Engraved on the Heart

by Tara Johnson

  Gasps peppered the air. Keziah’s face flamed at the scandalous topic.

  Another man spoke, his voice laced with skepticism. “How do we know you’re not making up these stories?”

  Amos looked toward the orator who’d introduced him and sighed when the man nodded.

  The orator spoke again. “We can prove the torture Amos endured. I ask your pardon now for what you are about to witness. Those with delicate sensibilities ought to look away.”

  Amos stood and slowly unbuttoned his white cotton shirt, turning his back to the audience, allowing the fabric to fall to the floor. Keziah felt the blood leach from her face as murmurs of utter shock punctuated the air. A woman in the last row released a cry.

  His back was nothing but a hard crisscross of thick, grisly scars. Knotted tissue patched over other scars, some as thick as two fingers pinched together.

  Never had she seen something so ghastly. Pressing her fist to her mouth, Keziah trembled, her eyes stinging with unshed tears, throat thick and stomach fisted.

  Next to her, she heard Micah exhale a shaky breath and murmur, “Dear God in heaven . . .”

  Turning back around, Amos picked up his shirt and slipped his arms into it once more, his face pleading. “I’m sorry you had to see that, but I ain’t the only one who’s suffered. There are still folks trapped just like I was, with no hope for them or their babies.” He straightened. “Ain’t right. God done said in the Good Book he made man in his image. He didn’t say just the white man or the black or anyone else. He just said man.”

  He thumped his chest with a meaty fist. “I’m a man. I’m a man made in God’s image. A man Jesus died for.” He shook his head. “The whites tell everybody the Negroes are stupid. No different than animals. But it’s only because those same whites denied us a chance to learn, to read, to make something of ourselves. We can learn—I’m learning to read right now. You know what I’m reading? The Good Book. And now I can read for myself how much Jesus loves me.”

  Warm tears streaked down Keziah’s face. She felt every ounce of weight behind his impassioned plea.

  “Every time you remember the scars on my back, let it make you think about all them folks still being whipped, still locked up or ripped from their families. Remember them and ask the Almighty what he would want you to do.”

  Micah walked beside Kizzie as they left the church. No, Keziah. Thinking of her with such a womanly name would take some getting used to, but a woman she was. He cut a sideways glance at her lovely form in the soft glow of gaslights dotting the darkened streets.

  Had it been foolish to ask her to attend the meeting? Most likely so. Still, of all his old friends, he felt she would be the only one who might listen to the passionate pleas of those desperate for freedom. Not just listen, but understand. Understand the hurting. Understand him. And realize the choice he must make was far bigger than it appeared.

  The normal beat of their booted heels was drowned by the late-night celebrations still erupting all over the city. When the Daily Morning News printed the headline “Our Flag Victorious,” rejoicing and gleeful rallies sparked through every corner of Savannah. Celebrations that had yet to cease.

  Just when Micah thought the exultation had died down, more guns would fire their booming victory shots, rattling glass windows and fraying his nerves. Even now, from the other side of the square, a group of men could be heard shouting, “Hurrah for the South! We stand together!”

  Forcing the troublesome noise away, he pondered what would become of Keziah’s younger brother. He was of age to enlist.

  “What will Nathaniel do now that war has been begun?”

  Her brows knit. “I’m not sure. He has been doing so well in his engineering studies at the College of Charleston, but now . . .” She let her voice trail off. “I fear war will change everything.”

  They walked along in comfortable silence. Even for a shy girl, Keziah was far too quiet, a marked contrast to the revelry buzzing through the city.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  She sighed, her slim shoulders drooping. “I’m thinking how spoiled and ignorant I’ve been.”

  “That’s exactly how I felt after attending my first meeting in Philadelphia. As if my eyes had finally been opened.”

  She nodded, staring at the ground before her as they strolled. “I will never be able to erase the image of his scars from my mind.”

