Antebellum BK 1

by Jeffry S. Hepple

  “Too bad. I sure would enjoy the company.”

  “Maybe you could come down to see us.”

  Grant shook his head. “I send most of my pay to Julia.”

  “How about I loan you…”

  Grant was waving his hand. “Now, don’t insult me, Professor.”

  “It wouldn’t be any burden.”

  “Thank you. Really. But no.”

  “Okay.” Robert swallowed the rest of the whiskey, made a face and banged the glass down on the table. “Well, Sam.”

  “Yeah. I know. Sure wish you could stay.”

  “Me too.” Robert stood up and bumped his head on the rafters. “’Til next time.”

  “Yeah. Hope it’s soon. I get lonely here.”

  May 9, 1852

  Van Buskirk Point, New Jersey

  Abraham Van Buskirk awoke abruptly and struggled to recall the sound that had disturbed his sleep. Outside, somewhere beyond the open second-floor window of his bedroom, a horse stamped and another nickered. Abraham slipped out of bed, retrieved his prized Sharps rifle and cartridge pouch from above the doorway, then padded barefoot into the hallway.

  “Abe? What is it?” Abraham’s sister, Ginger, was standing inside her dark bedroom door.

  “Somebody’s in the woods behind the house. Wake Samuel and tell him to load his shotgun and cover the front door. I’ll go out the back.”

  “What about me?”

  “Arm yourself, but stay up here.” He slipped silently down the stairs and to the back door, praying that the hinges wouldn’t squeak.

  Abraham’s house was situated on high ground with the front door facing New York Bay, across a broad expanse of sloping lawn. The right was also cleared of trees all the way to the small peninsula of Van Buskirk Point where the boathouse and storage buildings were clustered near the small dock. The barn, corrals and stable were behind and to the left of the house, nestled in the woods that separated Abraham’s land from the mansion at the Van Buskirk Home Place.

  Abe moved silently through the shadows and stopped near the corner of the house. He swore under his breath when he heard the click of the front door latch. He had told Ginger to have Samuel cover the front door with his shotgun, not to go outside. If Samuel was out here, Abe would have to be very cautious before firing at anyone. His straight breech Sharps rifle, converted to fire metal cartridges, had been a gift from Yank and, as such, it was always kept in the place of honor above his bedroom door. It was too much gun for any practical purposes. It would shoot through a wall and even a flesh wound would severely maim a man. Abe was considering going back inside for a smaller caliber weapon when a flash from the woods followed by the flat report of a rifle made his decision for him.

  He aimed at the flash, fired and then dropped to the ground, rolling to his left. Three musket shots sent every remaining bird to flight, but the bullets impacted harmlessly into the house where Abe had been standing.

  Reloading quickly, he put three additional cartridges between the fingers of his left hand and stood up. He fired at where he’d seen the rightmost muzzle flash, took three quick steps to his left, reloaded and fired again at the center flash’s position. Only one musket returned fire. Abe stayed where he was, reloaded and fired at the spot. A scream of agony followed.

  “Samuel! Don’t shoot me, Samuel!” Abe ran around the corner of the house and through the moonlight to the front of the house.

  Samuel was on the porch in a spreading pool of blood.

  Abe opened the front door. “Ginger,” he shouted. “I need you.” He dragged Samuel inside, then went back out for the weapons.

  “I’ll get something for a tourniquet,” Ginger said as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “No.” Abe looked out the open door. “We don’t dare light a lamp yet. Put your finger in the wound, find the artery and hold it.”

  “I can’t do that alone,” she stammered.

  “You must.” He picked up the shotgun and ran out the door, then zigzagged toward the grove from which the first shot had come.

  The shooter was dead. He had been hit a bit to the right of his navel and the heavy bullet had nearly torn him in half.

  Abe moved into the brush to his left and toward the sound of a man calling for help. The wounded man was gut shot and unable to walk. Abe took the man’s musket and moved on. The other two were dead. Abe returned to the wounded man. “Who are you and what are you doing on my property?”

