Engraved on the Heart

by Tara Johnson

  With a nod of quiet submission, Hiriam approached Shadow and lifted his aged hands up to grasp Kizzie’s slim waist. “Come on, missy. Old Hiriam is gonna take you inside. Elizabeth got a hot toddy for you and a bed warmer for your feet.”

  Kizzie let her arms hang limp as the slave tugged her free from the saddle. Micah assisted, even as Montgomery’s stare burned a hole through his middle.

  “Hiriam?”

  “I’s here, missy.”

  Micah watched them go, his heart already missing her yet proud of her ability to keep her wits about her. He shifted his focus back to her irate father.

  “And just what were you doing out so early, Greyson?” Suspicion dripped from his pinched lips.

  Micah smiled tightly and patted his medical bag, securely tied to Shadow’s saddle. “I was summoned early to assist in a birth.” He shrugged. “Babies know no schedules, sir.”

  Montgomery chewed the inside of his cheek, no doubt oscillating between whether to believe the claim or not.

  Undaunted, Micah forged ahead. “I remember upon our last meeting my medical advice was not well received, but I beg you to consider altering your daughter’s regimen. Clearly her current treatments are not working. Have you tried the peony root or mugwort I recommended?”

  Fury flashed across Benjamin Montgomery’s countenance. “Indeed I have not, and I will not consult nor take advice from the son of abolitionist trash. If I ever see you lurking around my home again, I’ll shoot you on sight.”

  Stubborn man, held hostage by hate and ignorance. There was nothing Micah could say or do to sway his opinion. The thought saddened him greatly. If Benjamin Montgomery knew even half of Micah’s family history . . .

  Choosing the high road, Micah gave him a curt nod, tipped his hat, and turned Shadow away from the house, but not before he witnessed the flash of a pink gown and a strange woman studying him from a second-floor window. When he glanced up at her, she disappeared behind the curtains.

  CHAPTER 16

  FEBRUARY 10, 1862

  The stark grayness of winter crept by at a sluggish pace. Ever since Micah had returned her home in January, she’d been watched like an explosive oddity. If she thought her existence before was stifling, life inside the Montgomery home now was torturous.

  Many nights she had to keep the stable locked, the lantern extinguished. With every day that passed, a dark cloud of foreboding grew. Their home, situated as it was in the city, was key to transporting slaves to the blacksmith shop, where they would be one step closer to escape from Savannah. Every night she was unable to conduct, the fugitives’ chance of capture multiplied. She would lie in her darkened room, tucked between warm blankets, and pray. Father God, keep them safe. Guide them safely to freedom.

  They had received no letters from Nathaniel of late. With every passing week, the silence screamed louder. Mother paced incessantly, murmuring that of course Nathaniel was fine since his commander had sent them no letter indicating otherwise. Still, the quiet was unnerving.

  It didn’t help that the papers carried news only of war, casualties, and the dead. The strains of Handel’s “Dead March” had become so regular a refrain for passing funeral processions, Keziah no longer reacted or noticed its mournful cadence.

  Still, she would rather be locked in the house, listening to the drone of dirges, than be where she was at present: sitting in a hall with Jennie, surrounded by feverish radicals. Her first Vigilance Committee meeting. Lord willing, it would be her last.

  She’d only come to silence her cousin’s insistent pleas. Perhaps this would be beneficial for appearance’s sake. No one would ever suspect her of transporting runaways if she were recognized at an antiabolition meeting.

  Jennie clutched her arm and leaned in, whispering, her eyes aglow. “Isn’t this exciting? And look at the turnout. Nearly all the seats are full.”

  The very idea of so many wanting to see their fellow humans locked in chains—and to hunt down those who would try to free them—made Keziah nauseous.

  The meeting hall was bright with sunlight streaming in through the windows. Men and women of all ages filled the space, most chattering in rapid staccato. The sharp scent of floor soap permeated the air. A lectern, polished to a gleam, stood ready at the front of the room. Such a contrast between this gathering and the antislavery meeting she’d attended with Micah. There was no need to hide or cower in fear here, yet Keziah’s shame had rarely been so strong. Absurd what society deemed acceptable and what they then spurned as vile.