  Giving her a sad smile, Micah yearned to grasp her hand but resisted. “Nor should you. Let his suffering teach you. Remembering will give you a greater compassion. A deeper love for those trapped in darkness.”

  She stopped and turned to face him, her large eyes filled with confusion. “But Father doesn’t whip our slaves. They are not all treated with such hate.”

  He struggled to form words that would not cause her to rise in defensiveness. “You’re correct. Some are treated quite well. But it still doesn’t change the fact that they are given no choice. No individual pursuit of happiness.” He stepped close, feeling his chest tighten. “Do you know almost none of them have any dreams? None! Because they’ve never been given the opportunity to think beyond what their masters demand. What kind of life is that?” He softened his tone. “We act as if God created them solely to bow to our own whims and desires.”

  “But what should be done, then?”

  He heard the frustration thickening her voice. This time he didn’t resist the desire to touch the soft skin of her hand. The contact of her cool fingers wrapped in his sent a ripple of awareness through him. He whispered, “You may never change all minds, but you can change one life. Pray. Ask God.”

  Keziah watched him intently, her eyes searching his. “This is why you cannot fight?”

  He nodded and released her. “This is why.” He held up his hands, studying their blunt contours. “God gave me these hands. Whatever happens, I will use them to heal.”

  Tenderly, she slipped her hands over his and squeezed. “I understand. Now better than ever before. You’re a good man, Micah Joel Greyson.”

  He chuckled, unnerved by her soft touch and the sound of his full name slipping from her lips. “You sound like my mother when I’m preparing to be scolded.”

  At the sound of her light giggle, he lifted her fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss to her skin, wishing it could be so much more. Careful, Micah . . .

  He walked her as close to her home as he dared, stopping a block away, his fingers wrapped around the iron fence lining the row of homes.

  “Thank you, Micah. I shall never forget this night.” She began to ask something but seemed to think better of it.

  “What is it?”

  Licking her rosebud lips, she emitted a timid question. “Will I see you again?”

  How he wished it to be so. But he would not make a promise that could easily be broken by the severing lashes of war. “I pray so.”

  Hints of disappointment lined her face, and Micah couldn’t resist the desire to stroke her feather-soft cheek with the pad of his thumb. He could never have more, so he would allow himself this one sweet moment. “Whatever God wills, he will accomplish. I give myself to him however he would have me serve.”

  Her breath hitched as he stepped closer. Yet a far greater barrier than this iron fence separated them. If she only knew . . .

  No. She must never find out.

  Micah drank in the contours of her delicate features in the shadowed dusk. “Discover what he wants you to do, Kizzie, and then give yourself to it with all your heart. I’m not sure what the future holds. An opportunity has been given to me that may take me away from here, but if Providence should bless us to meet again, I would be overjoyed to see you once more—” his voice grew hoarse as he rasped the hated words—“my friend.” His breath hitched as he feared he might spill all the feelings he’d harbored inside since their youth. But he would not burden her with an attachment that would only bring pain.

  Instead, he dropped his fingers. “May God shine over you in all you do.
”

  Keziah slipped inside the foyer and shed the light shawl she’d carried to the meeting. As she looked for Elizabeth’s helpful hands, the memory of Amos’s scarred flesh seared her memory, and she clutched the shawl to her middle. She would take it to the proper place on her own. No longer would she demand anything from the staff that she could complete herself.

  From the library down the hall, she could hear the scratch of Father’s pen as he worked his ledgers. The aroma of his cherry tobacco drifted through the air. Mother was nowhere to be seen, likely upstairs writing letters or stitching her needlepoint. Feeling at loose ends, Keziah didn’t want to retire for the night, not with the emotions swirling through her. Nor could she focus enough to read. Her thoughts were far too scattered. No, it was human companionship she craved.

  She wandered into the parlor and stared at the glowing embers collapsed in the bottom of the fireplace. Hearing a thump beyond the kitchen, she hung the shawl in the closet Elizabeth used for wraps and picked her way through the silent kitchen to the steps descending beyond. Perhaps one of the servants was still awake.