  “Get me some help,” the man groaned.

  “I might. After you answer my question.”

  “I don’t answer questions for niggers.” Blood and spittle ran from the man’s mouth. “You better get me some help or it’ll go real bad for you.”

  “You better answer this nigger or I’ll send you to hell.” Abe poked the man’s wound with the musket barrel, then waited until the man stopped screaming and poked him again.

  “We was after runaway niggers,” the man gasped.

  “There aren’t any slaves here.”

  “There’s niggers here. They fetch the same price in Richmond, slave or free and the little red-headed bitch is worth a bundle.”

  Abe shot him in the face, put the musket in the corpse’s hand and then went back to help Ginger.

  ~

  “This one was shot at close range with a shotgun,” the sheriff said in an accusatory tone. “Damn near blew his head off.”

  “I came back to help him and he pointed that musket at me,” Abe replied calmly. “So I shot him.”

  “This musket’s not loaded,” the constable observed. “Not even cocked.”

  “It was dark. He pointed it at me and I shot him.” Abe turned toward the sheriff. “Are you going to post some men here or not?”

  “Just keep your shirt on, Abe,” the sheriff replied. “You killed four men last night. We gotta investigate.”

  “I killed four armed men who were on my property with the intention of kidnapping me, my sister and her son.”

  “Says you,” the constable replied.

  Abe stepped toward him. “I’ve lived right here on this land all my life, paid my taxes and…”

  The sheriff moved between them. “Hold on, Abe.”

  “Me?” Abe bristled. “Your man just accused me of lying.”

  “He didn’t exactly.”

  “Is that how it’s going to be now?” Abe asked. “I’m black, you’re white. I’m wrong, you’re right?”

  “This has nothin’ to do with color,” the sheriff insisted.

  “It has everything to do with color,” Abe replied. He pointed at the corpse. “Crackers like these aren’t coming to steal your family and sell them like cattle, because you’re white. They’re coming after mine, because we’re black.”

  “I’m gonna leave some men,” the sheriff said in a calming tone. “Can they use one of those little buildings down on the point?”

  Abe nodded. “The boathouse has bunks and a wood stove.”

  “Fancy,” the constable muttered.

  “Are we finished here?” Abe asked. “I need to go to the hospital and see if the white doctors are going to try to save my black nephew’s life.”

  “There’s no call to talk that way,” the constable said.

  “Says you.” Abe turned away and trotted toward the stable.

  “Uppity nigger,” the constable said in a tone that only the sheriff could hear.

  “You don’t want to get too far on the wrong side of that particular nigger,” the sheriff replied. “The Van Buskirks look on him like he’s part of their family.”

  “They’re not as important around here as they once was.”

  “If you cross ‘em, they’re just as mean as ever they was. My advice is not to cross ‘em.”

  “Okay, Uncle Earl. If you say so.” He gestured toward the house. “It ain’t fair for niggers to live in a mansion while white people are livin’ in shacks.”

  “Life ain’t fair, Junior. Never has been, never will be. Go back and fetch
us some help to haul off these bodies.”

  May 9, 1852

  Manhattan, New York

  Anna and Nancy were reclined on canvas lounges on the small balcony of Nancy’s apartment that looked out on the eight hundred acres of Central Park. Anna was reading a magazine and Nancy was dozing in the sun.

  “I don’t see anything particularly special about this woman’s writing,” Anna complained.

  “What?” Nancy blinked at her.

  “I’m reading a short story by Louisa May Alcott and it’s not particularly special.”

  “Who?”

  “Louisa May Alcott. Remember I told you about that non sequitur that Harriet Stowe dropped about Louisa May Alcott from Concord?”

  “Uh-huh. Sort of.”

  “Well, I’m reading a short story that Miss Alcott wrote and it’s nothing special.”

  “Did Harriet suggest that you read Miss Alcott’s work?”

  “No. She suggested that I call on her.”

  “In Concord, you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Miss Alcott related to Bronson Alcott?”

  “Yes. That’s her father’s name, according to Harriet. Do you know him?”

