The Freedom Star

by Jeff Andrews

  The soldier pointed at Isaac. “They’s partial to shooting them what wears the blue.”

  Isaac glanced up at his kepi, then snatched the cap off his head and tossed it in the back of the wagon. He reached under the seat and retrieved his wide-brimmed black felt slouch hat.

  “They’s still a mite quick on the trigger, boy. You’d best wait for dark . . .” The soldier wiped his brow.

  “That branch, the long one,” Hannah said, pointing to a broken limb on the side of the road, “Please pass it here.”

  The soldier handed Hannah the thin branch. She reached beneath her skirts and ripped a swatch from her petticoats, then tied the tattered rag to the branch and hoisted her makeshift flag. “No son of Virginia would dare fire upon a grieving widow under the protection of a flag of truce. Drive on, Isaac.”

  The mule pulled them around a bend and onto an open stretch of road under the direct observation of the rebel pickets. Isaac leaned toward Hannah and whispered, “Sister . . .”

  “I beg thy pardon?”

  “You’s his sister, not his widow . . .”

  Hannah blushed.

  Above, a handful of rebel soldiers stood in their rifle pits, some with their caps held over their hearts, as the wagon forded the shallow river.

  _____

  “Ain’t home, but least ways you’s in Virginia.” Isaac eased Henry onto a blanket beside the campfire. He climbed into the wagon and tossed the casket to the ground. “Firewood.”

  “Good.” Henry coughed and rubbed his shoulder. “I don’t ever want to see that thing again.”

  “How is thee feeling?” Hannah sat on a stump, holding a small skillet over the fire.

  “Like I’ve been kicked by a mule.” Henry’s voice barely rose above the crackle of the fire.

  “Thee needs rest.” She turned to Isaac. “Is hardtack all thee has?”

  “Be thankful for that, ma’am. Weren’t for the Yankees, we wouldn’t have nothing.” Isaac spread his blanket next to Henry’s and sat down. “Come morning, I’ll take him over to the Confederate hospital, then you and me best be heading back north.”

  “Isaac, it is wonderful what thee has done for thy friend.”

  Isaac shrugged.

  “What I mean to say is, thee has given up so much, taken such a risk, and for a man that, for all of thy life, has held thee in bondage.”

  “Weren’t none of his doing.” Isaac glanced at the sleeping form beside him. “Henry can’t help what he was born to no more’n I can.” He removed his hat and rolled the brim. “Him and me, we been watching after one another since before we was in long britches. I weren’t gonna let him go off and die in that prison.”

  “Then tomorrow we must get him to the hospital. I am concerned that his wound will not heal without proper care.”

  _____

  Abandoned wagons cluttered the streets. Houses, churches, and hotels—the makeshift hospitals of war—spilled their tenants onto lawns and porches. The cries of men under the surgeon’s knife and the stench of rotting flesh filled the air. Gaunt specters in tattered gray stared vacantly at the passing wagon. Isaac flicked the reins, coaxing the mule through the tangled remnants of the beaten army.

  “His chances was better at that Yankee prison,” Isaac said.

  “Thee must not lose hope. There, beyond that oak, the large stone building, does thee see the yellow flag?” Hannah pointed ahead. “That must be the hospital headquarters. There we will find answers.”

  Isaac guided the wagon around a rut, nudging a horse tied to the hitching rail in front of a shop. The horse snorted, kicked up his hoofs, and danced aside.

  “Here. Pull over here.” Hannah motioned. “I will enquire within.” She climbed down, brushed herself off, and approached a young soldier who wore the double bars of a first lieutenant. Her back was to the wagon as she appeared to speak.

  The officer came toward the wagon. “I’ll have the orderlies unload him, ma’am, but I can’t say when a doctor might be available.”

  She placed her hands on her hips and leaned toward the officer. “He is my own flesh and blood. Thee is mistaken if thee thinks I shall abide such neglect.” Hannah turned on her heel and stormed toward the large stone building. The lieutenant stared at Isaac and shrugged, then walked away.

  Isaac held the brake with his foot and relaxed the reins. The mule bowed his head, appearing to doze. The day promised to be warm. Isaac wiped his brow.

