The Freedom Star Page 17

“Put them irons on his wrists, then stand aside.”

  Isaac turned at the gruff, familiar voice. Clancy sat atop a tall horse, a double-barreled shotgun resting on his saddle horn. What was he doing there?

  “This nigra belongs to me, sir,” the dandy said. “You have no right—”

  “This here scattergun and Mr. Patrick McConnell of South Boston, Virginia says differently,” Clancy replied. ”Now, put them irons on his wrists before this thing goes off and sets you to bleeding all over that purty suit.”

  Clancy was taking him home? That was one man Isaac never figured he’d be happy to see.

  “Them irons is mine.” Constable Branson pocketed the money and stepped forward. “You can have the nigger, but the irons is part of my law enforcement apparatus.”

  Clancy swung the shotgun toward the constable. “Them irons was yours. Now they’s mine. You go stealing other people’s niggers, you’s lucky I don’t kill you right here. Now, you can shut up and go back in that hole you call a jail, or you can enjoy the right barrel while your purty friend here gets his fill of the left.”

  The constable wagged a finger at Clancy. “This is preposterous. I shall swear out a warrant . . .”

  Clancy cocked the hammer.

  The constable scurried into the jail and slammed the door. Metal scraped metal as the bolt on the door slid shut.

  “After you gets them irons on him, tie my rope securely about them so’s I have a rein on this pup.”

  The dandy placed the irons on Isaac and tied the end of Clancy’s rope around the chain that joined them.

  “Now, get.” An explosion of buckshot ripped the sign above the jailhouse door. The gangly man raced down the alley like a blue crane with hounds on his trail.

  “Don’t need to be tying me, Mr. Clancy. Isaac ain’t running. . .”

  “Shut up, nigger.” Clancy jerked the rope.

  Isaac stumbled, then caught himself and fell in step behind the horse.

  _____

  The horse plodded at an easy gait, but weeks with neither sustenance nor exercise had left Isaac weakened. With wrists chained, he hung his head and staggered behind the animal, glancing up only once—when they passed the Patterson farm. He stumbled and fell as he searched the familiar house. The horse dragged Isaac by his arms until he was able to regain his footing.

  Was Raleigh there? What if she was watching? If she saw him in chains, would she ever want to marry him?

  Clancy yanked the rope. Isaac focused again on the rutted road.

  “We camp here.” Clancy reined his mount in a small grove two miles above the Patterson farm. Twilight settled over the fields.

  “Over by that tree.” Clancy waved the shotgun at a sturdy maple. “Set on down so’s I can tie you good. You ain’t running on me like you done on that Day fella. Serves him right, trusting a nigger . . .”

  “I didn’t run. Is you taking me back to Mr. Day?”

  “Shut up. You belong to the McConnells and that’s where you’re going. Patrick—that’s Master Patrick to you—he’s in charge now, and he hired me bring back his property.”

  Clancy tied Isaac to the tree, then gathered wood and lit a fire. He unsaddled his horse and pulled a small sack from his saddlebags. Settling by the fire, Clancy popped a corndodger in his mouth, washing it down with what looked to be whiskey.

  “Y’all got some food for Isaac? I’s right hungry too.”

  Clancy tossed down the sack and stormed toward him. “I ain’t listening to you flap your gums, so shut up.” He smacked Isaac with the back of his hand.

  Blood trickled from Isaac’s nose. He shook his head. The ringing slowly cleared. Clancy towered above him, hands on his hips. Dark, ragged hair and a scraggly beard encircled the man’s pocked face. A scar ran from his lip to his right ear. Something dangled from around his neck. A star? His wooden star? It wasn’t lost; Clancy must have taken it during their last scuffle. Isaac strained against his ropes.

  Clancy’s eyes darted suddenly to his right. He put a finger to his lips. “Shut up, boy, or I’ll cut you wide open.” He snatched his shotgun and slipped into the bushes.

  Isaac turned. To his left, someone, or something, was sneaking up on the camp. A bush parted, then a short man in a homespun brown jacket slipped into the clearing holding a pistol.

  “Looks to be all clear, Mr. Dornhoffer,” the little man whispered. “He must be off answering nature’s call. Hurry.” The little man crept to where Isaac was tied and began working on the knots. “Boy, you keep quiet or you’ll get what your friend back there in Yanceyville got.” He raised up, peering into the bushes. “Mr. Dornhoffer, will you please hurry?”