  “No, but Ralph Emerson mentioned his name.”

  “In what regard?”

  “I don’t honestly remember. I only remember the name because I thought that Bronson Alcott sounded sexy. I wasn’t intrigued enough with the name to find out, however.”

  Anna giggled. “Is the Emerson that you mentioned the man that Horace Greely hired to write that disgusting biography of Margaret Fuller?”

  “Yes. He writes as Ralph Waldo Emerson and his biography of Margaret Fuller is a huge best-seller.”

  “It’s claptrap,” Anna grumbled. “Margaret Fuller’s words were rewritten in it.”

  “Emerson’s a transcendentalist,” Nancy said. “I think Bronson Alcott is too.”

  “Uh-huh.” Anna went back to reading.

  “John Brown’s been a guest in Emerson’s home numerous times.”

  Anna looked up from the magazine. “Is that so? Do you know any more of Mr. Emerson’s friends?”

  “The only people I know that are friends of his are literary types, like Nathaniel Hawthorne and David Henry Thoreau.”

  “I think that’s Henry David Thoreau.”

  “You’re wrong,” Nancy said. “And if you’re going to argue with everything I say, don’t ask me questions.”

  “I’m not arguing with everything you say, Nancy, just with the man’s name.”

  “I know the man, Anna. Do you?” Nancy closed her eyes and Anna went back to reading.

  After a minute, Anna rolled the magazine and slapped Nancy on the thigh with it.

  “What?” Nancy growled.

  “The underground railroad,” Anna said. “I asked Harriet for a contact name when I first met her and she refused. Now that she knows me better, she’s changed her mind. Louisa May Alcott must be a contact.”

  “I can find out for you, if you want me to.”

  “Yes, please do,” Anna said.

  May 11, 1852

  Van Buskirk Point, New Jersey

  The bell on the barge from Long Island echoed across the pasture. “Ferry’s comin’,” Ginger shouted into the open barn doors.

  Abraham slid down the rope from the loft, picked up his rifle and trotted out to join her. “How many passengers?”

  “Just one. Horse mounted.”

  He started across the meadow toward the hill and the main house. “Stay here.”

  “No. I don’t want to be alone. I’m coming with you.” Ginger trotted to stay beside him.

  He glanced toward the point. “Have you seen the constables this morning?”

  “No. If anyone’s down there, they’re asleep.”

  “Fat lot of good they do.”

  “It’s just window dressing to make the County officials look like they care about colored folks.”

  “They care enough to send a collector every year when it’s time for us to pay our taxes.” Abe stopped at the crest of the hill to watch the barge as it crossed Kill Van Kull. “That looks like one of the boys.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I don’t know. Something about the way he moves.”

  “Come on, now,” Ginger teased.

  They watched as the barge docked, the boy led his horse onto the shore, then mounted and rode toward the house.

  “I was right,” Abraham said.

  “About what?”

  “The boy sits a horse like a Van Buskirk.”

  “Maybe.” She shaded her eyes. “Yes, I think you’re right. Is it Quincy or Pea?”

  “Neither one. Younger. Must be Johnny.”

  “Yes, that’s who it is.” She smiled. “Look how tall he’s grown. Did you know he was coming?”

  “The last letter from Thomas said that Johnny had been accepted at West Point, but there was no mention of him stopping here on his way.”

  “Should I go up to the big house and tell Mrs. Keller to get a room ready for him, or should we invite him to stay with us?”

  Abraham looked unsure. “He’s grown up in Texas. He may have acquired a prejudice against colored people. But then again, it would be rude not to invite him. Let’s see how he behaves.”

  “Do you think he expects to find Anna here?”

  “No, but he might think that Nancy’s still here. He took quite a liking to her last time.”

  Ginger started to reply but changed her mind.

  Johnny crossed the plank bridge over the pond and marsh, then raised his hand and gave his horse a kick. “Hello,” he shouted, grinning widely.

  “That’s encouraging.” Ginger waved.

  Abraham raised his hand in greeting. “Yes.”

