by Jeff Andrews
Isaac unfolded the document and stared at it, then shook his head. “I don’t reckon I understands all them big words.”
Leaning forward, Morgan whispered, “You’ve been paid for, boy.”
Isaac shuddered. “Been sold . . . ?” He glanced quickly at Henry.
“Manumission.” Henry tapped his finger on the document. “Freedom papers. Your daddy paid for you, and even if he hadn’t, you’d be free anyway for what you done for me, but that alone won’t get you back north. These here papers prove you’re free, and if anybody questions them, they can write the McConnells of South Boston and we’ll vouch for you.”
Isaac studied the papers again. A name was written in the center of the page in block letters in dark blue ink:
Isaac McConnell
“Keep them safe.” Morgan’s hand trembled as he pointed at Isaac. “Where’s your pocket?”
Isaac patted the sides of his shell jacket, then shook his head.
“Damn . . .” Morgan’s voice rattled from his chest.
“Massa, you’d best be watching that mouth,” Florence said. “I has the lye soap and I ain’t afraid to use it.”
Morgan smiled and pointed to Polly. “Coat,” he whispered.
Reaching behind her chair, Polly retrieved a dark blue frock coat. She stood and held it up.
Morgan waved excitedly. “Try it . . .”
Isaac slipped into the coat. The velvet lapels were smooth as a sow’s belly. He brushed the sides, slipping his hands into deep, lined pockets.
Henry pulled back the lapel and pointed. Inside, within the satin lining, was another pocket.
Isaac folded his freedom papers and placed them in the inner pocket. “Thank you, Massa McConnell. This here is the nicest coat Isaac ever knowed.”
“Patrick won’t be needing it anymore,” Henry said. “And it’s a proper frock for a Philadelphia man.” He nodded approvingly, then turned to Florence and held up more papers. “Papa says you and Joseph are free to go too.”
Florence stared at Isaac, then turned to Morgan. “Begging your pardon, Massa, but this here be my home and Lord willing, one day my Abraham, he’ll be coming back here looking for me. You just put them papers someplace safe ‘cause Florence gotta stay right here and wait for her man.”
“Good.” Morgan smiled. “My Polly . . . that girl can’t cook worth a . . .” he winked at Florence. “Hoot.”
Chapter Forty-eight
October 1862
“The wagon’ll hold me to the roads,” Isaac said, brushing his brown wool trousers, another gift from Patrick’s wardrobe. “That’s where them pattyrollers is.”
“But you’ll make better time, and that Yankee wagon and the mule, they’re yours.” Henry rubbed his wounded shoulder as he sat in the parlor. “You have your freedom papers, so the patrols shouldn’t give you any trouble.”
“I likes traveling light, keeping to the woods. Isaac knows them woods.”
“Sure you don’t want to wait? Banjo can take you over to South Boston. We’ll buy you a train ticket up to Richmond.”
Isaac shook his head.
Henry set his tea down and pulled the lap robe over his legs. “You figure you’ll really find Raleigh?”
“I won’t know less’n I tries.”
“Isaac, I . . .” Henry took a deep breath, then looked up. “Write when you get to Philadelphia, you hear?”
“When I gets there, I’ll send word,” Isaac said. “You get your own self mended—and don’t be going back to no army.”
Henry laughed. “There you go, trying to take care of me again.”
“Too big a job for me,” Isaac said. “I reckon I’ll leave Miss Hannah to worry on that.”
Henry’s face reddened.
“I’d best be going. Don’t you worry none, I’ll be fine.” Isaac pulled on his new blue coat.
Henry struggled to his feet and held out his hand. “Friend?”
Isaac grasped the hand and smiled. “I ain’t your property.”
_____
The golden hues of evening lingered in the treetops as Isaac strolled to the slave quarters. He’d said his farewells before as a runaway, and again as a slave following his master to war. This was different. Mr. Jones’ words came back to him: “Ain’t nobody gonna pay no mind to no nigger what’s dressed like what he is.”
Isaac tugged the lapels of his new coat. He was dressed like what he was—a free man. He smiled as he shoved his hands into the soft, deep pockets. Something in there? He pulled out an envelope someone must have tucked in the pocket when he wasn’t looking. Inside, folded within a piece of paper, were two ten-dollar bills, U.S. currency. Isaac placed the bills back in his pocket. He had a new coat, and now, folding money—freedom was feeling mighty good.
