Patricia Rice

by Wayward Angel

  "We'll get Tessie out, but you gonna hafta change your ways, boy. You gonna hafta be one of 'em. You gonna hafta find yo'self a little gal and you gonna hafta go with 'em when they go out huntin' them runaways and you gonna hafta bad-mouth niggers like ever'one else 'round here or you ain't gonna be no use to me anymore."

  Pace felt the sickness fill his stomach again, but he clenched his fists and fought back the waves of nausea. He turned slowly to face the former slave and nodded slowly. "You just tell me what to do, and I'll do it."

  * * *

  Pace nodded off beneath the thick canopy of maples along the creek bank the afternoon after Tessie and Mammy disappeared across the river. He'd stayed out all night helping row the boat and guiding them to the first outpost on the Indiana side. He'd had his ribs wrapped, but they still hurt worse than the seven rings of hell. He hadn't had an ounce of sleep in forty-eight hours, and exhaustion had taken its toll. He didn't have the strength for returning to the house to get his hide whipped off. Resting his head in his hands against the grassy bank, he dozed. His fishing pole went ignored.

  Gradually Pace became aware of a silvery tinkle of song humming in his ears, teasing at the back of his mind in some unfamiliar lilting form. He brushed off the hum as he brushed off the gnats swarming around his face, but its persistence worried at his conscious mind and his sleepiness faded. The sound came closer, a singsong caress in his ears. Nothing dangerous, just a curiosity that grasped his attention and brought him more fully awake.

  He opened his eyes and stared up into the mass of leaves overhead. He could see nothing but thick green shade and the silver shimmer of branches. He listened closer. The sound came from his left, a sliver of song, a tinkle of childish laughter. He smiled, remembering long ago tales of angels and harps he'd heard in the nursery. He sure as hell didn't believe in angels anymore, but the careless innocence of the song pleased his ear. He relaxed and waited for the singer to come closer.

  The little brat must be crawling from tree branch to tree branch. The sound shifted to almost directly overhead. If he looked close, he could almost see a flash of blue that had nothing to do with sky.

  "I shoot bluebirds that wake me up," he called out loud, in his most menacing tones.

  The silvery sound stopped, and he almost regretted disturbing it. Then a maple seed whirligigged down, hitting his nose, and he grinned. "I do believe there must be angels in my maple trees. Oh, woe, what will become of me?"

  Childish laughter floated in pure tones over his head. Pace tried to figure which of the black children from the slave quarters would dare explore this part of the farm, but none of them came readily to mind. He had to develop a new image of a white master like his brother, but he couldn't bully children just yet. The image of Tessie's once-innocent smile now sullen and shamed was still too raw in his mind.

  Two more seeds whirled idly downward, missing his nose but landing on his chest. The laughter was quiet again, tense, as if the child waited for his reaction. He picked up one of the seeds and sent it whirling toward the trickling creek. A shriek of delight accompanied his trick, and he sent the other seed whirling in the same direction. The delight turned into a fey tune sung in accents totally foreign to him.

  Pace struggled to make out the words but couldn’t. Puzzled, knowing none of the slaves could possibly have made up such a song or sung it in such a manner, he strained to see the creature perched above him. He was rewarded with only another flash of blue and white as she climbed higher. It had to be a she. Those were very definitely pantalets, and no male voice could ever make such a pleasant sound.

  "I've heard of little angels breaking their legs by falling from trees," he warned. "You'd best climb down here before you fall."

  "Angels fly." The sound drifted down to him much as the seeds had done. Maybe he'd had too much sun and too little sleep and he imagined this. Wouldn't his brother get a laugh out of him talking to trees?

  "Angels can fall," he replied firmly. "You'd better climb down before I come up and get you."

  Instant silence. Only the rustle of leaves in the breeze replied. Or the rustle of leaves as one mischievous elf scrambled from one tree to the next. The silvery song rang from his right now.

  "I'm staying right here until you come down," he warned, resting his head in his hands and stretching his legs toward the creek bank.

  "Angels sing lullabies," the childish voice announced in full round tones not of this world that he knew.

