by Ken Brosky
Could have been worse. But that doesn’t mean much, now does it? No sir, no it absolutely does not. It was a horrible way to live. Horrible way to treat someone.
So why didn’t you run away sooner, Eugene? I’ll tell you why: 20 lashings from the whip, that’s why. I saw it happen. A man named Jebediah ran off, got caught not two hours later by the master and his men on horses.
20 lashings with a whip. You don’t need to know what it looks like, seeing a human being’s skin after something like that. No one in this beautiful world should ever have to know that.
June 5, 1864
Didn’t plan on making a big fuss about my life and all, but I might as well finish my story while the beans are cooking over the fire. I escaped, all right. I escaped but good, and now I’m risking my life to save more people.
My escape wasn’t quite an adventure by any means. And I nearly slept through it! The night in question, I was sleeping on the ground in a small wooden home I shared with six other kids, all of em much younger than me. Tough to sleep. My legs were sore from work. I heard a noise outside. It was chilly out and I took my blanket with me as I went out to investigate. Expected to see one of the adults, maybe a servant heading back from the mansion.
Instead, there at the edge of the cotton field are two of the adults—a man and woman—standing with a Negro man with short hair, wearing a beautiful dark suit. Not the kind of suit you’d want to wear through a cotton field after a good rain.
Don’t know why I walked over, but I did. And the moment they saw me, they went nearly as white as our master. I saw it plain as day thanks to the full moon. They debated what to do. The well-dressed man introduced himself as Mr. Still and said all of us was going to follow the old drinkin’ gourd.
Otherwise known as the Big Dipper.
“You’ll get caught,” said I. “You can’t run all the way north.”
Mr. Still just shook his head. “No,” he said. “You’re right. That’s why we’re taking a train.”
Turns out, it wasn’t a real train. Not a choo-choo train. It was all in our heads, really, and the “stops” were homes. White people’s homes. They hid us away in the basement during the day, gave us a little meal, then the next night we traveled farther north. I can’t even begin to describe what it felt like to cross the border into Ohio. A feeling came over me, and it had nothing to do with the frigid temperature, either. Can’t explain it. Won’t try to explain it.
And now?
Now I’m a conductor for the underground railroad. I help slaves escape, take em north into free territory. Across enemy lines, so to speak. Sad, isn’t it? Parts of America being “enemy territory” and all? The Civil War’s been dragging on for years now. People are dying by the thousands. Family and friends torn apart, and all of it because a bunch of slave owners want to keep their property.
But you can’t own a human being.
June 15, 1864
Passed the Virginia Military Institute in Lexington, Virginia. Been traveling under the cover of night, but as of right now the North is firmly in control around here. The general of the Union army, Mr. David Hunter, he came through here and burned the Institute to the ground. All that’s left now is a blackened skeleton of a structure. Haunts the eyes, looking at it for too long.
Ground’s all chopped up from soldier’s boots and artillery. I’m traveling alone, trying to get a little deeper south to the plantations in South Carolina. Trying to save a few more slaves. Talk among the abolitionists say all slaves are goin to be free once the Union prevails in the war but a lot of us aren’t putting our faith in promises.
We’re putting our faith in the North Star.
June 21, 1864
Boy howdy, what I wouldn’t give for a real meal right about now.
Long’s I’m dreamin, I wouldn’t mind a new pair of shoes. Maybe some sugary drink to tickle my tongue.
Going’s slow. I almost bumped right into a Confederate army marching north—imagine what they’d have thought seeing a black man marching south! Heh. Got to keep moving. Sick of moving at night. Can’t really spend any time reading during the day unless I’m inside of a safe house.
Mr. Hill, he was the one who taught me how to read. Was real patient with me, too, making sure I got a good hour in every day. Said it was important to read. It exercises your brain, he’d always tell me. And some day, it’s gonna save your life. I never forgot those words.
