by Jeff Andrews
“Sorry, Sam. Don’t take it personal. We didn’t mean you no harm.” The intruder pulled the door closed behind him.
“I don’t trust ‘em none at all.” The farmer bolted the door. Outside, the pounding of horse’s hoofs trailed away.
“Why would they be looking here for runaway slaves?” Hannah raised her eyebrows and stared at the farmer.
“I’s just a durned farmer minding my own business. Some old busybody thinks she can cause me trouble by getting them patrols riled up. Damn ‘em anyway.” The farmer stomped up the stairs.
Hannah turned to Isaac with a questioning look.
“You takes the sofa, Miss Hannah. I’ll put my blanket here, next to Henry.”
_____
“Looks to be a good day. The sun’ll bake out that cough,” Isaac said. “You’ll be mending good and proper, now that we’s dry.” Isaac tucked the blanket under Henry and placed two loaves of warm bread and a side of ham in the back of the wagon. “You’s mighty generous. We thanks you kindly, sir.” He waved to the old farmer on the porch.
The farmer pointed toward the rising sun. “Follow that road due east. You’ll be over the Blue Ridge by nightfall, then turn south. The patrols shouldn’t give you no trouble.”
“Yes, thee has been kind to share thy hearth and thy food,” Hannah said. “We are most thankful.” She smiled as she settled onto the wagon seat.
Isaac finished making Henry as comfortable as he could, then he jumped from the wagon and walked to the porch. “Massa Sam,” he whispered. “You’s a good man. I hopes we didn’t bring no trouble down on you or your flock.” He nodded toward the house.
“Best thing could of happened, you being here,” the farmer replied. “Folks was getting ideas. Ol’ man Tillman there, the fella what done all the talking last night, he’d a tore up this place if’n that reb of yours hadn’t a been here. You bought me some time, but I reckon I’d best take that quilt down for now, let things settle.”
“Thank you again, sir.” Isaac held out his hand.
The farmer stared at the hand. “A white man ought not be seen
shaking hands with no nigra. Can’t say who might be watching.” He turned and walked to the door.
Isaac brushed his hand across his britches and started down the steps.
The farmer opened the door to go in the house, then turned toward Isaac. “God go with you, son.”
Chapter Forty-seven
October 1862
“Ho! Ho there, mule.” Isaac stomped on the long handled brake. “We’ll be headed down that road soon enough. Grab a mouthful o’ sweet grass while Isaac sets here a spell.” He doffed his hat, using it to shield his eyes from the glare of the setting sun. Shadows stretched across the dry Virginia fields in the valley below. To the west, remnants of a split rail fence tumbled along the edge of an overgrown field of summer wheat.
The mule continued pulling against his harness. Isaac held the reins, wiping sweat from his brow with the worn sleeve of his gray shell jacket.
A breeze lifted a hint of wood smoke up from the valley. To the southeast, tall oaks reached over the dark waters of Bennett’s Creek where he and Henry had splashed away the summers of their youth. On a rise a half-mile further south, the weathered old cookhouse nestled behind the green roofs of the big house.
“Thee is remembering?”
Isaac set his hat on his head and nodded. “And considering. I ain’t had much time to learn about being free, but down yonder, I’ll be right back into them shackles.”
“Thee has done more for Henry than any man should ask of another. Thy mission is finished, and honorably so.” Hannah squeezed Isaac’s hand. “Henry is healing nicely and thee has brought us within sight of his home. I can handle the wagon this final mile.”
“Pa used to say, ‘There be the easy path and there be the right path.’ This’n ain’t easy, but I reckon I knows what I needs to do.” He flicked the reins.
_____
The sound of hoofs brought Florence to the parlor window. As she drew the curtain, a mule plodded into the barnyard pulling a large wagon. Silhouetted in the fading light were two riders, one small, perhaps a child or a woman, and the other a man wearing a broad brimmed hat. He sat erect, his posture and mannerisms strangely familiar.
“Miss Polly. Miss Polly, we has visitors.” Florence released the curtain and stepped behind the wheelchair.
Polly bounded down the front stairs, brushing back her hair and straightening her dress. A muffled knock sounded at the front door. She looked at Florence.
