She couldn’t bear to think of it further.
The last envelope was addressed to her father from the War Department. She slapped it against her skirt. It was a summons to meet Jeremiah and his comrades on the battlefield, most likely. She rose to deliver it.
She found him sitting up in bed reading, having clumsily mastered the skill of turning pages. “I’ve brought your conscription notice,” she said, tossing the envelope onto his lap. “Richmond’s moving fast.”
The Conscription Act had been expanded again less than a month ago, making all men between seventeen and fifty now eligible for the draft. “We probably won’t have too much problem persuading Dr. Wainwright to issue you a medical waiver.”
Her father snorted.
“You’re in a good humor today,” she said, moving to the window. “Would you like some fresh air in here? It’s a beautiful spring afternoon.”
Over the last few weeks, he’d grown noticeably less hostile. Three months of “medical gymnastics,” as Dr. Malone called his treatment program, had dramatically increased William’s strength and improved his speech and dexterity. Even his face seemed less lopsided. Emily wasn’t sure if it was this progress that moderated her father’s temper or her decision to refrain from any reminder of their disagreements. Either way, she was well pleased with the civility he had displayed. Some days it almost felt like old times.
“Yes,” he agreed, and she pushed up the window sash.
“I’ve spoken with both Mr. Turnbull and Lewis,” she continued. “They’ve continued your instructions from last year. The potato fields are planted, the corn and oats are looking good. The north field near the river is flooded, however. Herod is working on fixing the gate, but it will likely be a few weeks before the field dries out. Lewis says we should just plant it with rice. Mr. Turnbull will be up later to speak with you about it.”
It would be William’s first conversation with the overseer since his stroke. Now, as she watched him straighten with purpose, she was glad she had suggested it.
“Your decision to experiment with new crops has proven wise, Papa,” she said, coming to sit beside him. “Not only did we manage a modest profit, no doubt you saved many lives. If the weather holds, I expect the same this coming year.”
To her surprise, William smiled. It came off as a grimace, with half his features still droopy, but the pleasure on his good side was unmistakable.
She grew thoughtful. “When I was a little girl, before you hired a tutor, you used to assign Jack and me our lessons upstairs in the nursery. Do you remember? We’d study four hours every day. Those were long sessions for a child who would have rather gone outside to play. I didn’t mind history so much, with its stories of long ago people and places. My imagination could spin the clock quickly for that hour. But mathematics were a drudgery and Latin a bore. I applied myself anyway, and do you know why?”
She glanced at him and saw she had his total attention. “It wasn’t because I wanted to keep up with Jack. You were my motivation, Papa. At the end of the morning, you would come in to check over our work. You’d make corrections and ask us questions, and if we’d done well, you were lavish with your praise.”
She smiled, the memories vivid in her mind. “I lived for your approval. Even after you passed our education on to Mr. Lindquist, I would go to great lengths to please you—learning to ride a horse, learning to shoot, outrunning, out-climbing, and out-yelling every child on the plantation. It was all to make you proud. Because you were the best father any little girl ever had.”
She blinked away the moisture that had collected in one eye. “I know we can never recapture those days. Children grow up. People change. Words are said and actions are taken. But life has a way of bringing things back around.
“Look at us now.” She gestured to the open book, to the half-eaten sandwich on the table beside his bed. “Our roles are reversed in a way, with you as the student and me setting you tasks. I know it’s been difficult. And you haven’t always been the best pupil,” she added with mock sternness. “But you have come so far in a short period of time. And I am very, very proud of you.”
After she had said it, as the absence of words filled the room with birdsong from the open window, apprehension bloomed in her belly. She had laid her heart in her father’s lap, exposed and unguarded, and she was suddenly afraid of what he might do with it. But his hand was gentle as he reached for hers. It was his good hand, its strength and form familiar. With this encouragement, she dared a peek into his eyes. For the first in a long, long time they were soft. Embracing. Forgiving.