I got three books with me. They belong to an abolitionist in Virginia. He loaned em to me for my journey. One of them’s a play by William Shakespeare, called Othello. Another’s called Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I’ve read it six times already. The third is the published tales of Br’er Rabbit, that rascally trickster. They’re not bad, but they’re not nearly as good as the ones my parents told me as a boy. My parents could spin a yarn, I’ll tell you what. They knew every Br’er Rabbit story by heart. My pa, sometimes he would even act out the parts.
Don’t want to write no more today.
June 23, 1864
Sorry.
Now look at me, apologizing to my own journal! Well, suppose Mr. Hill is right and suppose someone does decide this here journal is worth reading some day. Suppose I came off a little too strong in the last entry.
Supposing all that, I guess “sorry” is important.
But thinking about my parents is tough. I’ve missed em every day since I was separated and sold off.
Every day.
June 25, 1864
(Entry missing.)
June 30, 1864
Needed some time to straighten out my head. Lots happened. Lots. Where to begin? Well, I guess the beginning’s as good a place as any.
I passed another Confederate army at sunset, just when I was striking out. Making my way through a thin patch of sweet birch trees, the perfect place for an army to pass through because there’s not too much shrubbery on the forest floor. Usually, I’m pretty good at night. Heck, I’ve been doing this for three years now, after all! But they were marching something fierce, too tired to even send some cavalry ahead to scout. Had to double back and find a good hiding place on higher ground where I’d be out of sight.
They were beat up. Beat down. Ragged and rusted and rambling and downright bedraggled. I’d have felt sorry for them if they weren’t fighting to keep people like me in chains. Still, they’re human beings … my ma once said to me, “Eugene, you let your heart freeze through, it can be tough to thaw it out.”
It’s exactly that type of thinking that had me giving away the last of my food—two loaves of bread and some dried jerky—to the six men left behind. Now, I know just how foolish it was, and I bet if any of the soldiers was a little healthier, he wouldn’t hesitate to slap me in chains and sell me to the first plantation owner he could find.
But for all their faults, at the end of the day they were still human beings. Two of them were just boys. Probably couldn’t find D.C. on a map, much less know what in the heck they were really fighting over. Heck, I know I could be wrong. Eugene Washington’s an optimistic son of a gun and darn right knows it. Someday, maybe my compassion will catch up to me.
But it wasn’t going to be this day. I gave out the food, helping what I could to get them comfortable, thought it was obvious they were wounded something fierce. “Help is coming,” I told em. I knew once I got to my safehouse in the town three miles south, they could get some folks from town to pick those boys up. Maybe, just maybe, one of them might decide getting saved by a freed slave is enough to change their minds.
I ain’t holding my breath. But like I said, I’m an optimistic son of a gun.
Gotta stop writing for now. Candle is almost burnt out. Sun’s coming up. I’m tucked away in a little crawl space underneath the living room floor of two of the nicest white folks I’ve ever met. It’s a cramped little storage room, but I like sleeping all curled up so I don’t mind. When I wake up, it’ll be evening. Time enough for a little meal with my “station masters,” and then back on t
he road.
July 1, 1864
Well now! Time to finish my story. I got to be honest, I’m not relishing this. First thing you’re going to say is, “Boy, this Eugene has gone right off the deep end. His brain went skinny dipping in the Mississippi and it didn’t ever come back.” I tell you, I’ve got my brain sure enough. And I swear what I’m about to tell you is the honest-to-God truth …
None of the Confederate boys I fed was in much of a talking mood. I guess seeing a freed slave behave all civilized and compassionate is a bit of a shock if you’re raised thinking Negros don’t have such qualities.
But the last soldier I fed, he was different. I knew it right away when I saw him. He was watching me, see. Squinting in the darkness, watching me slip between the birch trees.
“You’re a danged fool to turn your back on those other men,” he whispered to me once I’d crept closer. He was leaning against a tree, clutching his stomach.