  The gangly man in the blue suit looked all around before he stepped into the clearing. He held a pepperbox derringer in one hand. “Just cut the damned ropes and let’s get out of here. I paid for that nigger fair and square. Nobody’s going to steal him from me.”

  “Evening, gents.” Clancy entered the clearing from the same direction the other two had come. He leveled his shotgun at the intruders.

  Panic gripped the little man’s face. A scattergun wouldn’t be particular at that range. If Clancy pulled the trigger, they were all dead.

  “Get over there, away from my nigger,” Clancy said. “Step easy now.” He motioned with the gun barrel. The two men complied, but neither had dropped their pistols. The little man’s back was still to Clancy. As he moved, his thumb cocked the hammer on the short-barreled Colt and his expression turned to glee, as though he were about to reveal a delicious secret. He spun around and raised his pistol.

  An orange flame and a deafening roar leap from the shotgun. The little man folded as a wet, dark mass flew out of his back.

  Isaac turned away, overcome with nausea. Lord, Clancy had sure enough killed him dead, and that was one hard way to die . . .

  The blue crane dandy dropped his pepperbox and danced with his hands in the air, a wet stain covering the front of his fancy store-bought trousers.

  “You. Stop your damned hopping about and stand still.” Clancy motioned to the dandy.

  The dandy froze in mid-dance. Trembling, he began to sob.

  “Aw, ain’t nothing to be upset about, mister.” Clancy tilted his head and smiled.

  “I got money,” the dandy said, beseechingly. “I’ll pay you good for that nigger.” He reached for his wallet.

  A blast from the second barrel lifted the blue crane from his perch and threw him backward. A dark, gaping hole exploded beneath his collar.

  Clancy leaned his shotgun against a tree, then yanked at the knot that held Isaac. “Get up. We’re heading back to the McConnell place now. I ain’t hanging around to clean up this mess.”

  After he untied Isaac, Clancy reached into the coat pocket of the man in blue. He removed a wallet, pocketed the contents, and tossed the empty wallet on the corpse. “We’ll make the Dan River by sunup. If’n anybody asks, this here was purely self-defense. You got ideas otherwise, that little sister of yours will be the one paying.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  January 1862

  “Damn it,” Henry said. “You can’t treat our slaves like that. It’s pure meanness.” He pounded his fist on the dining room table and glared at his brother. “Isaac didn’t run off, he was stolen.”

  “Yes, perhaps it was a bit unorthodox,” Patrick said. “Nonetheless, I am in charge of the farm now and from what I heard, he did run off. He deserved worse than he got.”

  “Worse? That son of a bitch Clancy mutilated him—he notched his damn ear! And speaking of Clancy, what about those two men Isaac says he killed down in North Carolina? Did you hire him to commit murder too?”

  “Little brother, that’s all been settled. The constable in South Boston squared it with the constable in Yanceyville. Self-defense, pure and simple.” Patrick sat at the head of the table—Morgan’s seat—and tilted his chair. “So you tell Isaac that the constable has no need for his testimony.”

  Henry stabbed the air w
ith his finger. “If you, or that bastard, Clancy, lay a hand on Isaac, you’ll both answer to me.”

  Patrick tapped the palm of his hand with his riding crop and smiled.

  “What else has changed since I left for the army?” Henry straightened, shoving his hands on his hips. “Are we still growing tobacco, or did you turn this into a cotton farm? Next, you’ll be selling our slaves to save a few dollars until the crops go to market.”

  Patrick rested his elbows on the table. “Dear brother, I shall do whatever is necessary to protect our investments while you laze away down there in Tidewater with your soldier friends.”

  Henry started for the door, then turned and faced his brother again. He pointed toward the back parlor. “Pa said this farm will belong to both of us when he’s gone, so I have equal say in whatever decisions must be made until he’s back on his feet.”

  “He’s not going to recover,” Patrick said. “That apoplexy has taken his mind. He’s been reduced to an idiot, anyone can see that. So unless you’re going to take off that uniform and help me run this farm, the decisions will have to be left to me.”

