’d them tears come from?”
“If thee were to hide thy smallest finger in a kerchief,” Hannah held up her little finger wrapped in a hanky, “then bite down on thy fingernail, tears would be closer than thee thinks.”
Isaac banged on the coffin. “Henry, you ripen any more, Isaac’s fetching his shovel and burying your carcass right here.”
A muffled knock came in reply.
_____
Union troops crowded the fields north of Shepherdstown. Isaac turned the wagon off the main road. “We come up this way from Harper’s Ferry a few days back. The bridge into town is out, but there’s a ford about a mile downstream.” He pointed to the bluffs rising above the Potomac River. “We’ll cross there.” Isaac flicked the reins.
Union artillery guarded the ford behind a thin line of pickets. Shell craters and shattered trees bore evidence of a recent battle. Henry moaned as the wagon bounced along a rutted farm lane toward the crossing. Rebel pickets watched from the bluffs above the south bank of the river.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am.” A soldier in blue stepped out to the road and held up his hand. “Wouldn’t recommend going no further.” He nodded toward the bluffs. “There’s rebel sharpshooters up yonder. They’ve been keeping our heads down during the daylight.”
“But we are southern,” Hannah said. “Surely they will not fire on their own kind.” She fanned herself, putting on airs as she must have supposed were befitting a fine Southern lady.