  Jennie released a light squeal and pinched Keziah’s elbow. “Ooh, it’s starting!”

  A large man with a barrel chest stuffed inside a black suit and a too-tight vest ambled to the front. His bushy gray side-whiskers did little to mask the scowl on his face. As he took his place behind the lectern, the chattering in the room quieted until only a faint cough could be heard.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for attending this afternoon’s meeting. I am Edgar Glass, president of the Vigilance Committee to End Abolition, and we thank you for your interest in this most important cause.” His voice boomed and echoed through the cavernous space.

  “Our glorious Confederacy is currently engaged in a war—a war to determine whether a people can really and truly be free. The treacherous Union told us we were free to live as we pleased, but from the travesties of Bleeding Kansas to Harper’s Ferry to the election of the devil Lincoln, we have been spurned, our liberties stolen and trampled, our economic systems threatened, and our very way of life insulted.”

  Several male voices lifted: “Hear, hear!”

  Keziah wrung her fingers in her lap. What of the slaves’ liberties? Their lives were the ones being threatened, insulted, even stolen at the tempestuous whims of their overseers.

  Mr. Glass gripped the edges of the podium in a dramatic fashion, as if the weight of the world hung on his next statement. “Much of this disgrace lies solely at the feet of a band of renegades. Zealots intent on their own misguided ideals, ripping apart the very fabric the old Union was founded upon. These same betrayers have infiltrated themselves among our beloved Confederacy, spreading their poison, their lies—indeed, stealing our very property!”

  Cries of outrage peppered the room. Jennie leaned forward, enthralled. Keziah swallowed and tried not to wince. Surely he wasn’t referring to—

  “You may know these horrid radicals by another name: abolitionists.”

  The outrage escalated. She dropped her gaze to the floor, fighting the heat within.

  “Yes, my friends. You know their ilk well enough. Murderers like John Brown.”

  Hisses followed the name, but Edgar Glass wasn’t finished.

  “Or hystericals like William Lloyd Garrison, or traitorous authors like Harriet Beecher Stowe who publish garbage for the masses.” His gray brows dipped low. “I praise Providence her libelous trash is banned in this most righteous land of Georgia.”

  “Hurrah!” Cheers erupted, causing Keziah to jump. Jennie clapped and waved her lace-trimmed handkerchief.

  Mr. Glass gestured for silence. “But our enemies are not content with the severance of the old Union. No, now they have set their sights to fracture this new nation. Our Confederacy. Do not be deceived, my brothers and sisters. These wolves in sheep’s clothing do not flaunt their beliefs in the marketplace with trumpets and banners. No, they prowl about, sly as foxes. They may be merchants or bankers, teachers or carpenters. The devout Quaker who masquerades as pious but is, in fact, a bloodthirsty thief.”

  A woman gasped behind Keziah, and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  His melodramatic plea boomed over the electrified crowd. “Did not our Savior himself declare he would turn father against son and mother against daughter? Beware, for some of these villains may be among our own families.”

  She felt Jennie stiffen beside her. If Edgar Glass was trying to stir the crowd into a riot, he was doing an admirable job.

  “Lest we forget, the apostle Paul
himself declared a slave should be subject to his master.” He pointed to a man in the front row. “You, sir. Would you ever think of breaking God’s sacred law?”

  The man shook his head. “Never.”

  Mr. Glass pointed to another fellow sitting on the opposite side of the aisle. “And you, sir? What about you?”

  The elderly man harrumphed. “I should never think to do so!”

  He then pointed straight at Keziah. Her heartbeat thudded dully in her ears as the light narrowed down to a small point. “And you, miss? Would you dream of breaking God’s holy law?”

  Hundreds of eyes watched her. Breath grew faint. She scraped for a semblance of thought. “I—that is, the Scriptures say all men and women have broken God’s law. Thus the need for a Savior.”