  “Where . . . where are we?” Henry spoke in a feeble voice from the back of the wagon. He squinted, holding up a hand to block the midday sun.

  “Shepherdstown. Miss Hannah’s getting you admitted to this here Confederate hospital, then me and her, we’ll be heading back north.”

  Henry slumped, rubbing his wounded shoulder. “You reckon she’d stay? I mean, to tend to my wound and all?”

  Isaac shook his head. There was some things about that boy that never changed . . . . “How’s you doing?”

  “Hungry,” Henry replied.

  “Miss Hannah says that’s a good sign.”

  “You got anything?”

  “Hardtack.” Isaac reached in his pocket, pulling out a dark cracker.

  Henry took the offering, then dropped onto his bed and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and exhaled. When he opened his eyes again he held the cracker in front of him. “You sure you ain’t trying to kill me? These here’ll tear up a man’s insides.”

  “You gotta die of something,” Isaac said. “It might as well be Yankee food as Yankee bullets—or bayonets. How’s that shoulder?”

  “Hurting some. When you get to Philadelphia and find your lady friend, write me, you hear?”

  “I expect I will,” Isaac replied. “Now, you’d best lay back and take it easy. You’s looking a mite peaked. Here comes Miss Hannah.”

  Hannah rushed down the steps, brushing past a cluster of soldiers huddled on the walk. She held her skirts as she hurried across the lawn. “We will not abide such incompetence. Let us be gone.” She climbed up beside Isaac, folded her arms across her chest, and stared at the road ahead.

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but where’s we headed?” Isaac pointed at Henry. “And what about him?”

  “The doctor—chief surgeon for the division, mind thee—he said they have all they can do to keep up with the amputations. Said if Henry needed something cut off, they’d be most happy to oblige, however he did not anticipate being able to provide ongoing care of the quality I would expect—no, I would demand.”

  Isaac rubbed the back of his neck. “Sharpsburg?”

  Hannah closed her eyes and clutched the wooden seat with both hands. “He will surely die without proper care.”

  Isaac flicked the reins. As the mule awoke, Isaac turned the wagon. They rode in silence until the bustle of Shepherdstown faded, replaced by the solitude of a quiet country road.

  At the next crossroads, Isaac halted the wagon and scanned the sky, then studied the shadows on the ground. “Miss Hannah. Your Yankees is up yonder.” He pointed. “If’n no wagon comes along to give you a ride, well, it ain’t no more’n twenty miles to Sharpsburg. You’ll most likely make it on foot by nightfall.”

  She stared. “And thee?”

  “We’s heading south.” Isaac nodded toward the road to the right. “I’s taking Henry home.”

  “But . . . Philadelphia, Raleigh?”

  “Time enough after,” Isaac said. “Henry’s my worry now. I needs to get him home to South Boston.”

  “If thee goes back, they will place thee in chains. Thee will lose thy freedom.”

  Isaac nodded toward Henry. “Not if he stays alive.”

  “Which he won’t.” She adjusted her bonnet. “Not without someone skilled in providing proper care.”

  Isaac raised an eyebrow.

  “If thee is to sit here all the morning, we shall never see South Boston. Will thee turn the wagon, or shall I take the reins?”

  Chapter Forty-six

  October
1862

  Isaac covered Henry with the tarpaulin, tucking in the corners to hold it against the squall. “I done the best I can,” he said. “But I reckon you’ll be getting wet.”

  Henry moaned.

  Wind-driven rain splashed against the canvas and danced across Isaac’s back. His woolen shell jacket and the rough linen shirt beneath were soaked, pressing cold against his skin.

  “Thee must find us shelter or he will be taken with fever.” Hannah huddled on the wagon seat, shivering under Isaac’s poncho.

  “We passed through Staunton town early this morning,” Isaac said. “Is you thinking we should head on back?”

  “That would be too far,” Hannah replied. “Perhaps thee can find a farm, possibly a barn to cover us from the storm?”

  “We passed a farmhouse a mile back,” Isaac said. “You want I should turn around?”

  “Please do.” Hannah pulled the poncho around her face. “Henry is sick and I fear I am not dressed for this weather.”

