Ebb Tide (Ella Wood Book 3)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  In her preoccupation, she failed to see Herod leaning up against the door of the stable, but she soon felt the heat of his stare. She turned to meet his hostile eyes.

  “Playin’ school?” he drawled.

  “Why are you spying on me?”

  “De outline of a book be clear ’nough in yo’ pocket. I seen you bring it here three nights in a row.”

  She felt a momentary surge of fear.

  “I ain’t told Mr. Turnbull, if dat’s what you wonderin’.”

  “I don’t believe you will.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because when you tried to tattle on Ketch, you were dealing a blow to your competition. This time you have nothing to gain.”

  “Life ain’t always about strategy, Emily. You can take someone down jus’ fo’ de pleasure o’ doin’ so.”

  The fear pulsed again. He was spiteful enough to do it.

  “Why don’t you join us?” The words popped from her mouth without any premeditation. She half-regretted them the moment they formed.

  He regarded her suspiciously. “Why?”

  “Because life doesn’t have to be a grudge match, either. Times are changing, Herod. Do you really think Ella Wood can remain the same after the war? It would be beneficial for every single person on this plantation to learn how to read.”

  “So teach ’em.”

  She reined in her impatience. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

  “No, you pretendin’ you some angel o’ mercy, doin’ good deeds to soothe yo’ conscience. If you want every slave to learn to read, why don’ you teach ’em all? Why pick an’ choose favorites?”

  “You know very well why, Herod. Bigger secrets are harder to keep.”

  He scoffed. “You jus’ as scared as yo’ daddy.”

  The accusation rocked her into silence. Was she like her father, too afraid of popular opinion to do what was right? She had scorned William for it. Was she now being a hypocrite?

  Footsteps padded on the path. Lottie was returning. She made a hasty decision. “All right. When the harvest is in, I’ll offer reading classes to every slave at Ella Wood.”

  “Now you makin’ promises you can’t keep.”

  “Who’s going to stop me?” she challenged. “My father?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I gunna hol’ you to it. You don’ keep yo’ word, everybody gunna know.”

  She lifted her chin. She’d never been one to let Herod intimidate her. Not as a kid running footraces, and certainly not now. “Very well.”

  ***

  Emily made her way down the woodland path purely by feel. Darkness was complete beneath the dense foliage of the trees. Each step was placed cautiously until the path dumped her out in Fairview’s side yard—in the very spot where Jovie had once apologized for kissing her. It had been unexpected, that first kiss, Jovie’s way of letting her know that he wouldn’t relinquish her to Thad without a fight. It was the first demonstration of his affection. She’d scorned it at the time, but how many times since had she replayed every detail? How many times had she wished she could go back to that moment and choose Jovie instead?

  Sarah’s silhouette broke away from the shadow of the grape arbor, interrupting her reverie. “Miss Emily?” Her whisper drifted across the silvered yard, soft as the moonlight.

  Emily pulled her back beneath the arbor’s protection. “I’ve heard from Jeremiah,” she murmured. “He sends his love. He also said he’s joined the Union army. He’s being sent to Virginia with the 4th US Colored Regiment.”

  “What?” Sarah’s grip pinched Emily’s arm. “Why?”

  “I think he’s doing it for you. Hoping to bring about a time when the two of you can be together.”

  “But what can he do?” Sarah’s voice was pleading. “What difference can one man make?”

  “None at all. But I think he feels like he’s making a difference.” She knew something about those feelings of helplessness. “And it fills the time while you’re here and he’s there.”

  “But he could be killed!”

  Emily didn’t disagree. She knew very well that the risks Jeremiah took extended beyond the fortunes of the battlefield. The court may have bowed to Lincoln’s pressure, but Southerners still held a strong animosity for a black man in uniform. “Pray for him, Sarah. Pray like mad.”

  Sarah covered her mouth with one hand and nodded her assent.

  Emily touched her arm. “I don’t think it’s wise for us to meet like this anymore. I wanted to deliver this news myself, but we can’t afford any prying eyes. Especially if the opportunity ever came to reunite you with Jeremiah.”