He paused at the entrance to the quarters. Several slaves were already gathered around the fire.
Mama Rose looked up from the pot she was tending and waved. “Isaac, get on over here.”
“’Evening, Mama Rose. ‘Evening, folks,” Isaac said as he entered the glow of the fireside.
Banjo came forward. With seeming reverence, he touched the lapels of Isaac’s coat. “Ou-wee. Would ya feel that?” Banjo whistled through the gaps in his teeth. “We got us one of them rich northern nigras here. Boy, you’d best be remembering where you come from when you gets up there to Philadelphia, you hear?”
“Sure enough, Banjo,” Isaac said. “I’ll be thinking on y’all, praying for you too.”
Mama Rose gave him a hug. “And we be praying for you, boy. There’s a mess of danger between South Boston and that Promised Land. Lord be with you.”
Lilly held out a sack. “Some vittles for your journey.”
He opened the bag and took a deep whiff of the delicious aroma. “M-m-m. Corn doggers. Thank you Aunt Lilly.” Isaac kissed her cheek. “I’ll be missing you.”
A tear moistened Lilly’s eye. She clutched his hand. “We’ll be looking after your mama, little Joseph too. Now, you get on. Go find that Promised Land. We’ll all be seeing you again one day—over yonder, ‘crost that Jordan.”
_____
The path skirted empty fields as it wound through the desolate winter forest and climbed a low rise overlooking a turn in Bennett’s Creek. Oaks and poplars reached bare limbs toward the twilight sky around a small clearing. A lone figure stood in the glade. Isaac approached quietly.
“Cato, that you?”
Cato nodded and pointed to the fresh grave. “I comes here often as I can. I don’t understand nothing about what happened, but I know she loved me.” He wiped his eyes. “We was fixing to jump the broom.”
“You’s the man she wanted,” Isaac said. He rested his hand on Cato’s shoulder.
Cato bowed his head, then took a deep breath and looked up. “I’d best be moving on. Wind’s from the south tonight.”
“Pattyrollers?”
Cato nodded. “If’n I gets caught over this way again, be another hard whupping. You heading north?”
“Reckon so.”
“Then I leaves you to say your good-byes to Tempie. You be safe, Isaac.”
“And you.” Isaac held out his hand.
Cato looked into Isaac’s eyes and smiled. “Lord be with you, friend.” He shook hands, then slipped into the darkening forest.
Isaac surveyed the small cemetery. His gaze fell upon a yellow wildflower in bloom next to the path. “Ain’t you in the wrong season?” He carefully dug the flower out and replanted it on the mound in front of him.
“I’ll be thinking on you, little sister. You tell ol’ July that Isaac’s been asking about him.” He picked up a fistful of dirt. “Good bye, sis. You’s in a better place now. Ain’t no overseers on your side of the river.” The dirt sifted through his fingers, falling silently on the grave.
_____
As he approached the old post road, Isaac paused and touched his breast pocket. Would his papers work at night? McConnell land ended yonder. He’d best keep to the woods.
A crescent moon hung in the southern sky, casting shadows on the road. He’d head for the small bridge over the stream that ran past the post road and into the woods beyond. It was there he’d last seen his pa. He crawled through the rails of a wooden fence. At least it wasn’t raining this time.
“Well, looky here,” a gruff voice called from the shadows. “Must be one of them McConnell niggers sneaking off again.”
Isaac recoiled as a large horse appeared from the shadows. The rider rose in his stirrups. “Get out here where I can see you, boy.”
Isaac stepped away from the fence.
Moonlight caught Clancy’s haggard face. “You?” He leaned forward in the saddle. “I thought you got yourself killed in that war.”
“Ain’t dead yet,” Isaac replied, “and you’s on McConnell land.”
“Don’t sass me, boy.” Clancy shook a coiled whip. “What’s a slave doing out here at night?”
“I ain’t no slave.”
The whip cracked, slicing Isaac’s cheek. “I said don’t sass me.”
“Ain’t no sass.” Isaac dabbed at a trickle of blood. “Massa McConnell done gave me my papers.”
