Ebb Tide (Ella Wood Book 3)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  She sighed and folded the paper, but her eye was arrested by the headline above an anonymous editorial: Wagner’s Negro War Prisoners Go to Trial.

  Emily had heard these soldiers mentioned during her weeks in the hospital. Not just laborers but active duty soldiers, armed and fighting alongside whites on the front lines. Scores were taken prisoner during the July battle for Fort Wagner. The event had sparked outrage across the South. No one had known exactly what to do with them. It was a miracle they had even been granted a trial, though the outcome was probably a foregone conclusion. She read on.

  Rather than facing lawful execution, the Negroes taken in arms against the state of South Carolina are to be tried in civil court. Never in its proud history has Charleston suffered such an outrage. As a native son fighting for my city’s protection, I raise my most vehement objection. State law clearly dictates that slaves caught in insurrection be returned to slavery or summarily executed. I demand the law be followed. That it can even be questioned sets a dangerous precedent. The order of our society has been put on trial.

  I can only assume that our leaders have allowed Lincoln’s threats to turn their reason to cowardice. In the face of such ineptness, we the people and strength of Charleston will speak all the more firmly. We demand the immediate suspension of this trial and the summary execution of all culprits involved as a warning to others.

  The editorial dragged heavily at her. Death was death—black, white, Northern, Southern. She’d seen too much of it already. Whatever threat Mr. Lincoln had issued, she wasn’t sure it would be enough to secure justice in such a volatile environment. But it must have made the authorities think twice or the prisoners would be dead already.

  As she set the paper aside, she couldn’t help but admire Mr. Lincoln’s ability to read a situation and know exactly what action to take. It made her own befuddlement seem weak by comparison. Of course, Lincoln had a full staff of advisors assisting him.

  Emily tapped the pile of newspapers into a semblance of order. What a luxury it would it be to have an advisor of her own. Just one person who had known Jack’s mind, who understood her situation, who could instruct her on how to proceed. She sighed. But there was no one in the entire South who would help her free a plantation full of slaves. Jack had been one of a kind.

  Or had he?

  Her eyebrows knocked together. Perhaps there was such a person. Yes, of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? In her blundering she had overlooked the obvious.

  It was a mistake she would remedy at her earliest opportunity.

  5

  “Oh, Emily! I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were in here.” Ida hesitated in the parlor doorway and held up the book in her hand. “I sometimes come here to read in the evenings. I can only tolerate so many hours shut away in my own room. But I’ll go elsewhere if you’d like to be alone.”

  “No, stay.” Emily tossed the pile of newspapers onto the floor. “I wanted to speak with you anyway.”

  Ida glided across the room and sank gracefully onto the cleared space. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that I admire the way you’ve handled yourself since your return, Emily. It’s not an easy situation you’re living in.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Emily folded her hands in her lap, her eyes riveted on the woman’s face. “This morning at breakfast, you didn’t appear to agree when my mother said my father is improving.”

  “That’s because I don’t.”

  “Why?”

  Ida hesitated. “Are you certain you want to hear this?”

  “Mrs. Malone, if there’s something I should know, I’d rather learn it now than be caught off guard later.”

  She nodded. “All right. I’ve seen apoplexy before. It’s quite common among the elderly. Less so for people your father’s age, though it’s not unheard of. Regardless of age, the likelihood of recovery is determined in the early weeks of convalescence.”

  “How so?”

  “Generally, if a patient is going to recover, he or she begins showing progress in the days and weeks immediately following the attack.”

  “And if they do not?”

  “The longer it takes, the less likely or complete a cure will be in coming.”

  “And my father?” Emily frowned. It had been two weeks since his attack. “Mother believes he’s improving.”

  Ida chose her words carefully. “Your mother may be viewing your father’s progress through the lens of wishful thinking.”

  Emily absorbed the words in silence.

  The woman reached out to clasp her hand. “I am not a doctor. But I have accompanied my husband on his rounds often enough to be very concerned about your father’s progress. I’ve seen the correlation, even if I don’t understand it.”