She buried her face in his shoulder, unashamed of the tears that sprang to her eyes. “I’ve missed you, Papa.”
He stroked her hair, and she felt like a child again, seeking his approval. Like a wanderer sipping water after a long, dry journey. The future remained clouded. Plenty of uncharted territory still lay ahead. But it felt so very good to let go of the past.
When she pulled away, awkwardness stiffened their movements. Neither had ever been good at candid emotion. She cut the discomfort short. “I’ll go see if I can find Mr. Turnbull.” She squeezed his hand. “It won’t be long and you’ll be able to go downstairs to meet with him yourself.”
A gunshot blasted apart their tender moment. She leaped to her feet and flew to the window. It overlooked the gardens where nothing appeared amiss. She craned her neck for a wider view. Was Mr. Turnbull shooting? Only he and her father owned guns.
A second crack resounded from the direction of the stable.
She flung herself down the stairs and out the door where a thunder of hooves rocked the ground. Lune and Chantilly were pounding down the driveway, whipped to a frenzy by two ragged strangers.
“No! Come back!”
The scream tore from her throat. She flew after them as swiftly as her feet would carry her, but she was no match for the horses. As they reached the road, she dropped to her knees and watched them disappear from sight, the name of her mare strangling in her throat.
A wail of anguish warbled somewhere behind her, drifting to her ear through a wall of cotton. Then the sound of hasty footsteps. Someone was touching her arm, lifting her to her feet. “Miss Emily, you gotta come quick.”
She let herself be led like a cow to its stanchion.
The stable yard was awash in black bodies mingling and weeping. The epicenter of movement seemed to be the stable itself. She staggered forward in a state of shock. Gradually, she realized the hand on her arm belonged to Zeke. She stopped, forcing herself to focus on his face. “What’s going on?”
He fixed his ancient, weary eyes on her. “Miss Emily, Abel been shot dead.”
14
Emily shoved her way into the stable. Mr. Turnbull and her mother spoke together in low voices just inside the doorway. Beyond them, Deena and Lewis knelt over a figure crumpled outside the first stall. She pushed nearer, drawn by shock and revulsion.
Abel’s eyes were closed. He looked peaceful, as if he’d merely fallen asleep. More than once she’d stumbled across him looking just like that, lounging in the hay of some empty stall. Perhaps if she poked him, he might awaken with a “How you been, Miss Emily? Can I get Chantilly out fo’ you?”
Mr. Turnbull came up even with her. “It was a pair of Confederate deserters, most likely. Probably watching the horses from the woods. Abel had just brought them in for their grain.” The man shook his head futilely. “He must have tried to stop them.”
Deena knelt beside the groom, her shoulders heaving as she stroked his face. There was some family connection there. A grand-nephew? A great-grandson? Emily pressed a hand into her forehead as she tried to remember. “Has anyone gone after the killer?”
“Lewis and Apollo are tracking them on two of the carriage horses, but they’ll never catch that pair of Thoroughbreds. Best they can do is tell the sheriff which direction they’re headed.”
Another pang of grief struck. Her beautiful mare was gone.
She st
epped back as two of the men lifted Abel and carried him outside. One of the young stable boys sprinkled straw over the bloodstain on the dirt floor. Zeke took her arm and drew her back out into the sunlight.
“It’s such a waste,” she said, her tears flowing freely.
“Abel be a good man,” Zeke replied. “He was one of ’em, you know.”
“One of whom?”
“One of de folks Jack trusted. One of ’em who knew.”
Emily sniffed, searching for a handkerchief. “Abel used to help you and Jack?”
He nodded. “Along wid Clasey, Coffey, Jupiter, an’ Wilson.”
Emily glanced around, but the busyness of the yard protected their conversation. “Abel would have been so young.”
“Dat what made ’im invisible. He use to check de riverbank when he out exercisin’ de horses. See if anybody in it. Sometimes he run food an’ messages back an’ forth.”