“Is that so?” Clancy said. “Let’s see.”
Isaac patted his breast pocket. “They’s right here.”
“A likely story.” Clancy held out his hand. “If you got ‘em, give ‘em here.”
“I ain’t giving you my freedom papers.”
The whip caught Isaac’s shoulder. “A nigger out and about at this hour without papers just might get his self hung.”
Isaac darted to the left, but Clancy’s horse jumped in the same direction, blocking his path. The whip smacked against Isaac’s arm.
“Show me them papers, boy.” Clancy snapped his fingers. “If you’s really free, show me the proof.”
Isaac hesitated, then reached in his pocket. “You look, then you gives ‘em back . . .”
Squinting, Clancy held the papers close to his face. He struck a match on the leg of his trousers and held the flame in front of the document as he began to read, “I do hereby emancipate my slave, Isaac, hereafter known as Isaac McConnell . . .” Clancy smiled. “Damned nice of the old man, but I wonder what Patrick thinks about that?” He touched the match to the papers.
Isaac lunged, grabbing the flaming document. Clancy’s boot caught him square in the chest and drove him hard to the ground. He rolled onto the paper, extinguishing the flame.
“Damn, is they all burnt?” Clancy snickered. “Guess you ain’t free no more. I knows a constable down Yanceyville way who’ll pay three hundred dollars for your black hide.”
Isaac sprang to his feet and dove at Clancy. The butt of Clancy’s whip smashed against the side of his head.
“You ain’t learning so good, boy. You’s as dumb as that pickaninny sister of yours.”
“You?” Isaac balled his fists. “It was you that took her?”
Clancy laughed. “Didn’t require a whole lot of taking. I don’t reckon she’d ever had the pleasure of a real man before.”
Isaac glared. “You son-of-a-bitch . . .”
When the whip cracked again Isaac blocked the blow, wrapping the leather strap around his forearm. He grabbed hold and yanked with all his might. Clancy tumbled from the saddle, crashing hard to the ground.
“I’m through talking,” Clancy said, as he sprang to his feet and drew a long knife from his belt. “I’ll have those black ears of yours hanging on a cord ‘round my neck.”
Isaac sidestepped as the blade nicked his ribs. He grabbed Clancy’s arm and twisted. The knife fell from Clancy’s grip.
“She weren’t no good,” Clancy said. “Was like humping a cold sack of potatoes.” He pulled away from Isaac. “Now it’s your time to die, nigger.” He drew his pistol.
In a single motion, Isaac scooped a handful of dirt and flung it in Clancy’s face as he dove for the pistol. They both hit the ground, struggling for control of the weapon. Clancy rolled on top of Isaac and shoved the pistol in his face. He sneered as Isaac’s grip weakened. “You’re done now, boy . . .”
Isaac shoved the barrel aside as the weapon fired. Flames seared his cheek. A metallic ringing echoed in his ears, but he held on tightly as they tumbled into the creek. Isaac smashed his fist into Clancy’s face, then wrenched the gun away and heaved it out of reach.
Breaking free, Clancy staggered to his feet. “You got lucky, boy. Guess I gotta kill you with my bare hands . . .” He lowered his head and charged.
Isaac sidestepped the attack and caught Clancy in the crotch with his boot. Clancy let out a scream and collapsed to the rocky creek bed.
“You done raped my sister, you whips my family, and you sets my papers on fire,” Isaac yelled, standing ankle deep in the water. “Maybe you’s the one needs to be dying tonight.”
Clancy pushed himself to his knees and glared. “You ain’t got the grit . . .”
With a splash, Isaac’s foot crashed into Clancy’s chin, smashing teeth against teeth. Blood spurted from Clancy’s mouth as he collapsed. Isaac pounced, his fist raised, but Clancy swung first, smashing a rock against Isaac’s head. The world went dark and then icy water splashed across his face. His vision cleared to reveal Clancy looming over him, a large rock raised above his head.
With a twisting kick, Isaac caught the side of Clancy’s knee, cracking bones. As the larger man collapsed, Isaac jumped on him and grabbed his beard with both hands. He shoved Clancy’s head beneath the water and pinned it there with his full weight. “This is for Tempie . . .”
