Escape by Night

by Laurie Myers

  For SDG

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1 The Book

  CHAPTER 2 The One-Armed Soldier

  CHAPTER 3 A Commonplace Book

  CHAPTER 4 Big Steve

  CHAPTER 5 Blessed Are the Peacemakers

  CHAPTER 6 Troubled

  CHAPTER 7 A Dream

  CHAPTER 8 Great Power

  CHAPTER 9 The Deal

  CHAPTER 10 Streams of Mercy

  CHAPTER 11 The Branded Hand

  CHAPTER 12 The Escape

  CHAPTER 13 Hunting a Slave

  CHAPTER 14 The Diversion

  CHAPTER 15 The Jubilant Bell

  CHAPTER 16 Farewell

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS & COPYRIGHT

  Augusta, Georgia

  October 1863

  The dog’s ears stood straight up. He rushed to the window and barked loudly.

  “What’s bothering Samson?” Annie asked, looking up from her book.

  Tommy pushed open the second-story window and leaned out. Samson joined him.

  “There’s a wagon coming down Telfair Street,” he said. “Samson, what do you think’s in the wagon? Hogs?” Tommy smiled as he imagined the hogs snorting and squealing.

  “It’s more likely beans or squash,” Annie said. She tossed her book aside and joined them.

  The wagon rolled by, and the awful scene below left them speechless. Instead of colorful vegetables or squealing hogs, the cart overflowed with dirty, bloody Confederate soldiers. They looked like old rags that had been cast aside. A breeze carried the unmistakable stench of sickness and death up to the window.

  “Oh, my,” Annie said, covering her nose and mouth.

  Samson’s nostrils flared.

  “Smells like rotten fish,” Tommy said. “They must be going to our church.”

  First Presbyterian Church, where their father was pastor, stood catty-corner to their house. The white picket fence surrounding the church shone in the noonday sun. “I wish they wouldn’t use our church as a hospital,” Annie said.

  “It’s still a church,” Tommy said.

  “Not with that yellow flag flying out front. Yellow flag means hospital.”

  Tommy turned his attention back to the wagon.

  “Look, the man on top is missing an arm.”

  The one-armed man stared into the sky with a strange blank look on his face. Tommy looked up to see what held the man’s attention. Clouds whirled around like giant balls of white yarn unrolling across a deep blue sky.

  “The men aren’t moving,” Annie said.

  Tommy and Annie had seen a lot of wounded men coming and going from the railroad depot. Those men were constantly moving, hoping for some relief from their pain. The only movement on this cart was one man’s lifeless leg, which hung off the back, swinging back and forth like the pendulum of a large clock.

  “You think they’re dead?” Tommy asked.

  “That would explain the smell. I bet they’re on their way to Magnolia Cemetery.”

  Tommy pointed. “Look, the one-armed man has something under his arm.”

  Annie squinted. “It’s a book—maybe a Bible.”

  “Or secret battle plans,” Tommy whispered.

  Just then, the small ragged book slipped out from under the man’s arm and landed on the edge of the wagon. The wagon hit a bump, and the book bounced into the middle of Telfair Street.

  “He lost his book!” Tommy said.

  Annie shrugged. “The man is dead. He won’t miss it.”

  The cart slowed. The driver motioned to two soldiers standing in front of the church. They disappeared inside and returned with a stretcher, then carried the one-armed man inside.

  “See? He’s not dead,” Tommy said. His voice reflected the pleasure he felt at his small victory over Annie.

  “I hate war,” Annie said. “I’m going to the cookhouse to see what’s for lunch. Come on, Samson.”

  Samson stared at Annie but did not move.

  “Why won’t he come?” she said. “And for that matter, why does he always sleep in your bed? I want him to sleep in mine.”

  Annie stared at the unmoving dog. “All right. Stay if you like, but you’re my dog, too.” She left the room.

  Tommy stared at the small, dusty book in the middle of the street.