  Emily chewed on her lip. “Does Dr. Wainwright agree with you?”

  “No. He insists it is too early to draw any conclusions. And he may be right. I truly hope he is.”

  Emily stood and walked to the window. She watched Abraham cross the yard with a trowel in hand. If Ida was right, her warning had so many implications. For Emily. For Marie. For Ella Wood. She suddenly felt as if the floor she had long been standing on had shifted. Only then did she realize just how much she depended on the firm foundation William had always provided.

  Ida’s next words came with more difficulty. “Emily, you may want to consider making peace with your father.”

  Emily’s chest went cold. “Is he dying?”

  “I didn’t say that. I simply mean that an extended convalescence is a long time to waste energy on a disagreement.”

  Emily absorbed her words in silence. She had recovered quickly from her initial feelings of guilt. William may have disagreed with some of her choices, but they were her decisions to make. His responses were entirely his own, and they were wrong. They’d been wrong for years. She wasn’t inclined to initiate reconciliation with a man so willfully unrepentant that he caused his own debilitation.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  She returned to the couch, grasping for something else—anything else—to speak of. “Have you heard from Abigail lately?”

  Ida’s face brightened immediately. “You haven’t heard the news yet? Abigail’s pregnant.”

  “You’re jesting!”

  The woman laughed. “Not at all. I received a letter before leaving Charleston. She’s due in April. She wanted her father and me to know first, but I’m certain you’ll be next. Oh dear,” she said in dismay. “I suppose I’ve ruined her surprise.”

  Emily beamed. “It’s equally welcome coming from you. Is she feeling well?”

  “She’s experienced very little morning sickness. Abigail has invited Tomas and me to her in-laws’ plantation over Christmas. We’re hoping Darius will be granted leave to join us.”

  Emily hoped so, too. Abigail wrote often of how much she missed him. He was only stationed in the city, an easy day’s journey away. It would seem a shame if he had to miss it. But then, all the men in the Charleston Battalion were local, and they couldn’t all be granted leave.

  “When the holidays are over, I’ll invite her for a stay here at Ella Wood.” That would help take her mind off Darius’s absence. And it would be so good to see her again.

  “I think she’d appreciate that very much.”

  “I’ll wait for her letter before I extend the invitation so she can have the joy of telling me herself.” She grinned. “But thank you for spilling her secret. It’s high time we had some good news around here.”

  ***

  Emily rose early the next morning, arriving downstairs before any of the house slaves—any except Zeke. In almost nineteen years, she couldn’t recall a single morning he wasn’t already in the dining room on her first waking.

  “Zeke, do you ever sleep?” she asked through a yawn. The room had rarely been used since William had taken to his bed, but still the butler took care to lay out china and cutlery each morning.

  “De older I get, de
less sleep I need.”

  “If you’re more awake than I am, I’d appreciate a ride to the church in Summerville.”

  Zeke didn’t ask why she would make such a trip on a Thursday. Or at five o’clock in the morning. Or why the coachman couldn’t drive her. He simply set the silverware down with a “yes, miss” and left to wake Abel. Fifteen minutes later, the buggy rolled from the yard with a squeak of leather and a clomp of hooves.

  The bombardment had ceased again overnight, and the countryside lay drowsy and undisturbed around them. Emily waited until the house vanished behind a film of pale mist and spoke low enough that the clatter of their passage would muffle her words. “I have no errand at the church. I simply needed to speak with you. Privately.”

  Zeke kept his focus on the road.

  “You—you knew Jack better than I did. Probably better than anyone.” She began uncertainly and stumbled to a halt, having never spoken to Zeke of her brother’s passing. How could she convey all the emotion she’d toiled through? The changes that had taken place within her? The inadequacy she struggled with daily? “I never told you that I visited him in the hospital just before he died. We spoke at length about many things—secrets he kept, hopes he would never see fulfilled, tasks left…to me.”