  Isaac turned the mule and headed north. The storm brought an early nightfall to the Shenandoah Valley. He twitched the mule’s rump with the reins. The animal flattened his ears, gummed the metal bit, and picked up the pace. Only the splash of hoofs and the creak of wagon axles intruded on the monotony of the rain.

  “There.” Isaac pointed. “The house is down yonder.” He guided the mule onto the narrow path. After a quarter mile, the tree-lined lane opened into a barnyard surrounding a wooden two-story house. Light from a downstairs window cast a warm glow across the narrow front porch.

  “Wait here. I shall ask for traveling mercies.” Hannah climbed down and ran to the door. In a moment, the light moved and then the door opened, revealing a stooped old man with flowing gray hair and a shaggy beard. Hannah and the man talked. She pointed to the wagon. He nodded, then stepped inside and closed the door. Hannah walked back, pulling her slicker tightly around her head.

  “He appears to be a good Christian, though afflicted with a suspicious nature. He will permit us the use of his barn for the night.”

  “Better’n nothing,” Isaac said. “But it ain’t no hearth and fire.” He drove to the barn, then jumped down and swung open the double doors. Taking the mule by the halter, he led him into the darkened building. “See if there be a match in that cup beside the lantern yonder.”

  Hannah struck a match and lit the lantern. A golden hue filled the small building, revealing three stalls, two with horses, a loft filled with hay and an assortment of riding tack, farm implements, and hand tools hanging from hooks and rafters.

  Isaac lifted Henry from the wagon.

  “Wait, his blanket is soaked.” She pulled a saddle blanket from the top rail of a stall. “This is dry. Lay him here.”

  Isaac laid Henry down.

  “Cold . . .” Henry opened his eyes and shivered.

  “He’s chilled something awful, Miss Hannah.” As Isaac held him, Henry shivered uncontrollably. “You reckon that farmer has some hot soup?”

  Hannah blew into her hands, then rubbed them together. She pushed a wisp of wet hair from her eyes and glanced toward the door. “He seemed quite strict. He said we should not leave the barn this evening for any reason, and we should be on the road by first light. The man appeared to be quite concerned that anyone would be out and about.”

  “See if’n you can warm him some. There’s another saddle blanket yonder.” Isaac pointed to the back wall.

  “And what will thee do?”

  “Ain’t certain,” Isaac replied. “But Henry needs more’n we can give him here.” He opened the barn door and studied the farmhouse for a moment, then stepped out, closing the door behind him. He dashed across the small barnyard through the driving rain and jumped onto the porch. Lamplight flickered through a window. Isaac knocked on the door. From within came the scurrying of feet, then the clop of boots across a bare wooden floor. The door opened a crack, exposing the chiseled face of the old farmer. He looked Isaac up and down.

  “What do you want?”

  Isaac removed his hat, clutching it in front of him. “We has a wounded soldier,” Isaac said, nodding toward the barn. “He’s coming down with the chills. Wondering if’n you has hot soup or tea to spare, and maybe a blanket?”

  “Ain’t enough I lets you sleep in the dag-blamed barn? Now you bothers me to cook your vittles? Go, and be glad you has that barn for the night.” The farmer shooed him from the door.

  “A friend of a friend sent me,” Isaac said, pointing to the monkey wrench patterned quilt hanging on the porch rail. “Mighty poor weather to be airing your bedding.”

  The farmer glanced at the soaked quilt. “What’s it to ya?”

  “We ain’t no danger, mister,” Isaac said. “I shepherded some of them travelers a time or two myself. I just wants something warm for a sick man so’s he don’t die.”

  “I don’t cotton to no slave-holding Confederates,” the man said. “Let ‘em all die.”

  “Please, mister. He’s my friend.”

  The door opened wider. The farmer looked Isaac up and down. “You his slave?”

  “No sir. I’s free, just taking a wounded boy back to his mother, then I’ll be heading north.”

  “What about that woman?”

  “Miss Hannah?” Isaac smiled and glanced toward the barn. “She’s one of them Quaker abolitionist ladies, best I can figure.” Isaac chuckled. “It don’t make no sense, her taking up with a Johnny Reb.”