  Sarah’s gasp was muffled beneath her palm. “Miss Emily, you would do that for us?”

  “I would do it for my brother. In the future, I’ll send Lottie with any messages.”

  Sarah nodded in the darkness. “Thank you, Miss Emily.”

  Emily turned to leave. “Pray for him, Sarah.”

  8

  “Thirty-five dollars for a pair of shoes!” Emily gaped at the cobbler in disbelief. According to her mother’s list, she was supposed to purchase seventy pairs.

  The man shrugged. “If you don’t pay it, someone else will. I was lucky to find leather at all.”

  She and Abel had left Ella Wood in the wee hours of morning on a wagon loaded with produce. They arrived in Charleston shortly after noon and sold out within two hours. Now Emily was trying to track down the items her mother had deemed most necessary to get them through winter. But thirty-five dollars for a pair of shoes? Twenty for a pound of tea? One hundred for a barrel of flour? And she couldn’t find a bolt of fabric in the entire city. Not one bolt!

  She looked down at the roll of bills in her hand. It was more money than she had ever held at one time. Unfortunately, Southern currency lost its value faster than a horse could gallop. “Thank you,” she said in resignation. “I suppose we’ll just have to make do.”

  She left the cobbler’s shop and cringed at the explosion of sound. The Yankees had begun bombarding Fort Sumter again two weeks ago, only days after her mother had agreed to the trip. Marie had been trying to talk her out of it ever since. Now Emily almost wished she’d given in. After the relative quiet of the plantation, the city’s volume reverberated in her skull like the unrelenting clamor of bells. But she wanted to personally meet with Mr. Abercorn, the business contact Walter Cutler had recommended.

  “That was wholly unproductive,” Emily complained as she climbed onto the wagon seat beside Abel. “Of my mother’s entire list, I’ve only been able to procure sugar, and that was a spot of luck. As it is, it still tastes of molasses and is terribly overpriced.” She frowned. Blankets were unavailable, as was tin. And how could they possibly do without needles and thread?

  Abel was still gawking at the city in wonder—at the tall buildings, the church spires, the sheer number of structures lining a single street. Emily wished he could have seen Charleston in its glory days. “I tol’ you not to give away all our cargo at dat refugee camp. Now you ain’t got enough money to buy what you need. You gunna go barefoot all winter?”

  “Could you have driven on by?” The black, desperate faces had moved her to pity. She had handed out baskets of cabbages and potatoes. It wasn’t enough to feed them all, but it would provide some of them with another meal. “Besides, I prefer to go shoeless.”

  “Dey yo’ feet, miss.”

  Emily tucked the list into her pocket and pulled out an envelope addressed in Walter’s blocky hand. “We’re nearly to Mr. Abercorn’s mercantile. It’s just around this corner and up a block or two.” She pointed out the correct street.

  “Excuse me, miss.” An elderly gentleman doffed his hat respectfully. “I saw you exit the cobbler’s shop, and I couldn’t help but observe your dismay. I can’t afford his prices myself.” He pulled his pant leg up to reveal a shoe fashioned completely of wood. “But there’s a new factory in Raleigh turning these out by the hundreds. Thuim and Frapps is the name.”r />
  Emily’s mouth formed a circle. She’d never seen anything like it. “How ingenious!” she exclaimed. “Do they keep your feet dry?”

  “As bone.”

  She pushed back the side of her bonnet to peer at them more closely. “And are they comfortable?”

  “Comfortable enough for two dollars a pair. They’d suit your darky well, at any rate.”

  She straightened, her face thoughtful. “Thank you, sir. I’ll certainly look into it.”

  “My pleasure.” The gentleman replaced his hat and continued down the street, each footfall striking the sidewalk with a woody clunk. Emily shared a glance with Abel and laughed. “Can you imagine? Shoes made from trees!”

  Abel just shrugged and flicked the reins. The horses—her father’s driving team, George and Martha—responded obediently, and within moments they pulled up before the shop of J. P. Abercorn.