  Johnny raced up the slope, then reined in his horse sharply, jumped down, hugged Ginger, and offered his hand to Abraham. “Sorry to drop in on you unannounced.”

  Abraham shifted the rifle he was carrying to his left hand and shook the boy’s hand enthusiastically. “This is your home. You don’t need an invitation.”

  Johnny looked at the rifle. “Hunting buffalo?”

  Abraham smiled. “We’ve had some trouble lately.”

  Johnny looked concerned. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Slave catchers,” Ginger said. “They come north looking for fugitive slaves and they kidnap free colored people.”

  Johnny’s mouth fell open. “Kidnap? What for?”

  “To take them south and sell them,” Ginger replied.

  Johnny was stunned.

  “Samuel and I had a shoot-out with a bunch a few days ago,” Abraham said. “Samuel was wounded. He’s in the Newark hospital.”

  “How badly was he hurt?” Johnny asked.

  “He may lose his leg,” Abraham said.

  Johnny looked horrified. “That’s awful. I’ll send a wire to Father and have him bring some men. I’ll stay until they arrive.”

  “That’s not necessary, Johnny. The sheriff’s stationed some constables down there on the point.” Abraham gestured over his shoulder.

  Johnny peered toward the small collection of buildings by the dock. “Why didn’t they challenge me?”

  “Should I tell the housekeeper to get a room ready for you in the Home Place?” Ginger asked to avoid answering. “Of course you’re more than welcome to stay with us. We’d love to have you.”

  Johnny looked up toward the big house at the top of the hill. “Is anyone staying in the main house?”

  “No,” Abraham replied. “Mrs. Keller’s there and a hired man comes by weekdays to do odds and ends. Anna and Nancy are both involved in politics. There’s no telling where they are.”

  “Well,” Johnny said. “I came to see you, so if it wouldn’t be putting you out, I’d rather stay at your place.”

  “We’ve got plenty of room and would sure enjoy your company.” Abraham winked at his sister, then walked to Johnny’s horse and picked up the rein
s.

  “Why did you come to see us?” Ginger asked. “Not that we’re not delighted but…”

  Johnny ducked his head and looked embarrassed. “Well, you’re the only colored people that I know, and I wanted your opinion about secession.”

  ~

  Abraham, Ginger and Johnny were seated at the kitchen table. “I’m full of opinions about slavery,” Abraham said. “I’m less sure about secession.”

  “What possible good could come from the United States dividing into two countries?” Ginger challenged.

  “A war to end slavery,” Abraham replied.

  “If the southern states secede it’ll be over states’ rights, not slavery,” Johnny said.

  “Yes, and if the northern states declare war on the states that try to secede it’ll be to preserve the Union,” Abraham agreed. “But before the war’s over, slavery has to become the North’s central issue.”

  “Why so?” Johnny asked.

  “To keep England and France from taking sides with the South,” Abraham replied. “Europe needs the South’s cotton and rice and they don’t care a fig about our union. But if the North was to assert that the purpose of the war was to free the slaves, no country in Europe would dare step in to aid the South.”

  Johnny slapped the table and grinned. “That’s brilliant. Abraham Van Buskirk for president.”

  “That’ll never happen,” Abe chuckled. “There’s no way a white man is ever gonna vote for a black man as president. Not in these United States.”

  “It might be different, in the United States,” Johnny said.

  Abraham was looking at his sister who had obviously lost interest in the conversation. “What are you thinking, Ginger?” He touched her hand.

  She started at his touch. “I was thinking that we might take Samuel from the hospital, with Johnny’s help. I’m sure I can save his leg, but those white doctors will take it off if his fever doesn’t drop soon. And it won’t. Not the way they’re treating him.”

  “I’ll gladly help any way that I can,” Johnny said. “But why would you need me to help you bring Samuel home from the hospital?”

  “I killed four white men,” Abraham said. “The sheriff would like to see me prosecuted for murder, but he can’t get an indictment. He has a deputy at the hospital watching Samuel to make sure we don’t take him and flee out of his jurisdiction.”