Engraved on the Heart

by Tara Johnson

  Mother did little but stare blankly at Father’s sleeping form or weep hysterically into her clutched handkerchief, its substance no more than a fluff of lace. Ineffective and helpless against her cries.

  Helpless. That’s exactly how Keziah felt.

  Nathaniel. Her heart stung just at the thought of his name. Her vibrant, joyful brother struck down in the bloom of youth. He was so clever. Had so much life yet to live. A lump settled deep in her throat. Well-meaning friends only made the wound worse, saying time would heal the gaping hole he had left behind. That she would eventually forget this horrid pain.

  She didn’t want to forget. Such a thing would make light of his sacrifice. Of him. No, losing Nathaniel was an ache that would never heal.

  Hiriam descended the rickety ladder over the door, startling her from her wayward thoughts, the small iron hammer clutched in his hands.

  “There, missy. That should hold the mourning crepe in place unless a storm rolls in.”

  Offering a sad smile, Keziah reached for the hammer so his hands would be free to move the ladder. “Thank you, Hiriam. March winds will soon be upon us. How thoughtful you are to secure the crepe over the door.”

  He squeezed her shoulder in a grandfatherly fashion. “Ain’t no trouble. Seems like a pitiful amount to do considering the sorrow you’re bearing up under, but I’ll aid you any way I can.”

  Tears swam in her vision, blurring his face. “How would I manage without you?”

  He chuckled softly in the gentle way he had. “Probably dance a jig. These old bones of mine ain’t useful for much.”

  She reached up on tiptoe and kissed his gray-whiskered cheek. “Old or no, I couldn’t function in your absence. Besides, it’s not your physical strength I usually seek. It’s your wisdom and kind heart.”

  His face lit with a kind of sadness, though his mouth smiled. “Most wisdom comes through trial.”

  “And you’ve had your fair share of that, have you not?”

  His expression shuttered. “That’s true enough, and I wrestled with the Almighty through most of it, but there’s great peace in surrender.”

  Lines crinkled the corners of his eyes as he patted her shoulder once more and hefted the ladder toward the corner of their brick home. Another gust toyed with her hair. She looked up, glancing at the darkening sky.

  At the squeak of an iron hinge, she turned and saw Polly tentatively walking up their stone walkway, a basket clutched in her hands.

  Keziah swallowed, suddenly uneasy. Why was Polly here alone?

  The slave woman kept her head down, her face almost completely obscured within her large bonnet. She stopped before Keziah and timidly lifted her eyes. “Miss Keziah?”

  “Polly, how lovely to see you.”

  Reaching into her basket, Polly pulled out a square tin and held it toward Keziah. “This here is a gift from Mistress Ward. She heard about Mr. Montgomery’s continuing poor health.”

  Keziah gently took the tin from Polly’s fingers, noting the way the slave’s hands trembled. She studied the label and smiled in appreciation. “Ceylon black tea?”

  “Mistress Ward said it ain’t much, but with the blockade still hemming the city in, she thought this tea might be a small comfort.”

  Keziah hugged it to her bodice in gratitude. “I know this comes dear. Especially now. Please convey our deepest thanks to Mrs. Ward.”

  Polly nodded and dropped her head once more but did not move. A cool wind swirled around them, ruffling their skirts, but still she stood mute. Was she afraid of something?

  Clearing her throat, Keziah shivered against the cool and braved a word. “Was there something else you needed?”

  The woman’s chin trembled as her lips parted. “A friend of a friend sent me.”

  Keziah’s heart slammed. There would be no reason to use the cryptic phrase unless Polly was seeking escape with the Railroad. She glanced side to side to make sure no one was about, then stepped close, collapsing the wide space between them. “Why do you seek me?”

  Polly held herself erect as if she’d decided to spill her thoughts and suffer the repercussions whether they were favorable or not. “I knew you was to be trusted since I heard you play that song in the parlor. Take me. I’m seeking Canaan.”

  Was this a trap of some kind? Keziah struggled to form a coherent reply. She did not want to incriminate herself if the request was some kind of ploy, but neither could she ignore the plea if it was sincerely petitioned.