Florence turned Morgan’s chair toward the doorway and nodded.
Polly lifted the latch and opened the door.
A tall man entered cradling another man in his arms. His dark face was partially hidden by his slouch hat as he looked down at his burden. A woman in a plain dress followed quietly.
Florence gasped “Lordy, can it be?” Her hand came slowly to her mouth. “Isaac? Is that really you?”
Isaac laid Henry on the sofa, then straightened and removed his hat. “Evening, Mama.”
Florence trembled. Tears streaked her cheeks. “You’s hurt . . .” She touched the scar on the side of his head.
“Ain’t nothing, Mama.” He placed his hands on her shoulders.
Florence gazed up at him, then threw her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest. “Dear Lord, you did hear my prayers thank you, thank you . . .”
Thwack!
Florence turned quickly.
Morgan held his hand above the arm of his wheelchair and brought it down again. Thwack!
“Massa McConnell?” Florence wiped her eyes.
He waved her closer and whispered. “What of Henry?”
“Took a bayonet at Sharpsburg,” Isaac said. “But he’s mending good. This here’s Miss Hannah.” He motioned toward Hannah. “She’s been tending to him.”
“Good evening.” Hannah said with a smile.
“Hello, Hannah. My name is Polly. I’m the lady of the house, at least while my mother is in Richmond.” She curtsied. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Henry!” The raspy voice seemed insistent.
Florence pushed the wheelchair next to the sofa and Polly placed Henry’s hand in Morgan’s.
“Hello, Papa,” Henry said.
Tears welled in Morgan’s eyes. He looked at Isaac. “Thank you,” he mouthed.
“Hannah, will you stay with us awhile?” Polly took Hannah by the arm and escorted her into the parlor. “Mother’s in Richmond, don’t know when she’s ever coming home, and I do so wish for the company of another woman.”
“If thee does not mind. I had hoped to see Henry through his convalescence.”
“Thee?” Polly cocked her head.
“Quaker—and a right good doctor.” Henry winked.
“I declare, I can’t tell which of you sounds worse.” Florence placed her hand on Henry’s as it rested in Morgan’s grasp. “Ain’t neither one of you talking above a cat’s whisper.” She smiled at Hannah. “It’ll be good having another body around to help with the nursing.”
“Where’s Joseph?” Isaac glanced about the room.
Florence shook her head and smiled. “That boy spends most of his evenings down by the quarters these days.”
“And Tempie?” Isaac asked. “She had that baby yet?”
She swallowed hard. Of course she’d have to tell him, but couldn’t it have waited? Florence lowered her voice. “Miss Polly, Miss Hannah, will you two tend these here sick ones?” She pointed toward Henry and Morgan.
Hannah quickly nodded.
“Come,” Florence said, taking Isaac by the arm. “Walk with me.”
_____
“But Mama, she was just a child. It weren’t her time.” Isaac wiped his eyes as they strolled down the lane toward the quarters. The waning moon cast a silver glow over the harvested fields. It couldn’t be true, not his sister, not Tempie . . .
“The Lord said it was her time. She went
peaceable; didn’t feel no pain.”
“The baby?”
“Weren’t meant to be,” Florence said. “The Lord took that child so’s Tempie could have an angel with her in heaven.”
“That damned Cato—this is his fault . . .” Isaac turned toward Florence.
“Hush.” She grabbed Isaac’s arm. “Ain’t no child of mine gonna be cussing like no Yankee peddler.”
“But Mama, he kilt my sister.” Isaac punched his fist into the palm of his hand. “I’ll whup him so’s he won’t never forget the evil he done.”
“Whupping ain’t bringing your sister back.” Florence patted his arm. “Leave it be.”
Isaac pulled away. “Weren’t no call for what he done to her. I’ll cut him good.” He wielded an imaginary knife.
“Isaac. Listen.” Florence grabbed both of his arms. “It weren’t Cato.”
He drew back. “How you know?”
She took his hands and slowly raised her head, starring into Isaac’s eyes. “The baby was white.”
Isaac stammered as he began to speak.