Moonlight danced on the submerged, contorted face. Clancy’s eyes rolled back. The desperate flailing ended. Isaac relaxed his grip. Killing was the last thing on his mind as he left the McConnell farm earlier that evening, but now he knew—if Clancy had lived, Isaac’s family would have always been in peril.
Suddenly the water erupted and Clancy lurched, wild-eyed and sputtering, from the icy stream. His gaze locked onto Isaac. “Damn your black hide . . .”
Isaac pounded the leering face back beneath the water. “Lord, forgive me.” He glanced skyward, then grabbed Clancy’s beard in both hands. “If’n one verse does for the chicken, best give two for the snake.” Using all his weight to hold Clancy under, he began to sing, “Swing low, sweet chariot . . .”
_____
Had it been two verses or three? Exhausted, Isaac struggled to his feet and took a deep breath. He prodded the corpse with his foot. “Lord, You knows Isaac ain’t partial to killing, but that man didn’t give me no choice.” He splashed cold water on his bruised face.
Behind him, Clancy’s horse whinnied. Isaac spun around. A giant of a man stood silhouetted against the night sky.
“He dead?” The deep voice rumbled like an old bullfrog.
“Big Jim, that you? He come at me . . .”
Big Jim waded into the creek and studied Clancy. “They hangs nigras what kills a white man.”
“I ain’t gonna face that.” Isaac balled his fists and crouched, bracing for the fight he was sure would come. “He brung misery down on all of us, Big Jim. He raped my sister and burned my freedom papers. He was pure evil. That man needed killing.”
Big Jim nudged the dead body with his foot. “And now he needs burying.”
“Wh-what’s you saying?” Isaac slowly straightened.
“I’s saying the man needs burying.” He pointed at the body. “Big Jim knows where the wild hogs won’t find them bones.” He smiled. “It ain’t murder if’n nobody knows he’s dead.”
Isaac stared at the hulking overseer. “You ain’t taking me in?”
“I ain’t no hard man, Isaac, least ways, not like you thinks.” Big Jim lowered his head. “Big Jim, he just wanted him some of them comforts, so when Massa Patrick says, ‘Big Jim you use that whip,’ Big Jim, he was scared to say no.” He looked at Isaac. ”I ain’t got the spine to stand up to them white folks, not like you or your pa, but I got spine enough to bury this varmint.”
�
��I’ll give you a hand . . .” Isaac grabbed Clancy’s feet.
Big Jim waved him away. “You get on up there to that Philadelphia city. There ain’t nothing here Big Jim can’t handle.”
“For sure?”
“Go on, get.” Big Jim shooed him with the back of his hand.
“You’s a good man, Jim. I’s beholding to you.” Isaac started across the stream.
“Wait. These yours?” Big Jim passed him the papers.
Isaac smoothed the crumpled document. Morgan’s signature still showed next to a seared corner. “Freedom papers.” He tucked the document into his pocket. “Reckon they’s still legal enough to get me to that Promised Land.”
“Lord,” Big Jim said. “I prays I can get me some of them papers someday.”
“It ain’t papers what makes you free,” Isaac said. “You’s only free when you chooses to be free. It don’t matter none what the white man says.”
Big Jim nodded. “I prays Big Jim can find the grit to make that choice one of these days.” He bent down and took something from around Clancy’s neck. “I remembers when you was wearing this.” He tossed it to Isaac.
Isaac snatched the object from the air, then opened his hand to reveal a small pinewood pendant threaded on a rawhide cord. His thumb found the raised wooden star as he slipped the lanyard over his head. Clutching his medallion, he sensed his father’s arm resting on his shoulders as he searched the heavens. Directly overhead, the drinking gourd sparkled against an ebony sky, its pointer stars showing the way.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jeff Andrews was born in Mt. Holly, New Jersey and grew up in neighboring Moorestown, New Jersey. He has an undergraduate degree in Business Administration from Baldwin-Wallace College and a Master of Science in Administration from George Washington University. Jeff served twenty years in the U.S. Marine Corps, including service in Vietnam and Beirut, Lebanon. After retiring from the military Jeff worked in financial services and taught college (part-time). He now divides his time between writing, church, volunteer work, and family.