  Mr. Glass reddened. She must not be seen as unsympathetic. Before he could respond, she continued. “But would I purposely choose to disobey him? May it never be so.”

  He nodded in satisfaction and moved on in his speech. Keziah heaved a sigh and fell back against her chair. Jennie patted her hand and whispered, “Well done. Isn’t this too thrilling?”

  Managing a weak smile, she pressed her hand to her trembling stomach, relieved when Jennie turned her attention back to the orator once more.

  “These, these . . . apostates—” he sneered as if tasting something bitter—“think themselves to have the moral high ground. They believe they have the right to steal men’s property by any means necessary, often resulting in bloodshed and enormous loss of capital. Such horror is unfathomable.”

  A chair creaked in the back as someone stood. A masculine voice sounded. “I would like to hear more details. By what methods do the abolitionists seek to steal our property?”

  Mr. Glass straightened his shoulders. “An excellent question. We have recently learned more of their system. A system by which abolitionists and Union sympathizers aid runaway slaves to freedom, conveying them from house to house until they are in free territory.”

  Ripples of shock burst across the room.

  “Why, I’ve even heard these abolitionists steal slaves from their very beds, against their will, and carry them across state lines!”

  “I’ve heard of this. It’s true!” a man shouted from the back.

  The buzzing conversation grew into a roar. Keziah bit her tongue until she tasted blood. She wanted to scream at the unfairness of it. Preposterous!

  Jennie shook her head, russet curls bouncing. “Can you imagine?”

  She clenched her teeth. “No, I cannot.”

  Glass held up his hands. “Calm yourselves, my friends. All is not lost. This is precisely the reason we are meeting today.”

  A woman called out, “What can be done?”

  He cleared his throat. “Much. With your help, we can stop these devils in their very tracks. Restore order. Return stolen property. Maintain freedom and our way of life.” He steepled his fingers and pointed them toward the crowd. “In short, we need you to be our eyes and ears.”

  A ribbon of unease unfurled through Keziah.

  “Savannah is teeming with these vile traitors. We must ferret them out, but it will take all of us working together. Their system employs codes. Lights in windows at odd hours of the day and night. Secret messages passed between homes and people. It will take listening ears and sharp eyes. You must suspect everyone. Many of us—” he placed a hand over his chest—“are too old to enlist. Gentlemen, this is how you may serve in the glorious cause. Ladies, do not bemoan the fact that you cannot pick up arms and fight. Indeed, this may be your shining moment to make your mark on the world. History books will write about you one day. You were born for such a time as this. This is your call to engage the enemy.”

  Jennie sat straighter, her chin lifted high, even as Keziah’s spirits plunged low.

  Glass scanned the crowd. “Anything you hear, see, suspect—anything at all, even if you think it unimportant—must be shared with the Vigilance Committee. We will work with the authorities to bring lawbreakers to justice.”

  A man spoke up. “And what if the authorities turn a blind eye to our suspicions?”

  Glass’s jaw hardened. “Then we take matters into our own hands. Either way, justice will be served.”

  The next day, Keziah sat in the parlor, still edgy from all she’d heard and witnessed at the meeting. Her beloved Savannah had become a place of menace and spies, sinister figures and wolves lurking around corners.

  Across the room, Mother laughed lightly at something her friend Mrs. Ward had said and sipped her weak tea. The two matrons had spent the past hour draining each other of gossip—most of it related to the war and where Nathaniel might be, although their conversation drifted from scandal to courtships and back again.

  Neither the tea nor the conversation held appeal for Keziah, though her mother had required her presence. No, her heart remained decidedly fixed on a church several squares away, along with weary slaves and one particular doctor whose memory refused to leave her be.

  She’d only been able to transport one passenger since that disastrous night beneath the church. With rising temperatures, the Railroad’s work would greatly increase, and she would need to find a way around her father’s scrutiny. Instinct, however, screamed that her house had been compromised as a safe station. Once a bounty hunter discovered a runaway on the premises, word would spread.