  “That book must be special if the soldier carried it through the battlefields all the way to Augusta,” he said to Samson. “If you think we should get the book, then bark.”

  Samson barked.

  “Good boy.” Tommy put his arm around the dog. “I can’t go outside until after lunch. Mother said so. That means if we want the book, it’s up to you to fetch.”

  Samson whined.

  “That’s right. Fetch.”

  Samson followed Tommy down the stairs. Tommy opened the front door.

  “Fetch the book.”

  Samson trotted down the steps and into the street. He picked up the book and returned to Tommy. They hurried to the sitting room, where Tommy inspected the cover.

  “There’s no title or author’s name, Samson. Should I open it? I can’t read words very well, but there might be maps inside. I can read a map.”

  Samson pulled at Tommy’s arm.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t want me to open it?” Tommy stared at the small leather strap that held the book closed. He wanted to tear it open, but something held him back. He rubbed the book as if to bring out its secrets.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Tommy said. “This might be important for the war. I should return it to its owner.”

  Tommy gazed out the window at First Presbyterian Church. He had gone inside only once since it had become a hospital. The bright, well-kept sanctuary was gone; in its place was a world filled with screams, groans, and pleas for help, and a heavy, overpowering smell of death.

  “Samson, I’ll return it. But I’m not going inside the church by myself. You’ll have to go, too.”

  At the word “go,” Samson stood.

  “Not yet,” Tommy said. “After lunch we’ll find the one-armed man.”

  Tommy held the book tightly under his arm as he and Samson crossed the street toward the church. A train rumbled down Washington Street, heading for the depot.

  “That’s the third train today,” Tommy said. “They’re carrying more soldiers to North Georgia, so the war must be getting worse.”

  Tommy climbed the steps into the stone archway of the church. Samson stopped.

  “Come on, Samson.”

  Samson did not move. He had not been allowed in the sanctuary, and that memory remained strong. It didn’t matter that Reverend McKnight had given him permission. “If it provides those young men even the smallest comfort, then I believe the Lord would not mind,” he had said. Samson was not convinced.

  “Come,” Tommy said firmly. Samson came.

  They sucked in one last breath of fresh air and entered the sanctuary. Tommy surveyed the room. It wasn’t nearly as bad as he remembered. Light poured in through the tall windows that lined the walls, giving the place an almost cheery feel. The surgeons and nurses hurried from man to man, comforting one, delivering a cup of water to another.

  The rows of cots did not seem so out of place today. The day they had removed the pews and set up the cots, Tommy and his sisters, Annie and Marion, had climbed into the pulpit and counted every cot—220.

  “Master Tommy.” It was Henry, one of Mr. Barrett’s slaves. Mr. Barrett, a banker, was a mean and stingy man, but for the sake of the Confederacy, he let Henry work at the hospital.

  “Tommy, what’s a big ten-year-old boy like you doin’ here? You ten now, ain’t ya?”

  �
�Almost.”

  “Almost? Don’t you be addin’ years. Life do that all by itself. If you’re looking for the Reverend McKnight, he’s over there.”

  Across the room Reverend McKnight sat in a chair, his Bible open in his hands. He was a tall man and easy to spot, even when seated. The sight of his father gave Tommy confidence.

  “I’m looking for a soldier with one arm,” Tommy said.

  “Lots of men here have one arm.”

  “He just came in,” Tommy said.

  “Then he’s yonder by the pulpit.”

  Tommy stuck close to Henry as they walked between the rows of cots.

  “Come here, pup,” a man called.

  Samson glanced the man’s way but stayed near Tommy.

  Then Tommy spotted the one-armed soldier on a cot near the corner. A thin stream of light poured onto him from the window above.

  “Is he going to be all right?” Tommy asked.

  “Only the good Lord knows for sure.”

  Henry led Tommy to the man’s side. Through the blood and dirt they could see his skin, pale as biscuit dough. He didn’t look too old. His beard was just a light stubble.