Florence put a finger to his lips. “I reckon we won’t never know the daddy. I prays it weren’t nobody on this farm, and I prays he didn’t hurt her much.”
Isaac let out a breath. His shoulders sagged. “She knew. She knew and she didn’t tell nobody?”
“I expect she had her reasons. It be in the Lord’s hands now.”
Isaac wrapped his arms around Florence and pulled her close. “I wish Pa was here.”
_____
“Morning Miss Hannah.” Isaac set a cup of sassafras tea on the table beside the chair in the front parlor. “This here’s all we got. Coffee’s been hard to come by since the war begun.”
“Tea will be fine.” She seemed to hesitate, then turned toward him. “Polly told me of thy sister. I prayed for thee last night—and thy mother too.”
Isaac lowered his head. “It don’t seem right. I goes off to war—Manassas, Harpers Ferry, Sharpsburg—and I comes home in one piece, but Tempie . . .”
“Thee mustn’t think of it that way. It was God’s will. The Lord knows best.”
“That’s what Mama was saying.”
Polly skipped down the stairs, grabbing a shawl from the hall tree. She draped it over her shoulders. “Ready?”
Hannah placed a hand on Isaac’s shoulder. “Polly promised to show me around the farm this morning. We might visit Tempie’s grave. Would thee like to join us?”
Isaac shook his head. “I ain’t ready for that. I reckon I’d best stay put and tend to Henry.” He pulled the chair next to the sofa.
“Henry will appreciate that,” Hannah said as Polly took her by the arm. Together, they headed out the door, their voices trailing into the distance.
Isaac turned to the lump curled under a blanket on the sofa. “You hungry?”
Henry opened one eye. “You ain’t near as pretty as my other nurse.”
“Hardtack’s what you be needing, but all I gots is eggs and bacon. I throwed in a couple of Mama’s biscuits too.”
Henry struggled to a sitting position and took the plate. “You think she is?”
“Who?” Isaac stared at him. “What?”
“Hannah. You think she’s sweet on me?”
“If’n that poor girl’s got a lick of sense, she’ll be hopping the next train north.”
The crash of a glass against pinewood floors echoed from the back parlor, followed by Florence’s voice. “If’n you throws it, I’ll just be getting another. Now, you drinks these here medicinals before I gets upset.”
“Your mama’s a hard woman,” Henry said with a laugh. “Mother sure never talked to him like that.”
“I reckon she is.” Isaac chuckled. “Just ask Pa.”
Henry’s face grew somber. “Wish I could. You got to know that . . .”
Isaac squeezed Henry’s good shoulder as he stood. He walked to the window. The fields were harvested, but the barns were in need of whitewash. It was all so familiar, yet somehow distant, as though it had only existed in a dream. Somewhere to the south, Pa worked the cotton, ignorant of all that had happened; not knowing about Tempie . . .
Pounding hoofs pulled Isaac from his reverie. The front door flew open and Patrick stormed in, slapping his riding crop against the side of his brown frock coat. Suddenly, he halted and stared. “Well, I’ll be . . . Little brother’s home from the war again.”
“Nice to see you too.” Henry waved his fork in Patrick’s direction.
“Boy,” Patrick said, motioning to Isaac, “unsaddle my horse and rub her down good. If she gets chilled, it’ll be your ass.”
Isaac didn’t move.
“You hard of hearing, boy?”
“Isaac’s a free man,” Henry said. “He ain’t yours to boss around.” He set his plate on the end table.
“Free? Says who?” Patrick swung at Isaac with his crop.
Isaac caught Patrick’s wrist in mid-arc, glaring as he twisted his arm. “The last man what took a swing at me met his maker on the battlefield.”
Patrick’s face flushed. His gaze darted from Isaac to Henry, and then back to Isaac, his eyes growing wide as the riding crop slipped from his hand and rattled to the floor.
Isaac released his grip.
“Are you going to let your nigger get away with this?” Patrick stepped toward Henry, wagging his finger. “Did you see what he did? I’ve a mind to gather a few folks and have an old fashioned lynching.”
“The man’s free,” Henry said. “You touch him, it’s murder.”