  The soft, honeyed glow beckoned her to the large workroom at the bottom of the stairs. She paused in her descent and watched Hiriam oiling an assortment of leather saddles and paraphernalia scattered across the worn table. Humming a jaunty tune, he rubbed the stained cloth into the hide of a saddlebag, his graying curls bent over his work.

  Her heart softened as she watched the old driver and groom. He had been with the Montgomery family since before her memories were formed.

  “Your voice is always so soothing.”

  He jerked his head up and smiled upon seeing her before patting the empty chair next to him.

  “Miss Keziah, how did you know I was yearning for a bit of company this evening?”

  She eased into the squeaky chair, arranging her ample skirts around her, wrinkling her nose against the sharp sting of oil and turpentine thickening the air. “I feel too flummoxed to rest.”

  His lithe hands never stopped moving, though his eyes lifted to study her, his curiosity unveiled. “Flummoxed? What’s got the prettiest miss this side of the Mississippi so at odds tonight?”

  Nothing. Everything. She didn’t even know how to broach the topic of what she’d seen and heard, for truly, it changed everything. She watched his careworn hands with their thick calluses and wondered what his life had been like before he’d been purchased by Father. He’d never said. Never complained, and she loathed herself for not once asking.

  “I suppose I’m feeling selfish.”

  His brows rose. “You? Selfish?” He shook his head. “Uh-uh. You’re the most unselfish person I know.”

  She said nothing, content to watch the fluid motion of his hands, hear his gentle breath in the cellar’s quiet.

  Unable to quell the tide of not knowing, she heard herself blurt, “What was your life like?”

  He froze, face turning to onyx as it rose to hers. “What do you mean?”

  She swallowed, throat tight. “Before you came here. I just realized I’ve never asked. Never saw beyond my own needs and silly desires to ask you about your life. Where did you grow up?”

  He resumed his work, his words slow as if he was weighing each one carefully in a balance. “Just a childhood. Nothing special to speak of.”

  “But you’ve always had such a gentle, calming way about you. Were you raised to be a driver?”

  A spark of misgiving flickered in his eyes. “Why you asking all these questions?”

  He knew her too well. Always had. She picked at the scarred table, keeping her gaze averted. “Just curious; that’s all.”

  Grunting, he dropped the saddlebag from his hands and reached for another, rubbing the oil-soaked cloth against it in smooth circles. “Some things is best left forgotten.”

  Forgotten. Were these “things” truly forgotten, or were they locked away? His refusal to speak of the past told her volumes.

  Deciding to change tactics, she tucked her chin in her hands just as she had when she was a child in pinafores, watching him work in this very room.

  “What about now? What are your dreams?”

  Hiriam chuckled. “Ain’t got no dreams, missy.”

  His words so closely echoed Micah’s, she could do nothing more than blink. “But surely you have something you’d like to do before your life is over. Some place you’d like to visit or family you’d like to see.”

  Sadness etched heavy lines down his face. “No, missy. I don’t.”

  “You don’t have family?”

  He stilled and looked off into nothingness for a long moment. So long, she feared she’d been forgotten completely. Finally he spoke.

  “I did once. But my wife and daughter was sold away. Ain’t seen or heard of them since.” His voice grew hoarse. “Don’t even know if either of them is alive or in glory.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  He shook away the sorrow around him with a gentle smile. “Ain’t your fault, Miss Keziah. Life is a bread eaten with sorrow, but there is good things too. Like you.” His dark eyes twinkled. “I got to see you sprout up from a little ’un to the beautiful lady you are now. Master Montgomery lets me keep watch over the horses I admire. I’m content.”

  Forcing a smile, she nodded, though she couldn’t shake the sense that her family had wrought a huge injustice on Hiriam and the rest of the house slaves. Contentment was admirable. Or was it resignation? Could it be that the less painful path was to never dream at all?

  “Go on now. Get yourself up to bed. Rest.”