  Samson circled a few times, then settled into a ball under the cot. Mrs. Williams came out of nowhere, a basin of water balanced on her hip and a book under her arm. She served as president of the First Presbyterian Ladies Sewing Circle.

  “I must have this soldier’s name,” declared Mrs. Williams.

  Tommy thought he saw the man’s eyelid twitch. He clutched the book and watched the man closely. “He’s asleep,” Tommy said.

  Mrs. Williams scanned the room. “Keeping up with all these boys is downright impossible.”

  “If he wakes up, I’ll ask,” Tommy offered. The man’s eyelid twitched again.

  Mrs. Williams handed the basin to Henry. “Here’s water so he can clean himself.”

  After she left, Tommy knelt for a closer look. Suddenly the man’s eyes popped open.

  “Ha,” Tommy said. “I knew you were awake.”

  “Where am I?” the man asked. His soft voice had an accent, but not like the German or Irish people in Augusta.

  “You are in First Presbyterian Church in Augusta, Georgia,” Tommy said. “I’m Thomas McKnight, but they call me Tommy. This is Samson. He’s a greyhound.”

  Samson came out from under the cot at the sound of his name. He looked the man directly in the face, then stepped forward to accept a pat.

  Tommy smiled. “Samson likes you. My father says a dog can tell a man’s character.”

  “I think your father’s right.” Turning to Henry, the man asked, “Who are you?”

  “Henry.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Henry.”

  Henry smiled and looked down. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

  Tommy had never heard a white man use a formal greeting with a slave.

  “What is your name, sir?” Tommy asked.

  “Redmon. Redmon Porter. Most people call me Red.”

  Red scanned the room. Samson did the same. Tommy looked too, but all he saw was a hospital full of Confederate soldiers.

  “Are you looking for someone?” Tommy asked. “’Cause if you are, I could help.”

  “I’m not looking for—hey, where’d you get that book?” He pointed to the book still tucked under Tommy’s arm.

  “It fell off the cart,” Tommy said.

  “Did you read it?”

  “No, sir,” Tommy said, pleased he could answer truthfully. He handed the book to Red, who pressed it to his chest. He relaxed, as if the book itself were medicine.

  “It doesn’t have a title,” Tommy said.

  “It’s my commonplace book. You write anything you want in it.”

  “Read us something,” Tommy blurted out. He knew it sounded impolite. He should have asked.

  “Well…” Red’s hesitation made Tommy even more interested.

  “Why not?” Tommy asked. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Henry, can I trust this boy?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Red. Tommy McKnight is a fine boy. His father is the pastor of this church.”

  Tommy held his head high, waiting to be taken into confidence.

  “Okay, I’ll read you something special. It’s a poem that I wrote just before the Battle of Chickamauga.”

  Using his one hand, Red fumbled to find his place in the book. Henry reached to help him, but Red said, “No, I’m going to learn to manage with one hand.” He balanced the book on his chest and read:

  “I only tell the stars above the longing of my soul:

  To fight till death in early morn to make a nation whole.

  God, can this be in your design or in your perfect plan

  To place the price of victory at even one gentleman?

  Fearfully and wonderfully you’ve made each one so brave

  To fight again just one more time, though he may see the grave.

  But I shall trust your sovereign hand and continue in my path

  Knowing that your just reward is in the aftermath.”

  Tommy was silent. He had hoped for a secret battle plan or information about a general coming to visit Augusta, maybe even General Lee. Instead he’d heard a poem. He had listened carefully to the words, just like his father taught him, and there was something unusual in the beginning.

  “Will you read the beginning again?” Tommy asked.

  “I only tell the stars above the longing of my soul: To fight till death in early morn to make a nation whole—”

  “Wait,” Tommy said. “Make a nation whole? We are fighting to be a separate nation.”

  “Some are fighting to keep the nation whole,” Red said. He turned to Henry. “What do you think?”