  Pace grinned and closed his eyes now that she wasn't in sight. "Bluebirds sing lullabies. Go ahead and sing, little bluebird. I'll still catch you when you come down."

  Unconcerned by his threat, she sang. Occasionally he caught threads of her words, familiar sounds about rocking horses and babies sleeping. So bluebirds and angels did speak some form of English, he decided sleepily.

  When finally exhaustion overtook him and he slept, the slight figure in the upper branches pushed aside the leaves and daringly looked down.

  He looked even more battered and bruised than her mama had after a quarrel with Papa.

  With a soft sigh of sympathy, she scrambled down from the tree and quietly laid her newest treasure on his chest, between his crossed hands.

  The blue feather remained snugly between his fingers as she scampered away, holding her bedraggled doll in her arms.

  Chapter 2

  We hate some persons because we do not know them;

  and we will not know them because we hate them,

  ~ Charles Caleb Colton, Lacon (1825)

  December 1857

  Dora adjusted her boots and reached for her gray wool cloak. Kentucky winters couldn't be any worse than Cornwall winters. They certainly couldn't be any wetter. She just remembered Cornwall as warmer and dryer, probably because she had never been allowed outside.

  Six years had succeeded in dimming most of her memories, and she stayed too busy for wasting much time recovering them. She remembered them as mostly painful and not worth remembering. Papa John was the only father she wanted, and if Mother Elizabeth seemed a little harsher, a little more unbending than the sweet, frail woman in her mind, she didn't complain. She had come to understand that despite the Bible's promises, the meek wouldn't inherit the earth until the ugly stripped it bare.

  Still and all, she had found her place in this new world to which her adopted parents had brought her. It was a simple enough task hiding behind shapeless gowns and concealing bonnets, speaking only when spoken to, going about her daily tasks without being told. The regimen, rather than confining, actually represented more freedom than she had ever known.

  The simple dress meant she was no competition for the other girls in the county. It meant she attracted nothing more than a few taunting jeers from the boys. On the whole, people left her alone. It was truly amazing what one could do when one was virtually invisible. She had discovered she didn't have to hide in trees to go unseen.

  She slipped out of the house with her egg basket and started down the road to town. The egg basket didn't hold any eggs at this time of year, but it provided a convenient container for a collection of jams and jellies she had made this past summer. Mother Elizabeth had told her she could sell them and use the money however she wished. Dora could easily think of a dozen things she would like to buy, but she would start with small gifts for her adopted family. She remembered Christmas as a tremendous holiday. She couldn't quite let the meaning of it disappear even if her circumstances had changed drastically.

  A large pot-bellied stove heated the mercantile. Dora toasted her toes by it while Billy John's wife, Sally, tallied the worth of the jams and jellies. She found it difficult to believe that the Billy John whose finger she had once bitten in a childhood fracas was now married and running the store.

  The town had elected Joe Mitchell mayor after his daddy got sent to Frankfort last year as a representative. While she had only just turned fourteen. Pace's older brother and his friends had grown up and married and taken their places in
the community. Sort of. Charlie hadn't married yet and hadn't taken over the running of the farm because his father stood in the way. But he had his hands in a little of everything that went on around here.

  Growing up around Pace and his brother, Dora had always felt as old as they were, but she'd never grown up physically to match her mental maturity. She still had little or no chest to speak of, while Josie Ann—who was only two years older than she—not only had a full bosom but also a dozen beaux. Sometimes, just once in a while, Dora wished she could wear frilly pink gowns and hoops and giggle with the other girls, but then she would remember, and the wish would go away.

  Once her toes warmed, Dora gravitated toward the yard goods. Her sewing wasn't of the best, but it was adequate. She fingered a soft gray wool, calculating the yardage needed and the cost. Mother Elizabeth hadn't had a new gown for Meeting in years. Dora didn't know how she could find the time or place to sew when her mother wouldn't notice, but she couldn't think of a more fitting gift.

  A gust of wind blew her skirt sideways as the door flew open and two young women in full tarlatan skirts and oceans of crinolines swept in. Giggling and laughing as they approached the counter, they failed to see Dora in the far corner. People usually failed to see Dora.