  The meeting proved brief and anticlimactic. Mr. Abercorn was a nondescript man of average height and build, someone she never would have noticed on the street. But he was courteous and eager for new business. He read her letter of introduction from Mr. Cutler and agreed immediately to her terms. Not a single reference was made to Emily’s youth or her gender. After a short conversation and an exchange of information, she left with a tremendous feeling of triumph.

  Abel noted her smile. “Dis meetin’ go better?”

  Emily grinned. “It made the whole trip worthwhile.” Maybe she’d even go back and purchase that tea.

  She climbed aboard and pulled another address from her pocket. “Our next stop—Dr. Malone’s apartment.”

  The directions Ida had given led them to a modest residence on Anson Street just north of Wentworth. “The doctor?” repeated the matronly woman who answered Emily’s knock. “Aye, he lives here. He set up practice above the carriage house out back. Whether you can catch him home or not, that’s a different story.”

  “He doesn’t hold regular office hours?” With most of the church bells recast into cannon, Emily wasn’t certain of the hour, but it couldn’t be past four o’clock.

  “Sure. On the days he’s not at the hospital. Or on a call. Or sleeping off a midnight shift.”

  Emily hesitated. “Do I dare knock?”

  “It’s the only way you’ll find out if he’s up there.” The woman closed the door, leaving the decision to Emily.

  The carriage house was a fair-sized structure with sliding double doors on one side and a service door on the other. Emily knocked at the smaller opening, wondering if she could even be heard from the loft above. Turning the knob, she cracked it open. “Dr. Malone?”

  The building was empty. She started up the stairs at the side of the room. “Dr. Malone?” she called again.

  The door at the top opened before she reached it. The doctor peered down at her, his clothing disheveled and the hair on one side of his head sticking straight up. “Emily?”

  “Oh dear, I’ve awakened you!”

  “I seldom sleep more than a few hours. What are you doing here?”

  “Delivering a load of produce…and these.” She climbed the last steps and was startled to see how much he had aged in the few months she had been gone. She handed him the letter from his wife along with his anatomy book.

  He tucked the letter into his pocket. “I trust you found the volume useful?”

  “I did. Thank you.”

  He held the door wide. “Come in. How’s your father?”

  “That is one of the things I’d like to talk to you about.”

  The loft was a single room, a combination living area and medical office. Most likely it had once served as slave quarters. She sat in a rickety chair at a dinged-up table and waved away the bowl of apples he pushed toward her.

  “He’s not regressing, is he?” the doctor asked, taking the seat across from her.

  “There’s nothing to regress from. He’s made no improvement.”

  The doctor grimaced. “I wish I could come take a look, but I’m afraid with the influx of wounded from Chickamauga and things heating up again in the harbor, I haven’t been able to get away. Tell me about him.”

  “I haven’t actually seen him since the day it happened.” She fingered the not-so-white fabric of her best pair of gloves. “Mother says he recognizes everyone, but he’s regained none of his mobility.”

  “What treatments has Dr. Wainwright recommended?”

  “Besides a few bloodlettings, nothing.”

  “I see.” Dr. Malone rubbed a hand over the stubble on his face then wiped it over his head in an attempt to tame his unruly hair. “We have limited understanding of the processes that cause a stroke, and even less of how to fix it. But we do know the condition is caused by interrupted blood flow to the brain, the observed symptoms being the result of damaged brain tissue. As some patients do make a full recovery, it stands to reason that the damaged tissue can be regenerated. I have seen patients relearn the functions they lost.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, but if I were to venture a guess, they are relearned much the same way they are originally learned in infancy.” He met her eyes with determination. “After the passage of so much time, most doctors would write your father off as a hopeless case. But I believe there may yet be a possibility of recovery.”

  Emily sat forward in her chair. “What can we do?”

  “Make him practice the skills he has lost.”

  “Practice?”

  “Through repetitive motions. Rebuild strength in his limbs through movement, and reteach his brain to coordinate those movements.”