“You don’t have the authority to set him free,” Patrick replied. “He belongs to this farm, and I’ve got papers right here.” He reached in his coat pocket. “Judge Ellis over at South Boston signed them this morning. I’ve been assigned conservator of Father’s estate. Everything on this farm, including the slaves, belongs to me.”
“You can’t get away with that,” Henry said. “Papa’d never agree . . .”
“He doesn’t have to. The judge signed the papers. Father has no say.” Reaching under his coat, Patrick withdrew a Navy Colt. He pointed the pistol at Isaac. “I sold your pa and I reckon you’ll bring even more. Get over there.” He motioned toward Henry with the pistol.
“You’re stealing from Papa? I won’t let you.” Henry struggled to stand, but collapsed onto the sofa, knocking a lamp off the side table. “Damn you to hell.”
“There, there little brother. Save your strength, “Patrick said. “You’ll need it to rejoin your outfit because you sure aren’t staying here. As of today, this farm is mine.”
“Like hell . . .” Henry tried to get up again.
Patrick rolled back the hammer and aimed. “Maybe I should finish what the Yankees started . . .”
Isaac dove in front of Henry as the pistol discharged. Searing pain, like a red hot poker, coursed through his shoulder as he crashed to the floor. He tried to push himself up with his one good arm when the deafening roar of a shotgun filled the room and plaster cascaded from a gaping hole in the ceiling above Patrick. Isaac turned toward the second shot.
Morgan sat in his wheelchair in the doorway between the two parlors. Smoke curled from a double-barreled fowling piece resting on his lap.
Florence stood behind him. “Patrick, your papa says drop that pistol, else he gives you the second barrel.”
Patrick raised his pistol. “No nigger talks to me like that . . .”
Morgan shouldered the shotgun.
“Your papa, he can’t talk so good, but there ain’t never been nothing wrong with his hearing.” She bent over as Morgan whispered in her ear. “He says, you drops that pistol or you die.”
“He’s not in charge now. I have papers that say so . . .” Patrick waved his arms like a frustrated barrister pleading his case.
“On the table. Now!” Morgan ordered in a raspy whisper.
Florence bent over again, leaning toward Morgan. She nodded and straightened. “He says you ain’t his son no more a
nd you’s to set them papers and that pistol on the table, then you’s to get on your horse and ride—and if’n you ever sets foot on this farm again, you’ll be the one tied to that old oak and I’ll be the one giving the lashes.”
Morgan cocked the hammer on the second barrel.
“You’ll pay for this.” Patrick dropped the pistol on the table.
Henry snatched the papers from his hand.
“You bring shame to the McConnell name,” Morgan said. He motioned with the barrel of his shotgun. “Go.”
Patrick glared at Henry, then turned on his heel and marched out the door.
Morgan lowered the shotgun and took a deep breath, then glanced at Florence. “Lashes?”
She pursed her lips. “I figured it was what you’d say, if’n you was in your proper voice.”
_____
“Been a week,” Isaac said. “He ain’t coming back.” He put his arm under Henry and helped him from the sofa.
“Don’t bet on it. I hear he’s riding with the irregulars now; they’re a bad lot.” Henry grimaced as he stood. “And the day’s coming when he’ll kill me, or I him.”
“It won’t be today,” Isaac said. “So I’d best get you fed.”
Together, they walked to the dining room. Morgan, Polly, and Hannah were all seated around the table. Florence stood in the doorway as Isaac eased Henry into his chair.
Staring at Isaac, Morgan pointed to a vacant chair.
Isaac searched his mother’s face, then Henry’s. What should he do? He couldn’t sit there—it wouldn’t be proper.
“Papa says sit. You’d best sit.” Henry raised his eyebrows and smiled.
Isaac pulled out the chair next to Henry, then hesitated.
“How are you ever going to survive as a free man in Philadelphia if all you do is cower like you just got caught stealing pies off the window sill?” Henry patted the chair seat.
Isaac sat.
“I told Papa how you were heading to Philadelphia when you came back for me,” Henry said. “I also told him how you said you were free to choose, and it was your choice to save me. Well, Papa, he’s not much on words these days,” He smiled and patted Morgan’s hand, “but he wants you to have this.” Henry laid a paper on the table.