  “You’re the caretaker,” Henry said. “Not the owner, not the sole proprietor, you’re only the caretaker, and don’t you forget it.” He grabbed his hat and stormed out.

  _____

  “How’s the ear?” Henry said, pointing to Isaac’s head.

  “It’s mending, I reckon.” Isaac strolled along the old creek road with a single barrel twenty gauge shotgun over his shoulder.

  “Looks like you’ll have a scar where that whip caught your cheek” Henry cradled a twelve gauge double in the crook of his arm.

  “That constable, he found plenty of use for his whip, that’s for sure.” Isaac carefully touched his cheek. “How’s your pa these days? He mending?”

  “I’ll tell you,” Henry said, “seeing Pa that way, it’s downright unsettling. He used to be as strong as those old oaks yonder by the creek . . .” His shoulders sagged. “Now, he’s as helpless as a child.”

  “He gonna die?”

  “Patrick thinks so. Mother does too, though she doesn’t talk about it, but your mama said he’s showing some improvement. She and Polly showed me how he can move his fingers when they tell him, and he can make sounds—not words, mind you, but sounds. Don’t you be telling anyone though, Patrick doesn’t want them messing with Papa. He sees it as a waste of time.”

  “He won’t be hearing nothing from my mouth.”

  Henry paused and shifted the gun to his other arm. “So, what was it like? You know, when Clancy done in those two slavers?”

  “That man’s got no soul.”

  Henry raised an eyebrow.

  “He busted a cap on that second fella after he’d dropped his pistol and surrendered. I seen his eyes.” Isaac formed a ‘V’ with two fingers and pointed at his own eyes. “Clancy found pleasure in pulling that trigger.”

  “It ain’t right. I’m the one goes off to war and you see more action back here than I did on the front.”

  “I seen too much already,” Isaac said. “I don’t want no more killing.” What if Henry knew what he’d done to that Johnston boy? Would he consider Isaac no better than Clancy—just another murderer?

  A rabbit darted across their path. Henry pointed. “Guess we’re not hunting so good.”

  Isaac laughed. “I reckon my mind ain’t on it today, but Mama’s got chicken in the pot. We’ll still be eating fine.”

  “Well, you watch out for Clancy,” Henry said. “I talked to Patrick about how the slaves are to be treated—like how Papa would want—but I got no control once I’m gone, and I don’t like that he’s using Clancy for work Sean ought to be doing.”

  “I’ll be fine. I just wish I could get back to Mr. Day’s. He’s been teaching me real good.”

  “I’ll talk to Patrick, see what I can do. By the way, how’s that girl? You fixing to jump the broom any time soon?”

  Isaac kicked at a dirt clod, sending a puff of dust in the air. “Ain’t gonna be no marrying. She’s a free woman, not looking for no slave husband.”

  Henry looked away. “There’s some fine slave girls over at the Johnston place. You talk to Patrick, see if he’ll give you a pass one Saturday night.”

  Isaac stopped in his tracks. He stared at Henry.

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Henry shook his head. “Patrick ain’t real big on giving out passes. Well, maybe they’ll come down to the quarters one night for the campfire. Anyway, something will come up.”

  “Isaac ain’t just looking for something. Raleigh’s my woman, not some slave girl from over to the Johnston place.”

  Henry studied Isaac, as though searching for some secret meaning. Suddenly, his face seemed twisted in fear. “Oh hell, you’re not going to do anything dumb, are you?”

  “Henry McConnell,” Isaac said, “you ain’t never been no slave.” He snapped off a stalk of grass and shoved it between his teeth, then glared at Henry. “You chases women all over New York, up to Charlottesville, over by Richmond town, and there ain’t nobody saying, ‘Henry McConnell, you stop that, you ain’t got the right.’ But Isaac finds him a woman and it’s, ‘Isaac, get a pass, Isaac, you can’t go to visit, Isaac, try one of them Johnston nigras.’ Nobody says, ‘Isaac, what’s going to make you happy’?”