  She peeked at the old man. He was barely discernable in the gloom, but she knew he understood her. “It shocked me, what he said. I was unprepared for it. And it took me a long time to accept the responsibility he laid on me. I’m still not certain I’m equal to it, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since he died.”

  She studied him in earnest now. “Zeke, I want to carry out Jack’s vision for Ella Wood but I don’t know how. Every day I see changes that need to be made, but I have no idea how to bring them about. I feel—I feel like a child at the helm of a ship with no idea how to navigate across the ocean.”

  Zeke broke his silence. “Excuse me, miss, but you don’ ’xactly have de authority of a sea captain, now, do you?”

  Emily pressed her lips together. “I know it will be a long time before I inherit Ella Wood. I hope it’s a long time, actually. The responsibility scares me to death. I mean, what do I know about running a plantation?”

  “Perhaps wid yo’ father abed, dis be yo’ opportunity to learn.”

  “But Jack wanted to free hundreds of slaves, Zeke. That’s so…impossible!”

  “Not impossible,” he countered. “Overwhelmin’, yes. But not impossible.”

  “Where do I begin? I know I’m extremely limited, but I feel as if I should be doing something of significance now. Anything. I just don’t know what.”

  “You been doin’ things of significance. Didn’t you help Ketch and Lizzie when de time be right? An’ ain’t you teachin’ Lottie to read?”

  She glanced at him sharply. Zeke didn’t miss much. Not even things he wasn’t supposed to know.

  “Jus’ take it one step at a time, Miss Emily.”

  “But that’s the problem, don’t you see? I don’t know what steps I should be taking. Jack left me nothing. No plan, no guide, no timeline or specific tasks. I wish I could find an instruction manual for turning a plantation from slave labor to free.”

  “I don’ know ’bout no manuals, but Jack had a journal he wrote in all de time.”

  “He did?”

  He nodded to confirm his own words. “It had a black cover and gilt pages. He used to jot in it when we was talkin’ sometimes.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “I ain’t seen it since he died.”

  Emily shifted so she barely sat on the seat. “Zeke, why didn’t you tell me this before? I could have been looking for it all this time.”

  “I been waitin’ fo’ you to ask.”

  Emily’s lips parted in bewilderment. “But how could I possibly know to ask such a thing?”

  “I jus’ mean you weren’t ready.” He eyed her carefully. “Some things only time can accomplish an’ God can direct.”

  That set her back in her seat. Her life had been a series of events that funneled her directly into this place, almost like a book she could page back through. Zeke had seen the wisdom in letting that process play out without interfering or rushing ahead. She marveled at his patience. “Am I ready now?”

  “Perhaps. But you still gettin’ ahead of yo’self, frettin’ ’bout things what can’t be. Slow down and do what needs doin’ now.”

  “But what? What can I do?” Wasn’t that the same question she’d asked over and over and over again? If she knew the answer, she would jump in feet first!

  “I think you already know, Miss Emily.”

  Her mind was an empty bucket. She paused, letting her thoughts rotate in its depths. Had he given her a clue?

  “Consider de circumstances you fin’ yo’self in right now. What opportunities be open to you?”

  Of course. He had just slipped that answer into their conversation three minutes before. She repeated it. “With my father ill, my mother needs my help managing the plantation.” She could study her father’s books and immerse herself in the finances and the daily operations.

  “You can do more’n dat. If yo’ daddy long in recoverin’, yo’ mama gunna have some big decisions to make. You got a chance to sway her thinkin’.”

  Emily’s eyes widened. She’d never considered the influence she might exert. Perhaps even now she could begin whispering in her mother’s ear, turning her thoughts, laying the groundwork to end slavery within Ella Wood forever. The notion left her breathless with anticipation and heavy with responsibility all in the same moment.

  Emily considered the silver-bright horizon. “Is that why you never told me about Jeremiah? Because I wasn’t ready?”