  "Did you hear?" one whispered to Billy John's wife. "They're auctioning off the McCoy property for nonpayment of taxes. Daddy says he'd like to acquire those acres himself, but he expects Joe Mitchell's daddy will buy it for him."

  Sally's eyes grew wide. "I didn't hear that. I bet Billy John doesn't know. Tommy McCoy's his best friend. Whatever on earth will they do?"

  Dora identified one of the newcomers as Josie Ann. She thought the other was one of Josie's many cousins, but she wasn't exactly certain. She didn't travel in Josie's circles, and since Josie had started courting, she didn't pay Dora much mind anymore.

  Josie removed her flowered bonnet from her polished chestnut curls. "It doesn't seem quite right, does it? Tommy's folks have owned that land for as long as anyone can remember. I heard Tommy had to get himself a job on a riverboat."

  Sally's reply was indignant. "Josephine Andrews! You know perfectly well why this happened. If Tommy's daddy hadn't harbored those runaways, they'd be fine right now. You can't steal another man's property and get away with it. That's what my daddy and Billy John say. The law says you have to pay when you steal. He got fined and sent to jail just like any other criminal. It's a shame the tobacco barn caught fire when Tommy worked so hard getting it all put up by himself, but that's God's way of punishing sinners."

  That wasn't what Papa John had said, and that wasn't what Dora and a lot of other people believed, but she kept quiet. This was the first she'd heard about the McCoys losing their farm.

  Josie Ann just shook her head. "I just can't believe Mr. McCoy would harbor fugitives. Just because he's too poor to own slaves of his own doesn't mean he has any sympathies with those abolitionists. And Tommy's always been one helping with the runaways."

  Her cousin's reply was more shrill and decisive than Josie's hesitant comments. "We've lost thousands of dollars to those Yankees and their thievin'! Why, just last year Daddy invested three thousand dollars in some boys he meant to sell down in N’awlins. When they up and run away, Daddy wouldn't let us go shopping in Cincinnati like he promised because he didn't have no more cash until they got caught. When they found those niggers over in Evansville, those abolitionists claimed they weren't his! Abolitionists are thieves, that's what they are. It's a crime and a sin that they can't be punished more often. Why, if those slaves had been horses, those Yankees would have been hung on the spot. They have to be made an example of, and if Mr. McCoy is one of them, then he's lost just what it cost us. My daddy said it's those wretched Quakers across the river..."

  Sally made a shushing noise and gestured toward Dora. All three feminine heads turned in her direction, but Dora merely drew out the length of wool she had decided on as if she hadn't heard a word. The Friends had taught her that anger wasn't Godly. She must feel sympathy for their ignorance.

  Gathering up her cloak and basket and the bolt of wool, she started for the counter, nodding pleasantly at the now silent women. Josie Ann immediately started chattering about the upcoming Christmas ball while Dora spread her material out on the counter for measuring.

  Only when she heard Pace's name mentioned did she pay attention again. She knew Pace had graduated from law school last June and now worked for a lawyer in Lexington. She hadn't known for certain he was home again. She'd felt his presence but that wasn't the same as knowing for certain. She'd been waiting for him. There were things he needed to know.

  As Dora paid for her purchase, she heard the cheerful whistle of a cane flute outside, accompanied by the slow rattle of chains and the shuffle of a dozen pairs of feet. Her lips tightened and her heart lurched, but she continued counting her money. Sally shot her an anxious look and then glanced at the two girls drifting toward the store window.

  Josie Ann turned away from the sight outside, but her cousin continued watching with a triumphant smile.

  "There's one lot that won't trouble us no more. Sometimes, I think the preacher has the right of it. We ought to send them all back to Africa where they belong. Just look at them! Can you imagine what it would be like if the Yankees had their way and we had to live next door to those filthy darkies?"

  Dora waited for Josie Ann or Sally to reply to this, but neither voiced an opinion. She was younger than all of them. They had no interest in her thoughts and wouldn't listen if she spoke. She wished she could make them understand how ownership diminished people to objects and led to abuse, but she didn't imagine she was God. They would see what they wanted to see.