Emily swabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand and watched the two men carry Abel’s body into one of the slave cabins. The air carried the sound of keening as more and more slaves learned of the tragic death. “Is it still there, Zeke? The shelter under the riverbank?”
“Sho’, it still dere.”
“And does it still get used?”
“Someone check it every few days. Ain’t seen nobody in six months though. Wid de harbor plugged up like a bung in a barrel, not so many folks lookin’ to get to Charleston anymore.”
Emily looked past the open field where Abigail and Darius were hastening home, toward the path that led to Fairview. No, not many slaves heading to Charleston, but perhaps one who might benefit from having a secret shelter in her backyard. Just in case the worst should happen.
***
Emily entered the dusky clearing with her bag of literature, feeling a bit like Mr. Marbliss, the schoolmaster she had studied under during her year in Detroit. The one-room schoolhouse had been her only experience with public education, but she could see many similarities to her classroom in the woods—the rows of faces, the sense of expectancy, the variety of skill levels.
For the last eight weeks, lessons had largely been abandoned. Now, with the bulk of the planting season behind them, eleven adults had gathered. Several faces were missing—particularly some of the house staff who found it difficult to escape their duties without suspicion. And Stella and Paxton, who had vanished two nights ago without a trace. And Abel. Out of respect, she had waited a week after his burial to renew the lessons.
Emily opened her valise and began passing out newspapers. None of them had been published in the current year, but they would serve her purpose. “Good evening. We will begin tonight by reviewing what you’ve already learned—and perhaps forgotten. Pair up, work together to decipher as much text as you can, and I’ll wander among you. I’ve brought Zeke with me to help. Let’s see what you recall.”
Emily circled automatically, half of her mind focused on the murmuring of voices and half listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. She needn’t remind any of her pupils about the high stakes of their lessons. She let them work for fifteen minutes, occasionally helping with words, reviewing sounds, or sketching letters in the dirt at their feet.
As shadows stretched in the final yawn of twilight, Emily called her class together. “I have something new I’d like to introduce you to this evening. It is knowledge perhaps even more dangerous to possess than literacy. But if you would understand the world in which you live, you must have a grasp of geography.”
From her valise, she pulled out a large, hand-drawn parchment, unrolled it on the ground, and pinned the corners down with rocks. “How many of you have ever seen a map before?”
A few heads wagged. “Jus’ sketches on de ground, miss,” someone volunteered.
Zeke caught her eye and raised his eyebrows. She pressed on without any hesitation. “This is a picture of the former United States of America, now divided into North and South along this line. And this,” she said, pointing to South Carolina, “is the state in which you live. Together, the Union and the Confederacy constitute a very large area of land, which I will try to demonstrate to you. Have any of you ever been to Charleston?”
A few hands lifted.
“It is a full day’s journey from Ella Wood. Now I’ll point out their relative positions.” A space half the width of a finger lay between them.
There were a few murmurs of astonishment.
“I believe it’s important that every citizen be familiar with the land in which he or she lives. So we’re going to take a closer look.” She pointed again to the division between North and South. “These are the border states—Maryland, West Virginia, Kentucky, and Missouri—which remain in the Union. And these are the regions where most of the battles have been taking place, here in Virginia, among the mountains in Tennessee, along the Mississippi River, and of course along the Atlantic seashore where we’ve heard our share of guns.”
The slaves pored over the image. None had ever seen the world laid out in such a way. “I got a brother sold down to Mississippi,” one said, studying the interior of the state as if he might spot his loved one.
“I’s born in Chapman, Alabama, few days’ ride from Montgomery. Think it be on here, miss?” asked another.
“Well, let’s see. Here’s Montgomery…” It took only a quick survey of the surrounding area to locate the town. Emily was then bombarded with half a dozen more requests. She happily found each one, knowing her students were taking ownership of the map through their personal experiences.
Apollo stood a pace behind, waiting for her attention. “Miss Emily, dis be de Port Royal I been hearing ’bout?” he asked, pointing to the town on Hilton Head Island where the Union had established its beachhead.