  Zeke flicked the reins, encouraging the horse around a corner and onto the Summerville road. “No. I never tol’ you ’cause Master Jack asked me not to.”

  Then Jack had shared in Zeke’s wisdom. He’d known the time wasn’t right. He’d been patient enough to let opportunities come to her and trusting enough to let her discover them for herself. Even so, she’d dearly love to get her hands on that journal.

  Slaves began to appear in the fields among the wispy vapors, accompanied by the haunting strains of a spiritual. The rising light illuminated Zeke’s form. He sat straight, almost regal, but there was no denying his frailty. Deep lines recorded his age like tree rings. He had to be over eighty.

  Emily considered him carefully. “Zeke, why did you choose to follow my mother to Ella Wood after Uncle Isaac gave you your freedom? Malachi said it was because you were an old man, but you would have been young enough to make a fresh start somewhere.”

  He swatted lazily at a mosquito that buzzed his face. “Sometimes de Lord jus’ make a man’s purpose exceedingly clear. Knowin’ you in de right place to do de right thing at de right time come wid its own kind o’ satisfaction.”

  She let that swirl into her pail full of thoughts. Could it be that she’d been brought home for a purpose, too?

  As she mused, Summerville came into sight. “Zeke, pull into the churchyard, please. I’ve discovered a few things that need praying over after all.”

  ***

  “Good morning, Auntie.” Emily waltzed into Aunt Margaret’s room as she did most mornings, tugging open the curtain and delivering a bouquet of flowers she’d picked in the garden.

  “You’ve found something good about it, have you?” the woman grumbled.

  “The sun is shining, we have food in plenty, and the Yankees have not invited themselves for tea. I’d say the world is looking up, wouldn’t you?”

  Aunt Margaret harrumphed.

  Emily positioned the flowers in a vase—brilliant asters in shades of pink, purple, and white. “I’ve arranged for you to get out of this stuffy room and join us downstairs for breakfast.”

  “Who says I want to be moved?”

  Emily jammed her fists against her hips in disapproval. “Aunt Margaret, we’ve been here for a month, and other than a few jaunts down th
e hall to play nursemaid to my father, you haven’t left this room. I’m taking you downstairs to eat with me and Mother, then I’m pushing you through the gardens afterward.”

  “Very well. I’ll be able to pick out the flowers I want for my funeral.”

  Emily admonished her with another stern glance. “That’s nonsense and you know it. Once you get out of this room and stop feeling sorry for yourself, you’ll perk right up.”

  “Emily, women my age don’t perk up. We swell up, we flare up, and we give up. The only question is who goes first, me or my brother.”

  Emily was accustomed to her aunt’s bouts of moroseness. “Mother says you’ve been incredibly helpful sitting with my father this week. She appreciates the rest.”

  “No doubt she’s exhausted, the way she does everything for that man.” She cocked an eyebrow at her niece. “You said she’ll be at breakfast?”

  “Of course.”

  Aunt Margaret sat up straighter, a new gleam in her eye. “Good. I’d like to speak to her about a few things.”

  Emily didn’t envy her mother being on the receiving end of that look, but it was encouraging to see some of the old lady’s fire return. She paused at the door. “Trudy’s waiting outside. She’ll help you wash and dress. I’ll send up Apollo and Paxton in half an hour to carry you downstairs.”

  With that, she descended the stairs to the dining room.

  “Is she coming?” Marie looked up from acres of fabric covering the table. She sat among several slave women, ripping out seams and reconstructing three of her dresses in reverse so the faded side of the fabric faced inward.

  “She’ll be down soon.”

  “Good. It’s high time she joins the rest of the household. Phoebe, May, Deena, carry this mess into the music room. And be careful; we can’t afford to lose a single pin.”

  The table was soon set, breakfast brought in, and the footmen sent to fetch Aunt Margaret. Emily heard her griping all the way down the stairs. “Easy, Paxton! Hold my chair steady. Apollo, are you trying to dump me onto the floor?”