  “But why? Is Mrs. Ward not good to you?”

  Polly’s expression hardened, her shoulders stiff. “Mistress is right kind to me. It’s Mr. Ward that has me wanting to leave. He comes into my room at night, and . . .” She fumbled, struggling to say the words.

  Keziah’s eyes slid shut. “Say no more, please.”

  The slave woman gripped her basket so tightly, Keziah feared the handle would snap.

  “Is there no one else you trust?”

  Polly took her measure with a direct gaze that bored into Keziah’s soul. She met her focus evenly, refusing to look away.

  “I have no one. I came because . . .” She swallowed. “If I’m mistaken to come to you, correct me.”

  Keziah’s breath hitched as she whispered, “Await my reply. Within a month, if the Lord wills. Instructions will be forthcoming.”

  The faintest trace of moisture pooled in Polly’s eyes, her shoulders slumping with relief. “God bless you, miss.” Something caught Polly’s notice from the side of the house, and she quickly dropped her gaze into meek submission before turning to leave.

  Keziah called to her retreating form, “Please thank your mistress for the thoughtful gift.”

  With only a momentary pause, Polly nodded and let herself through the iron gate, disappearing down the lane in a swish of skirts.

  Keziah turned to see Hiriam watching her, his face a mask. Had he overheard?

  Heat enveloped her and she offered a thin smile before making hasty steps toward the door and shutting it behind her with a relieved click.

  The steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the parlor reminded her time was not on her side. It slipped away, second by agonizing second, as she scrambled for the best way to smuggle Polly into the Railroad.

  Setting her feet on the path of freedom would be easy. Evading capture in the process would be difficult.

  The thought of her cousin’s inquisitive stares rushed to her with sickening dread.

  A difficult task indeed.

  FEBRUARY 17, 1862

  Micah plunged his hands into the tepid water of the washbowl and watched it turn a murky pink. The man lying on a threadbare cot in the church basement heaved a sigh, his face dotted with sweat.

  “Don’t know how I can thank you, Doc. That bullet was paining me something awful.”

  Micah wiped his hands on a fresh cloth and gathered up his instruments to clean them before they were needed again. “A bullet wound is nothing to ignore. Could have infected your blood if it were in much longer. I think your shoulder will mend fine now, though.” He eyed the fugitive’s cotton-swathed shoulder with satisfaction. The spot of blood soaking through the fabric was minimal.

  The man’s bass timbre floated through the quiet. He was the only passenger at the moment. “I’m mighty beholden to you.”

  Micah shook his head. “The Almighty is the one who deserves the gratitude.”

  “Yes, sir.” He broke into a smile, revealing crooked teeth, and shifted against the cot, wincing with the strain.

  “Here. I don’t know when you’ll be moving, so I’ll give these to you now. Three rolls of fresh bandages, lint to pack the wound each time you change the dressing, and a small vial of whiskey for cleaning it out.” Micah gave a look to intimidate but knew the threat was thin, especially considering the man’s thick-corded muscles. “The whiskey is for cleaning, not for drinking.”

  Crooked teeth flashed again, accompanied by a low chuckle. “And here I was all excited.” The man suddenly sober
ed and stilled, his dark eyes moving to the doorway of the inner room. Fear flickered across his face.

  Micah whirled around to see a slight woman, her mousy-brown hair pulled into a tight bun, standing on the threshold. Despite the poor cut of her worn dress and her lean frame, she was attractive with her large eyes and high cheekbones.

  “Dr. Greyson?”

  Straightening slowly, he moved to block the woman’s view of the hurt slave. “I am.”

  Relief sagged the tight lines in her forehead. “Forgive me. I know I gave you a start. I’m Mr. Brothers’s wife.”

  The band of iron around his gut slowly unclenched. “Why didn’t he come for me himself?”

  “He’s been asking me to help him of late. It allows him to be at the bellows and iron more often, reducing the risk of suspicion. Here.” She reached into the pocket of her soiled apron and pulled out an envelope. “This was delivered to us by a young lad I have never seen before, but the contents bear your name. We figured it must be from another conductor, since only one of them would know to get you a message through us.”