  Still, Dora couldn't resist asking, "Is the Mitchell boy in that lot?"

  Once she'd said it, she realized her foolishness. She'd allowed anger to get the better of her after all. All three girls stared at her as if she were a tree who had just learned to bark.

  Josie cleared her throat, then tried answering in a tone of reason. "Where would you get a foolish idea like that, Dora? People around here don't break up families. Why, Mr. Mitchell's had Fanny and her children all their lives. He wouldn't sell any of them."

  Josie didn't make the mistake of saying that would be like selling off Mitchell's son, Joe. Except for the color of his skin, the slave Fanny's only son looked just like Joe, who looked just like his father. Dora had deliberately stirred up a hornet's nest by calling Fanny's son "the Mitchell boy." Everyone in town knew the young slave Roscoe was literally the congressman's boy, and not just by right of ownership.

  Everyone in town didn't know that Joe had finally persuaded his father to sell Roscoe. Dora had heard her father discussing it last night. He was appalled that a man would sell his own son, but he couldn't do much about it. She didn't think Pace could either, but she had worse news for Pace than that. She needed to quit exhibiting her useless anger and go about her business.

  She gathered up her package and basket and started for the door.

  As she left, she heard Sally murmur, "That's not true what you said about keeping families together, Josie. Mr. Howard sells off all the slave children when they turn fifteen, unless he needs an extra hand. He says there's too many mouths to feed otherwise. He only has those few tobacco acres and the hogs."

  Dora walked out on the last part of that conversation. She would like to know how those three rich girls justified Howard's breeding operation, but she felt a queasiness in her stomach at just the thought. She was only fourteen and knew nothing of having children, but she didn't want to imagine seeing every one of her babies sold off when they reached fifteen. She didn't want to imagine being sold off to a foreign land, either. Maybe, like her, they would be happier somewhere else, but she'd heard enough about what happened to slaves sold in the Deep South than to think that was the case.

  As she hurried down the street, she avoided watching the coffle of slaves scuffling toward the jail. The slave trader h
ad just arrived, so he probably hadn't negotiated any new purchases yet. She didn't need to look for anyone she knew. But time was running out. If someone didn't act soon, it would be a miserable Christmas for at least two families that she knew of.

  With unerring instinct, Dora took a side alley toward the back of town. She hadn't come this way since Pace had been here this past summer. She stayed away from people in general and men in particular, but somehow, since that first day she'd seen him, Pace had filled a part of her that was missing. God always told her where to find him.

  She heard voices in the old cabin and slipped in the back door of a small, closed-in back porch, separated from the main cabin by a narrow doorway. She set her basket down on a shelf and stood in the shadows, just out of sight of the men in the front room.

  Even if she were tone deaf she would recognize Pace's voice from the anger in it. He had so much anger and bitterness built up inside him it amazed her that he could sleep at night.

  "No! The pro-slavery men saw to it we can’t change the new constitution. The people of this state may talk emancipation, but they're talking it with their hands out. We're turning into a state of slave traders. People are a bigger cash crop than tobacco. There's only one way to put an end to it, and it's not by using the law."

  A low soft voice vetoed violence, and Dora stirred restlessly. That would be David. He and Pace might have the same goals, but a world of difference existed in how they achieved them. But while they argued, families were being torn apart.

  Apparently Uncle Jas agreed. She heard his deep slow voice ask if they had any more of that powder to lead the dogs astray or if they wanted him to make some more "hush puppies." Knowing "hush puppies" meant a concoction laced with strychnine to kill the tracking hounds, Dora grimaced and emerged from the shadows.

  "I can get the powder. How soon dost thou need it?"

  Everyone looked up in surprise except Pace. He merely leaned back in his chair and turned, including her in the circle of his command. "You'd better go get it now, before it turns dark. I don't suppose you can find some more gunpowder, can you? If I buy any more, they'll expect me to blow up the town, and David here refuses to purchase the devil's weapons."