  “Don’t know much about poems, but it sounded mighty fine to me. And I like that beginning!”

  Tommy stared at Henry as if he’d said he was going to be president.

  “I place a great trust in those to whom I read,” Red said.

  “You can trust us,” Henry said. He stepped forward. “Let’s get you cleaned up, Mr. Red. You got dirt on you from all across Georgia and parts beyond.”

  Red closed the book and stuck it under his leg.

  Tommy watched as Henry removed Red’s jacket and put it under the cot.

  “Your jacket’s too big,” Tommy said.

  “It’s all they had,” Red replied.

  Henry wet the washcloth in the basin and handed it to Red, who worked quickly. The water turned dark as he washed.

  “Does that hurt?” Tommy asked.

  “The wound doesn’t hurt, but I feel pains in my arm, even though my arm’s not there. It hurts like the dickens.”

  “Henry, I need you over here,” called Dr. Harold.

  “Comin’.” Henry handed the basin to Tommy.

  “When you come back, we’ll talk,” Red said as Henry left.

  Red was almost finished and looking much better when Big Steve rang.

  “That’s Big Steve, our fire bell,” Tommy said. “It rings every day at noon to remind us to pray. It rang one hundred times when South Carolina … What is that word for leaving the Union?”

  “Secede,” Red said.

  “That’s it. It rang one hundred times when South Carolina seceded. And it rang all day when Georgia seceded!”

  “I guess everybody was pleased,” Red said.

  “Yes, but not anymore,” Tommy said.

  Red lifted the washcloth from the basin and let the bloody water drip off. “War is not as pretty as people thought.” He tossed the dirty washcloth into the bowl and lay back. “Tell me about Henry.”

  “He belongs to Mr. Barrett,” Tommy said.

  “He’s not a free Negro?”

  “No. There are free Negroes in Augusta, but not Henry.”

  “Do you think Henry wants to be free?” Red asked.

  “Yes,” Tommy said, without hesitation. “Henry has someone telling him what to do all the time. I hate it when my sisters t
ell me what to do.”

  The last ringing faded away. They were so engrossed in the soothing sounds that they did not notice Tommy’s father’s arrival.

  “I’m Reverend McKnight,” he said, extending his hand to Red.

  Red’s hand seemed to disappear in Reverend McKnight’s large hand. They shook, but Red remained silent.

  “Can you talk, son?”

  Red shook his head no.

  “He was talking a minute ago,” Tommy said.

  “Tommy, our young men go through a lot. If they don’t want to talk, they don’t have to.”

  Reverend McKnight looked thoughtfully at Red, then stooped down and pulled Red’s jacket from underneath the cot. He ran his fingers over the buttons.

  “I noticed the buttons are Mississippi. I met some Mississippi soldiers this summer.”

  Red shifted nervously.

  “Father, I thought you were with Georgia soldiers.”

  “I served as chaplain for the Confederate States of America, not just Georgia. I ministered to whomever the Lord God brought across my path.”

  Red was silent.

  “Let me pray for you, son.” Reverend McKnight closed his eyes. His facial expression indicated that he was discussing the most important situation in the world with God. He placed his hand on Red’s shoulder.

  “Father God, we ask your healing hand on this, our brave brother. May he cast his cares upon you and find comfort in your arms…”

  As Tommy listened, he wondered about Red. Why wouldn’t Red talk to his father? Tommy did not know a single person who did not like his father. And Red treated Henry differently, not like a slave. And that line in the poem about making a nation whole? What did that mean?

  No doubt about it, there was something different about Red. But Tommy liked him anyway. He liked that he treated Henry well. Mr. Barrett certainly didn’t. He liked Red’s poetry too, in spite of that odd line.

  As Tommy considered Red, a nagging thought would not leave his head. And if it was true, it would be serious—life-and-death serious. One way or another, Tommy needed to find out the truth.

  Tommy walked home from the hospital with his father. Samson glided along beside them.