“You could see me way on down there?” I asked, pointing over my shoulder.
“I can see you pointing, too,” he said. “Come closer, Eugene.”
I swear on everything that I’m not making this up. He knew my name. Spoke it like we were good friends in another life. So I stepped out from behind my tree and walked over to him, kneeling beside him and digging through my satchel. I had a little bread left. My stomach growled, arguing against giving any more away. There was still a good six hours of walking or so.
I plucked a branch from the nearest cedar, plucking the little oblong leaves. They had double-toothed edges. Felt comfortable between my fingers. I gently lifted the man’s hand from his stomach, and set the leaves over his wound. “These leaves will do a heckuva lot more than that meaty paw you call a hand,” I said with a smile.
“You know these woods,” the man said, pushing away the bread. Had a northern accent, which was curious.
“I been through here once or twice,” I answered.
“You shouldn’t have turned your back on those other men,” he said. “Even the boys. This little army has done …” he licked his thin lips. “Bad things.”
“They’re in no position to do any more shooting,” said I. “You sure you don’t want a little food?” He tried taking his hand away from his stomach but I kept it there. “You want to keep pressure on that.”
The man smiled. He was young, probably no older than me. He’d let his hair grow long. His face was dirty, and he had a thin beard. His clothes were ragtag, his shoes worn down pretty good. Lots of Confederate soldiers’ clothing was coming apart. At least, the ones I’d snuck a look at in the past month. They were all hungry and tired and running out of food.
“Eugene,” he whispered. “I’ve dreamed of this moment. I knew it was coming. Look at this.” He pulled a little leather bag from his torn belt and handed it over. “Minie balls,” he said. “For my gun. Never used a single one. Not once.”
The bag was heavy. I believed him. “So why not?” I asked.
“This isn’t my war,” he said. “My war is far more dangerous.” He reached into the pocket of his tattered pants, pulling out something wrapped in cloth. He handed it to me. “Unwrap it.”
I shook my head. “How … how do you know my name?”
“Unwrap it, Eugene.”
I carefully unspooled the cloth. A beautiful fountain pen landed in the palm of my hand. The moonlight caught it, giving it just a little shine. It was heavy, metallic, the kind of thing that belonged on the desk of a New York lawyer. Not a soldier dying out in the woods.
“Now listen to me very carefully …” the man said, licking his lips.
July 5, 1864
Well! I’ve been stewing over it for a few days now, and I do believe I’ve come to a decision.
Eugene Washington has officially gone crazy. Yup, I expected it at some point. Just not so soon. Thought I’d get married and have a few kids before my mind packed up and headed out, but apparently that wasn’t in the cards.
I spent yester-day getting a family of slaves into a safe house, what we in the Underground Railroad call a “station.” The “station master” who owned this particular house is a man who I’ll just call Timothy. Nice man. Big, round belly and pointed nose. Looks a lot like Benjamin Franklin.
Talks like him too.
“Eugene, I do believe we’ll be seeing three feet of snow this winter!”
“Eugene, a man who does not finish his plate is a man you shouldn’t trust.”
“Eugene, the day I find a pair of socks that fit will be the very same day men abolish war.”
“Eugene, why do you do it?” he asked me once. This must have been around a year ago, when I was running slaves through a “rail line” that went into Mississippi. “Why do you risk your life?”
Seemed like a dumb question to me. But he didn’t understand. How could he? So I told him the truth. “Timothy, somewhere out there are my parents. I’ll never find them, most likely, but I’ve found plenty of other families. And I don’t want any of them to feel the loneliness that I feel.”
Timothy just nodded. Maybe he understood a little.
Anywho! I got this family to their first “station” easy enough and Timothy set them up in his attic for the time being. I took off that very same night, getting a good five miles north before turning off the main road into a patch of woods that had more than its fair share of good resting places. Lots of hornbeams and oaks, with a few giant chestnuts, too.