  “But how? He can’t do anything alone.”

  “Then guide him. Move his arms and legs for him until he can do it on his own. Provide resistance to build strength. Let him feed himself. And only converse with him after he makes an attempt at communication.”

  Emily pursed her lips. “I’m not sure Mother will agree to this.”

  “If she will not, then you must be the one to help him.”

  Emily stiffened. “I—I can’t.”

  “Then I’m afraid there truly is no hope for his recovery.”

  The look of compassion he bestowed on her was like a hot poker searing her soul. She shifted her focus away to the room’s sparse furnishings. “Your quarters are very nice. Will you ask Mrs. Malone to rejoin you here?”

  “Not unless the Union navy decides to turn tail and flee back to Port Royal. Which, as you can hear, is extremely unlikely.”

  “I thought perhaps they already had. It was quiet for so long.”

  “The army trickled away, but the navy is being pressured to enter the harbor and finish the job.”

  “So why haven’t they? Why bomb Sumter again?” She put fingers to her temples where a miniature bombardment echoed the greater one. “They’ve already obliterated it. If they sailed past, we couldn’t possibly hold up against a concerted attack.” All of Charleston expected it. Dreaded it. Like waiting…and waiting…and waiting for a hurricane that never made landfall.

  “Cowardice, I suppose. Or incompetence.” He shrugged. “Perhaps Dahlgren fears the torpedoes anchored in the harbor. Or maybe it’s a second case of David versus Goliath.”

  Emily smiled at his reference to the little torpedo boat. Small, silent, and difficult to detect, the David carried an explosive charge that could be rammed into the hull of sleeping gunboats. Only a month ago, it had damaged the Union ironclad, New Ironsides. The success had fueled Confederate hopes of breaking the blockade using a fleet of such vessels. Several more were already under construction.

  Dr. Malone absently plucked apples from the bowl and stacked them on top of each other. “One thing Dahlgren has done is render our port useless. With the whole navy sleeping in the doorway, most blockade runners are opting for Mobile Bay.”

  Emily smiled wanly. “Then at least there’s little chance I’ll run into Thad while I’m here.”

  Dr. Malone raised his eyebrows. “Ah, your young man. I heard his company f
olded after a series of losses.”

  “Is it horrible of me to find grim satisfaction in that?”

  The doctor chuckled. “Natural, perhaps. But we sorely needed the supplies he and others brought into the country. Charleston holds on by an ever more tenuous thread.”

  Emily picked up one of the apples, turning it in her hand. “Does the action against Sumter at least draw away fire aimed at the city?”

  Dr. Malone waved away her concerns. “We’ve hardly given that a thought. The damage has been minimal, relatively speaking. Nearly the entire city is out of range.”

  “So—” She eyed him keenly. “—would it be safe for me to return to my parents’ house and scour it for anything useful?”

  He frowned, realizing her question had moved beyond the rhetorical. “You do understand that your house is within range?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you already know it wouldn’t be safe. The shells are unpredictable and deadly. It would be risky at best. I must officially advise against it.”

  “But if you were in my shoes?”

  He smiled thinly, a humorless grimace. “If my house still stood, and if it contained anything that might help my family survive this war, I would bring away as much as I could carry.”

  Emily traced a gouge on the table with her finger, uncertain how to broach her last question. “Dr. Malone, do you recall the trial for the black prisoners back in September?”

  “How could I not? The uproar was heard all the way in Washington.”

  “Well, sir, I’m curious as to how, in a city screaming for their execution, they were acquitted.”

  “Hmm…yes. It seems unlikely, but it was the only outcome President Davis could afford.” He scratched at the stubble on his chin again. “You’re familiar with state policy on the matter?”

  “You mean that armed blacks be executed or sent back to slavery?”

  He nodded. “President Davis recognized it as untenable. The execution of several dozen black men would not only alienate England, but Lincoln promised equal treatment to the same number of Confederates. So in essence, Mr. Davis had to find a way to squeak out from underneath our law.”