  Henry walked on in silence. Finally, he stopped and faced Isaac. “Look,” he said, rubbing his neck. “It’s not always that simple.” He tossed a pebble at a crow perched on a low hanging branch. The bird took flight, winging toward the far woods. “Damn, there’s so much I don’t understand. I thought I did, but . . .” His eyes seemed to plead with Isaac. “I have to return to my regiment tomorrow. Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  April 1862

  “Hand me that spoke shave, boy.” Abraham pointed to the bench. Wagon wheels, shutters, tables, and wood scraps filled the workshop beside the barn.

  Isaac handed him the tool. Abraham pulled the shave over the stock, shaping it to fit the rounded hole in the wheel.

  “Has Mr. Day been teaching you about fixing wheels?”

  “Some,” Isaac said. “Mostly he learned me how to work the lathe and do fancy work, relief carvings and such.”

  “You doing that?” Abraham gave a low whistle as he straightened. “He must think you’re mighty good. That’s work that takes a keen eye and a steady hand.” He brushed away shavings and held the spoke to the hole. “Needs just a mite bit more.” Abraham clamped the spoke in the vice and trimmed off the excess wood.

  Isaac returned to the dovetail joint he was cutting for a drawer front. The chest of drawers had come from Danville in need of repair, work Massa McConnell had arranged for before he took ill. “Pa,” he said, nudging the chisel into the board, “do you recollect last summer, you said something about having a deal with Massa McConnell?”

  “I remembers.” Abraham spit a stream of tobacco juice into the dirt.

  “Well, Massa McConnell, he’s laid up now. Henry says maybe he’ll get better, or maybe he won’t. What will that do to your deal?”

  “Hadn’t thought none about that.” Abraham tapped the workbench with the handle of the spoke shave. “Guess I needs to have me a talk with Massa Patrick.”

  “You gonna tell me?”

  “Tell you what?” He spit again.

  “About the deal, Pa.”

  “Been saving that part.” Abraham set the shave on his workbench. “It was to be a surprise, but I ‘spect, what with all that’s going on, it’s time you knew.” He flipped over a wooden bucket with his boot. “Set on down.” He lowered his voice. “Deal’s just this; I gets paid for the work I do and Massa McConnell, he keeps that money, ‘cept he sets aside some so’s I can buy your freedom.”

  “My freedom? You mean papers, I’ll be having papers?” Isaac sat on the edge of his seat. “How soon, Pa?”

  “Best I can figure, you’s about paid for. Just need to finish up this here job and
I has what me and Massa agreed to. Tempie comes next—”

  “For certain?” Isaac jumped to his feet. “Pa, you know what that means? I can go to Philadelphia. Raleigh, she’ll look at me and she won’t be seeing no slave.” He grabbed Abraham’s shirtsleeve. “When’s you gonna talk to Massa Patrick?”

  “I expects I ought to be having that talk real soon,” Abraham said, “seeing’s how Massa McConnell is laid up. I’ll let you know. Now, get that drawer finished—it’s your ticket on that freedom train.”

  _____

  “Do tell? Well then, come in, Abraham. Have a seat here next to the bed and tell my father all about that.”

  Morgan stirred at the commotion. First Patrick’s voice, then Abraham came into view beside the bed. He seemed confused.

  “I insist,” Patrick said. “Have a seat.”

  Abraham disappeared from sight as he sat.

  “Go on, tell him,” Patrick said. “Tell him just like you told me.”

  “Uh, Massa McConnell, sir, this here’s Abraham. I come to speak with you about our deal. You know, about the money?”

  Yes, he remembered. Morgan strained to turn his head.

  “Well, sir, after I finishes this last job, I figures I has the money to be buying Isaac’s freedom, like we agreed.”

  Yes, Abraham had been close, very close. But what was Patrick up to?

  “Did he answer you?” Patrick said. “Well? Did he say anything about a deal?”

  “Massa Patrick, he can’t . . .”

  “Because there is no deal and there never was. See for yourself, Father doesn’t acknowledge any such thing. Sounds like you’re trying to take advantage of a helpless invalid. Now go finish that job, and be neat about it, and maybe you’ll avoid a whipping—this time.”

  “Massa, please, four years I been saving . . .”

  “This discussion is over. Get back to work.”

  No . . . wait. Morgan strained to raise his hand in protest. His fingers bent. The arm trembled. Patrick was wrong . . . What was Abraham to think? He’d given his word, and now his own son mocked the honor of that word. Lord, give him the strength to answer . . .