  His brows knit as he took the missive. “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

  With a quick nod, she fled from the room.

  Micah moved toward the closest oil lamp, broke the seal, and pulled a single sheet of paper from its depths, noting the elegant, feminine script.

  Dear Dr. Greyson,

  I trust this letter finds you in good health. I know you bear a terrible strain aiding our brave soldiers as they heal from the devastation of war. May Providence bless you as you have blessed others.

  I write to beg your wisdom and expertise in a certain medical matter. A dear friend of mine is suffering from a horrid malady, an illness which has virtually imprisoned her in her own home much of the time, with no seeming hope for relief. All current treatments for improvement have led to naught. My dear friend has become so vexed in her current circumstances, she laments she wants nothing more than to leave this earth and seek her reward in the Promised Land.

  I humbly seek your wise counsel. If you desire to consider her case and would like further details, please write posthaste.

  With kindest regards,

  KM

  Micah’s mind reeled. Kizzie trusted him, yet to have penned such a desperate request, even in a seemingly normal manner, meant smuggling out the slave seeking escape would be an unusually difficult task. How high were the stakes that she had to solicit his aid through a letter?

  He shook away the thought. The stakes were always high. It was human life, after all.

  His brain spun with possibilities. To conduct this person through the Confederate-infested land between Savannah and the Ohio state line would be foolhardy at best. Since Grant’s Union victory in Tennessee, Confederate forces had been trying to hold their ground. How many troops lay between Savannah and the Ohio River? Far too many to think the normal routes would meet with success.

  The best option was to travel by ship, a feasible possibility since the Confederate Navy had abandoned Tybee Island altogether.

  He studied Keziah’s curving letters, and the desire to help rose thick in his chest. Father, help me not to fail her.

  He would move heaven and earth to rescue this woman or die trying.

  CHAPTER 18

  FEBRUARY 22, 1862

  Keziah pushed the front door open, clutching the laden basket to her middle. Raised feminine voices floated from the parlor and met her ears.

  “Jennie Oglethorpe, your behavior is nothing short of scandalous!”

  Keziah frowned and removed her shawl, thankful that the chill had left the house of late, due to milder temperatures. Yet judging by her mother’s harsh tone, a cold wind still blew.

  Approaching the two women squared off in the middle of the blue- and gold-trimmed parlor, she noted Mother’s face was flushed, but Jennie didn’t look even slightly perturbed at the outburst. Instead, she grinned like a fox in a henhouse.

  Upon seeing Keziah enter, Jennie quickly turned to her, ignoring Mother’s ire. “Oh, Keziah dear, please tell Auntie Elsie that I am not an immoral reprobate.”

  Keziah looked between the two of them, their expressions as opposite as sunshine and storm clouds. “Why the fuss?”

  Mother shifted toward her, her black bombazine dress releasing a gentle swoosh. “Your cousin is making a spectacle of our entire family with her outlandish behavior. Do you know what she’s done now? A regiment marched by and Jennie opened our second-story window and leaned out of it, giggling and waving at the soldiers. Waving!” Keziah had rarely seen her gentle mother so undone as she twisted her fingers together. “No proper young woman ever waves at a man, much less a whole group of men . . . and in a house of mourning, at that!”

  Jennie puckered her lips into a pout. “Honestly, Auntie, societal rules are becoming so antiquated.” She moved to slip her arm through Keziah’s in a show of camaraderie. “I’ve no doubt Nathaniel would want us to continue our lives much as before. He never was one to stand on ceremony. Don’t you think so, Keziah?”

  Truth be told, her cousin’s behavior was scandalous indeed and becoming more daring with every passing day, yet was Keziah any better, with her clandestine activities? The irony was not lost on her. Instead of fueling either of the women’s fires, she tried to change the subject.

  “Since I did not see the incident, I will refrain from giving an opinion. I’d rather get these goods to Elizabeth.”

  Jennie’s brows rose at the sight of the bulging basket. “Please tell me you were able to acquire a sweet cake or ginger pop. How I crave them!”