  At any rate, the extra rest had been good for her. She’d not had a falling spell since that night last month. Even when Father was away, Jennie’s sudden clinginess and curiosity over her every movement left her desperate for any measure of time alone. She was doing well if she could even get to the stable to check the lock, much less light a signal lantern.

  This afternoon, at least, gave her a reprieve from her probing cousin. Jennie had bonded quickly with the insatiable extremists on the Vigilance Committee and was meeting with them yet again. For the first time in weeks, Keziah found herself able to relax.

  “Darling, play us a song. I’m so desperate for any kind of music.”

  Mother’s plea scattered her pensive thoughts. Keziah left her chair and moved to the rosewood pianoforte in the corner of the parlor.

  Mrs. Ward exclaimed, “Oh, how lovely! I was just telling Polly the other day how I’ve longed for a bit of merriment. There’s been none since Christmas.”

  “Small wonder.” Mother took another sip of her tea. “It seems since news broke of our defeat at Fort Henry, the starch has been washed from everyone’s sails.”

  Seating herself on the bench, Keziah ran her fingers lightly over the polished keys. The hammers struck the strings inside the instrument, but a twinge accompanied the sound. She wrinkled her nose. The piano had not been played enough of late. It sounded as if it had been soaked in brine. Tinny. Was there anything the war had not tainted?

  Instead of listening, the two women launched into another round of gossip, leaving her free to consider a piece of her own choosing. Nothing seemed to suit. Beethoven sonatas were too grim. Bach minuets too jaunty. The only tunes that filled her heart these days were a scant few hymns offered in church worship and simple melodies spun by the slaves from neighboring homes as they hung wash outside or tended their gardens. Many days Keziah would sit on the porch and listen to the gentle rise and fall of the mournful tunes. One she remembered for its rolling melody that reminded her of swelling waves against the ocean shore.

  With a steadying breath, she gave herself to the music, her fingers dancing across the instrument and coaxing out the gentle strains of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”

  Falling in love with the song once more, she closed her eyes as she played . . . until she heard a soft intake of breath.

  Her eyes popped open to see Polly, Mrs. Ward’s slave, staring at her from the corner, bewilderment on her face. With a start, Keziah realized her mistake. She’d played a song used by the Railroad. The subtle code, she had learned, alerted slaves to an engineer’s approach. Would Polly report the slip to her mistress? />
  She grew still and met Polly’s stare as the two matrons chattered on, oblivious to what had just transpired under their very noses as they held their dainty china and fussed about the price of lace. Keziah shook her head ever so slightly and watched Polly’s eyes widen a fraction before the slave responded with a measured nod. She lowered her gaze back to the floor.

  Keziah sought a deep breath, but her stays prevented it. What would Polly do?

  The front door banged open, and the women hushed as Father stood in the parlor doorway, his face ashen. A telegram was clutched between his stout fingers. Cold dread snaked through her.

  “Father, what is it?”

  The lines of his face deepened as he spoke through lifeless lips. “We’ve a telegram from Nathaniel’s captain. He was killed in the line of duty on February 6, defending Fort Henry from General Grant’s assault.”

  The last of the color leached from his face as Mother cried out. He seemed not to hear her heartbroken sobs.

  “My son is dead.”

  Then her strong, stoic father collapsed to the ground.

  CHAPTER 17

  A COOL BREEZE TUGGED a wayward tendril of Keziah’s hair free from her snood as she eyed the black crepe hung over the doors and windows, a sign to all who passed that the Montgomery family was in deep mourning. Life had been snuffed out of their home in one crushing blow.

  Since Father’s collapse, he’d not left his bed. His pallor refused to budge from its sickly gray. Dr. Kelsie had been sought and had come several times over the past two days but only shook his head, countenance stern.

  His voice was grave as he stood at the end of the ornately carved bed. “I’m so sorry, but there is little to be done. It’s his heart. To be honest, it’s only by Providence’s hand that he’s still here. The damage is no doubt extensive.”