  She rose and turned to leave before tossing him a pleading look over her shoulder. “You’re sure you don’t want to tell me about your past? I truly would like to hear it.”

  He frowned, gave a short shake of his head, his voice sad. “It’ll serve no good purpose. Go on now.”

  Lifting the hem of her skirt, she made her way up the stairs, but instead of heading to her room, she meandered through the kitchen and found herself slipping outside into the cool of the night. The perfumed scent of irises and jonquils drifted on the air. She stopped and leaned against the balustrade, staring up at the sliver of moon surrounded by twinkling stars. Amos’s scarred, mangled flesh invaded once again.

  “Let his suffering teach you. Remembering will give you a greater compassion. A deeper love for those trapped in darkness.”

  Micah’s gentle admonition wrapped around her, flooding her with purpose. She felt as if she must do something. Anything.

  Studying the moon, she let its serene glow light her face as she prayed.

  Father God, I want to help. Forgive me for my apathy. I’ve never truly seen the horrors inflicted upon your children, have been content to turn away as long as my own home was happy. No longer. I want to be of service to you. Whatever talents or abilities I have, use them. I give myself to you. Lord, I want to make a difference.

  Help me make a difference. . . .

  CHAPTER 4

  APRIL 23, 1861

  “Must the rallies be so loud?”

  Mother’s exasperated complaint was far shriller than the dull shouts erupting across the square. Though over a week had passed since war first commenced, Savannah continued to pulse with ribald excitement. It seemed the rallies proclaiming Confederate freedom never waned. From the midmorning hours until late into the night, the entire town quivered in anticipation, punctuated by war-thirsty men rallying those less inclined to take up arms and fight. Brass bands blasted their message at odd hours throughout the day.

  Keziah was perturbed in mind and body.

  Father took another sip of his coffee and replaced the delicate cup in the saucer with a soft clink, snapping open the stiff pages of the Daily Morning News with a smug smile of satisfaction.

  “Look here. The paper declares the recent display of Georgia’s brave militia companies was the most imposing and gratifying military display ever seen in Savannah.” He chuckled, chest puffing out. “We’ll show those Y
anks yet.”

  Keziah picked at the fluffy eggs cooling on her breakfast plate. “But what of our ports?”

  Lowering the paper, Father stared at her over the brim of his spectacles, his expression shrewd. “What of them?”

  She leaned forward with unfettered curiosity. “What defenses have been made for our ports? The Federal Navy will surely attack, seeing as how so much more damage could be inflicted by sea rather than land.”

  Father grunted and continued perusing the ink-smudged paper held aloft in his fingers. “You might be right at that. Ah! See here. Governor Brown is calling for volunteers to join the Confederate Navy.”

  “But what if there’s a blockade? No doubt Georgia will be ill-equipped to defend itself against the Federal Navy.”

  Mother cut in, a frown marring her refined features. “Don’t tire yourself over worries of war, dear. It’s not healthy. Not in your condition.” Her eyes sharpened, displeasure evident.

  Keziah’s face flamed. She was nearing the age of twenty and yet continued to be coddled like a child. Impertinence would get her nowhere, though, so she held her tongue and lifted a forkful of eggs to her lips to restrain the words longing to bubble forth.

  Father nodded, oblivious to her ire. “Quite right. We need no more of the displays you mortified us with at the Ballingers’ party. Why, the very next day, Mr. Ballinger showed up at my office, peppering me with all kinds of questions about your condition. I might as well have been a lawyer for all the fancy talking I did that morning to convince him you weren’t a lunatic.”

  Keziah lowered her head, the cold, dark wash of shame dousing her earlier irritation as he continued.

  “As far as concerning yourself about the war, I wouldn’t let it tax you overly much. It shouldn’t last more than a few months at most anyway. The Union has yet to see the Confederates in all our military glory. And don’t forget—” he smiled over his spectacles, his side-whiskers tipping upward—“we have God on our side.”