  “I’m sorry. There were none to be had. I suppose with prices soaring, merchants are concerned with keeping only staples on hand. But here—” she reached in and pulled out a narrow box—“I did manage to find you a package of Necco wafers.”

  Her cousin reluctantly took them, her face puckered into a petulant scowl. “It’s not a ginger pop, but it will do.”

  Mother sidled close and peeked into the basket’s contents. “Sugar? Flour?”

  “I found only a small package of sugar but procured enough flour and cornmeal to last for a good spell and even snagged the last rasher of salt pork.”

  “Combined with what we already have on hand in the larder, that will do.” She sighed and Keziah noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes, a sure sign of her recent emotional strain. “Times are growing leaner.”

  Keziah patted her slim hand. “Praise Providence we have plenty to eat. Many do not.”

  Nodding, Mother eyed the basket. “Did you acquire anything else?”

  Keziah had no intention of announcing the messenger boy who had greeted her outside the house just before she’d left for the market, nor would she mention the letter he had delivered. It was safely nested in her reticule, awaiting a stolen moment when she could read it. When she’d witnessed Micah’s distinctive scrawl on the envelope, her heart had beat wildly within her chest. Waiting for privacy to soak in its contents was growing more torturous by the second.

  “No, nothing else.” What a smooth liar she was becoming. Her conscience pricked. Not an admirable trait.

  Mother took the basket from her with a small smile. “I’ll take these to Elizabeth. It was kind of you to run her errands for her.”

  “I could do nothing less considering she’s down with the quinsy.” Keziah grimaced. “Miserable malady.”

  “Indeed. I shall have to summon a doctor if she does not improve soon. You go on and see your father. He’s been asking for you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mother shot a warning glance to Jennie. “I shall refrain from telling your uncle of your brazen behavior. In truth, I fear his heart could not take the shock.”

  Upon her departure, Jennie sighed. “Mercy, but Auntie is in a snit today.”

  “Perhaps, considering her recent strain, you could temper your impulses a tad.”

  Jennie’s lips twitched into a smile. “But, dear Cousin, how boring that would
be!”

  Keziah made a quick path to her room before going to see Father. The unread letter from Micah burned her mind with possibilities. Had he understood her plea? Did he think her forward or addled? In truth, she could not accomplish such a feat, to sneak away a well-known and much-relied-upon slave, without the aid of a partner. After the way they had parted, would he agree?

  The memory of Micah’s ardent kisses assaulted her once more as she stepped into her room. As quickly as the snatched memories of pleasure came, she snuffed them out, pushing them away with effort. It would do no good to dwell on such a mistake. Micah did not once say he loved her.

  Allowing the hurt to wipe away the blush of sweet memories, she pulled the letter from her reticule and opened the stiff paper with trembling fingers.

  Dear Miss Montgomery,

  Thank you for your kind regards. I am well and doing what I can to help our brave men, although war weighs heavy on my heart, as I know it does on yours.

  In regard to your friend who has been dealt such a vicious blow of ill health, I would need to know more of your friend’s symptoms to advise the best course of treatment, but hereby pledge my willingness to aid her in whatever manner possible. Barring a lung malady, I might suggest that breathing in ocean air is a wonderful way to combat a wide array of troublesome ailments, particularly in the area of melancholy.

  I shall be passing your way soon and will make every attempt to visit your friend, if she is willing. Look for me on the third at the place where memories were made, and I shall endeavor to do whatever I can.

  Kindest regards,

  MJG

  She exhaled a shaky sigh, her heart bursting. He was going to help Polly escape. She scanned the contents again, wondering why he’d mentioned ocean air. Ocean air? Salt water, the stench of decaying fish and sea life . . .

  She sucked in a breath. He was planning to smuggle Polly out by ship.

  Such a move would hold its own risks but, once executed, would be far less risky than traversing the many miles of Confederate fortifications between Savannah and any free states.

  The third of March where memories were made. He had to mean the schoolhouse. That’s where their collective memories and friendship had bloomed and grown.