That’s my secret, by the way. It’s why I’m so good at freeing slaves. Most people say just follow the ol’ drinkin gourd, but that’s not enough. See, if you know your trees, you know where you are.
All this talk of trees has got me thinking. About what that Confederate soldier told me. Truth is, I don’t really think he was a Confederate soldier at all. Knowing what he did about me, I was pretty sure he’d come from somewhere north and enlisted in the Confederate army to get to that very place we bumped into each other. Said he’d seen all of it in a dream.
Said a lot of strange things. Then he passed away. No time to bury him, but I did make sure to say a little prayer.
Early this morning, just as the sun was coming up, I took that fountain pen out of my little satchel and pulled off the cap.
“Here goes,” I said, pressing the diamond-shaped tip to a fallen log. A snake slipped out from one of the rotted holes, scaring me near to death. I fell back, kicking it away. Lord, how I hate snakes. Can never get used to them.
When I was sure it was gone, I crawled cautiously back to the log. I pressed the tip of the pen on it, moving it across the rough bark.
The ink glowed for a minute, then disappeared.
I stared at the fallen log for a minute, sure my eyes were playing tricks on me. I tried it again. The ink glowed, then disappeared again.
“So what’m I doing wrong?” I asked the empty forest.
The oak trees shrugged. What do we know, Eugene? We’re just trees. All we’re good for is whiskey barrels.
Then I remembered something the soldier had said: I had to imagine what I was drawing. And I had to know the object well enough that I could draw it in my head.
So I drew what came naturally. I drew a book. Specifically, I drew Moby-Dick, even coloring in the white whale on the cover. Then, when I was finished, while the drawing was still glowing a golden glow, I pulled it out of the tree bark.
And there it was. Only, it wasn’t a real book. Not exactly. The cover was real. The pages were real. But the words on the pages were few and far between as if the typesetter hadn’t used enough ink on the pages.
Then I realized it. The only words that had shown up were the words I remembered.
Then I realized what I’d just done. And nearly fainted right there in my little pile of wide-lobed oak leaves.
I couldn’t believe it, I—
(Pages missing)
July 8, 1864
Lots of stuff to write. Not quite sure what to do. I’m heading north. Trying to avoid the “stations” b
ecause I’m being followed. Last thing I want to do is put the Underground Railroad in any danger.
The Hessian is one mean son of a gun.
July 9, 1864
I think he’s lost my scent a bit. He came up on me so quiet-like that I didn’t even hear him. Was writing in my journal at the time. Recognized him the moment I turned around. Everyone along the north-south border has heard of Hessian mercenaries, fighting for the highest bidder. You see them fighting for the Union army one day, then the next day you see them fighting on the side of the Confederates. Whoever gives them the most money gets to tell them who to kill. Despicable human beings.
But this one who almost caught me, he’s something special. He looks like George Washington brought back from the dead, with curly brown hair and a dozen scars on his face. Wears a black vest and black pants and keeps a pistol holstered on his belt, next to a saber. Big, fat hands that could snap a man in two. He wore black gloves and black boots and a red leather strap that ran diagonally across his body. Tucked in that belt were a few knives.
Thankfully he doesn’t know his trees too well, and instead of making his way around a handful of American elm saplings, he tried pushing right through them to grab me. The young branches are strong as all get out, and they gave me just enough time to grab my knapsack and run.
The Hessian. That’s what he’s called. The most feared mercenary in the entire country. And currently being paid by the Confederate army.
July 10, 1864
I think he’s lost my trail. One thing I didn’t mention in my last entry was his cart. He takes a cart of books with him as he travels from battle to battle. Shipped it over from Germany. People say he likes to read after a battle. While everyone else is nursing their wounds and crawling to safety, he sits right there and pulls out a book. Scary, thinking about it. A person like that has lost any connection he had with his fellow man.
I wish could—
(Pages missing)