  “Taking in a wounded Confederate soldier and his slave?” The farmer stroked his beard. “I’ll be durned if that don’t make for a real good story. Might come in handy if there was patrols here about. Go on then, fetch that rebel and bring him in here by the fire before

  he up and dies—and don’t you be letting on none about what you think you know—the best secret’s them that’s kept.”

  _____

  Isaac laid Henry in front of the hearth, covering him with a blanket. He then held his hands to the fire as the farmer added another log. Sparks swirled up the chimney.

  The stone fireplace stood out from the wall, surrounded by whitewashed wooden panels outlined in decorative molding. One panel appeared to be pulled away from the wall by almost an inch, its edge smeared by a dirty handprint. The style of the mantle was familiar—a passable copy of Thomas Day’s craftsmanship.

  Hannah set a steaming cup on the floor next to Henry, then sat and eased his head into her lap. She lifted the cup to his lips. “Slowly—thee mustn’t scald thyself.”

  “Miss Hannah,” the farmer said, settling into his rocker. “What brings a nice Philadelphia girl down here to tend wounded rebels?” He adjusted the blanket on his lap. His rocker creaked against the pinewood floor.

  “I posted with the U.S. Sanitary Commission so I could serve the wounded—all the wounded—it matters not their uniform.”

  “Noble, and foolish” the farmer replied.

  “Why does thee say that?”

  The farmer struck a match against the edge of his chair. Several quick drags on his briar pipe sucked the flame into the bowl. He rocked back and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Folks here about don’t take kindly to abolitionists. If word was to get out, folks might choose to pay me a visit, and haul you back north on a rail.”

  Hannah’s eyes flashed panic. “I don’t recall mentioning my politics. I am only tending to an unfortunate soul on his wearisome journey home. A simple act of Christian charity.”

  “Some folks might believe that.”

  Henry coughed and opened his eyes. He glanced around. “Throat hurts,” he whispered. “Where are we?”

  “A friend has taken thee in.” Hannah held the tea to his mouth. “Sip this, it will soothe thy throat.” She stroked his forehead.

  The farmer rose from his rocker and climbed the stairs. Moments later he returned, his arms filled with blankets that he tossed on the sofa. “I’d best be turning in. Y’all should be warm enough with these. Holler if you need anything.” He started up the stair
way, then froze when an urgent knock came at the door.

  The farmer’s face turned ashen. He hobbled down the steps.

  Isaac sidestepped to the hearth and planted his foot on the loose panel. As he pushed, the panel snapped into place.

  The farmer raised the latch and opened the front door a crack. “It’s late. What do you want?”

  The door flew open, knocking the farmer back. Two bearded men in wide brimmed hats and floor length dusters pushed into the room. The shorter of the two held a double-barreled shotgun in the crook of his arm. The taller man snatched off his hat and made a slight bow when he noticed Hannah. “Begging your pardon ma’am.”

  He turned to the farmer. “Sam, there’s runaways here about and folks is saying you’s had some mighty curious visitations. What’s you knowing about that?”

  The farmer rubbed his beard and scowled. “You tell old lady Crutchfield to keep her guldurned nose out of my business. The only visitations up here’s been this here Confederate boy.” He pointed to Henry. “He was wounded at Sharpsburg he was, and on his way home to his mother. This here good woman’s been caring for him, and he’ll be mending a mite quicker without you holding that durned door wide open and chilling his bones.”

  “Sorry, ma’am.” The leader of the patrol nodded toward Hannah and closed the door. “What about him, Sam?” He pointed to Isaac. “You ain’t got no slaves. Where’d the nigger come from?”

  “He belongs to me.” Hannah spoke up. “Isaac is my houseboy, and he is helping me take my brother home, that is if he survives. As if his wound was not enough, he is now down with the fever.”

  “Sorry ma’am. I . . . I didn’t know. We’s just on the lookout for runaways. Didn’t mean to cause you no concern.”

  “And I appreciate that,” Hannah said. “Now, if you will excuse me, my brother is weak, he needs his sleep.”

  “Yes ma’am.” The man bowed and retreated to the door.

  The farmer reached for the latch. “You tell that busybody old hag we’ll all be sleeping better if’n she’d tend to her own affairs and leave us loyal, God-fearing southern folks alone.”