“What have you been hearing?”
“Some sayin’ black people dere be free. Dey got towns and schools, and dey earn wages fo’ dey work.”
“I can’t attest to that, Apollo. I’ve never been there. But that is the location held by the Union army.” She didn’t add that she’d heard those rumors, too. And that Jeremiah had verified some of them. But seeing the name on the map—only three finger-widths from Ella Wood—seemed enough to confirm everyone’s wildest imaginings. The woods went silent, and eleven pairs of eyes riveted on Hilton Head.
Emily felt the first rumble of misgiving. “Please understand that I am not advising you to leave the safety and plenty of Ella Wood. My purpose in teaching you has been to prepare you to become freemen when that day comes. And it will come to Ella Wood, though perhaps not as soon as we had hoped.”
“Den why teach us anythin’?” Herod called from the back of the crowd. “Why dangle a carrot we can never reach?”
“I didn’t say you can never reach it. The world is changing, Herod—”
“It ain’t changin’ fast enough. It ain’t changin’ fo’ me.”
A few murmurs threaded among the assembled slaves.
She straightened. “Herod, you have not been outside of Ella Wood. You have not seen the hunger, the suffering, the death. There are large sections of the South where farms are ruined, towns are wiped out, the economy is nonexistent. Change is inevitable.” She said the last phrase right into Herod’s eyes. “When this war ends, regardless of who wins, blacks and whites will be forced to pull together in a way never required of us before. And I want you all to be ready.”
“Can you guarantee our freedom?” Herod asked.
Emily hesitated. “Not until my name is on Ella Wood’s deed.”
He snorted with derision. “It always a maybe from you, ain’t it, Emily? Well, I want a certainty.”
“Nothing is ever certain, Herod. Life is a process of planning for maybes. That’s what I am trying to do. Now if you’ll turn your eyes back to the map…”
She didn’t watch as he stormed from the clearing.
The gathering broke up when it grew too dark to make out images on the page. As the slaves collected newspapers and stomped out all ev
idence of the lesson, Emily tried to tell herself she had done the right thing. It had seemed like a good idea when it occurred to her, and her intentions were honorable. But uneasiness gripped her spirit.
“You playin’ wid fire tonight, Miss Emily,” Zeke murmured as he handed over his stack of papers.
“You don’t think I should teach them about their world?” she asked defensively.
“I didn’t say dat.”
“If I were to avoid it just because someone else thinks I should, I might as well stop teaching them to read, too.”
“I jus’ be thinkin’ of yo’ parents. Dey won’t take it kindly if dey find out you incitin’ dey workforce away.”
“But I’m not.” She tried to brush it off. “Oh, never mind. It all ended well.”
Zeke wagged his wooly head. “I ain’t so sure it ended.”
***
Deena tackled Emily moments after she walked in the door. “Where you been, Miss Emily? Mrs. Johnson been askin’ fo’ you fo’ an hour.”
“Abigail? What does she want?”
“I ’spect she want dis delivery over as soon as possible. An’ fo’ you to keep her company between pains.”
“Abigail’s in labor?” Emily grinned. “Finally!”
Deena chuckled. “Dat be a word she used, too.”
“Where is she?”
“In her bedroom.”
Emily raced up the stairs. “You’re late,” Abigail accused as she entered the room.
“I’m late?” Emily laughed. “You’re a week early!”
Abigail failed to smile. She grabbed Emily’s hand. “I’m so nervous. What if something goes wrong? What if—?”
“Nothing is going to happen. Deena’s here and the doctor’s on his way. Just relax and do what they tell you to do.”
“Relax,” Abigail ground out as a contraction gripped her. “You’ve never done this before.”
Emily winced as her fingers were crushed. “Better?”
“For now.” Abigail lay back on the pillow when it had eased. “I sure was hoping the war would be over before this baby came,” she panted. “How can I raise a child alone? I don’t know anything about babies.”
Ebb Tide (Ella Wood Book 3) Page 15