The Freedom Star Page 3

  “I reckon,” Isaac said. “Still, whenever we’s helping them that’s running, I get to thinking on when it will be my turn.”

  “Your day’s coming, boy. I has me a plan.” Abraham bit off the end of a tobacco plug. “We’ll all be getting to that Promised Land in good time—and we ain’t needing no underground railroad.”

  “How’s that?”

  “In time, boy, you’ll be learning in time.” He spit a stream of brown juice into the corner of the stall.

  “When I gets to Pennsylvania, I’m starting my own furniture business, and I’ll get me a fancy coat too, one with pockets.” Isaac hooked his thumbs in the front of his shirt and leaned back. “I’ll be walking down that street free and proper, just like the white folk.”

  “White folk up north look at you and all they’ll see is a nigger, same as old Clancy do.”

  “But, if’n I has me a shop—”

  “Boy, nigras down here owns their own businesses, like that Mr. Day over the river there in Carolina.” He spit, then wiped his chin. “White or black, he’s the best carpenter south of Baltimore.”

  “But Pa, you once said folks down there, they treats him fine.”

  “The man makes good money, gives folk jobs. They respects him to his face, but they still calls him ‘nigger’ behind his back, and they’ll call him the same up in Pennsylvania.”

  Isaac finished hitching the mule. “So how come Mr. Day gets to keep his money, but you does the same work and Massa McConnell takes everything you earn?”

  “Mr. Day was born to a free woman. Law says that makes him free.” Abraham patted the mule’s rump. “As for Massa McConnell, him and me, we has an understanding about the money I earns. Someday you’ll be finding out about that, but for now, you just be patient and don’t go crossing none of them white folks—not even Mr. Sean.”

  Isaac started to speak, but Abraham held up a hand and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small rectangle of wood strung on a rawhide cord. “Your jubilation day’s coming, boy, maybe soon. I made this here to remind you of that.” He hung the medallion around Isaac’s neck. “You wear this knowing that someday you’ll be following that freedom star. Now hop up here and keep company with your old pa down to the post road.”

  Isaac climbed on board for the ride through harvested tobacco fields to the road connecting South Boston with Danville. The wagon bounced along the rutted path as Isaac studied the carved pine medallion. On one side, Abraham had burned in the seven stars of the Big Dipper. Isaac turned it over. Carved in relief was a single five-pointed star.

  It had been a moonless winter night ten, possibly twelve years ago . . . Isaac could almost feel his pa’s arm on his shoulder and hear the words he’d spoken. “Them two stars yonder on the end of that drinking gourd, them’s the pointers. They points to the polar star. You follow that’n, you goes north, to freedom.” Isaac squeezed the medallion, then tucked it under his shirt and rode on in silence.

  Abraham reined the mule as they approached the junction. Another wagon headed down the old post road from the east carrying two white men. They were laughing and talking, but as they drew even, the nearest rider glanced at Isaac, then shifted a shotgun on his lap, pointing the barrels at Isaac.

  Isaac froze. Did they about the Johnston boy?

  As the strangers passed, Isaac studied the bundle lashed in the rear of their wagon. “Look Pa,” he whispered, “it’s Rebecca.”

  The girl they had helped a few nights before sat bound and trussed like a hog on her way to market. Bruises covered her pretty young face. Her lips quivered as she stared at Isaac through tear filled eyes.

  Chapter Four

  October 1860

  Henry pulled his chair next to the dormitory window and shook several drops of gun oil onto a rag. Working the rag over the lock plate of his musket, he removed the last vestiges of rust. “It was bad enough we had to walk our punishment tours in the rain. If these here muskets rust up, we’ll be pulling guard duty forever.”

  Edward reached for the oil. “Hey, did you hear about the election?”

  “What election?”

  “Some boys from South Carolina hung a ballot box down on the first floor and passed the word for cadets to go and vote for the president, just like in the real election.”

  “What in tarnation for?” Henry asked, rubbing linseed oil into the musket’s walnut stock.

  “Not sure,” Edward replied. “Some say it’s just a civics exercise—”

  “Civics be damned.” Henry waved his cleaning rag. “We’re soldiers, not politicians.”

  “Well, if you’d let me finish, McConnell, some was saying that the boys who’ve been talking up secession want to find out who’s with them and who’s against them. Word is, they’ll be studying the handwriting on those ballots.”

  “Then they’re fools. All they’ll discover is that the entire corps of cadets is against them. No American is going to turn his back on the stars and stripes. If South Carolina secedes, she’ll stand alone.” Henry aimed his musket out the window and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on an empty breech.

  “You been paying any mind to the world beyond these walls?” Edward pointed outside. “Mr. Lincoln’s got your southern boys running scared. Hell, you’re a slaveholder, how’d you feel if Lincoln was to be elected?”

  “Last I heard, Mr. Lincoln said we can keep our slaves in Virginia, so I don’t see that there’s a problem, but my family’s backing John Bell.”

  “McConnell, you’re a fool.” Edward ran a dry patch down the barrel. “Back in Wisconsin, we don’t much hold with your notions of slavery, but at least I can abide our differences. But there’s some around here,” he said, shaking the ramrod at Henry, “they’d as soon hang you as not, and most of your southern boys are no better as to their affections for those Black Republicans.”

  Henry gave his roommate a dismissive wave and returned to cleaning his musket.

  “Henry, you’d best start paying heed or you’ll find yourself with a blanket thrown over your head and an abolitionist mob beating in your thick southern skull.”

  _____

  Henry awoke with a start at the first trumpeted note of reveille. The pre-dawn air held an icy chill. He stumbled out of bed, splashed cold water on his face, brushed off his uniform, and hurried to get dressed. Another tardy meant more demerits. Grabbing his books, he rushed to formation.

  Morning classes began with algebra. Once in the classroom, Henry raced to his assigned desk and stood at attention. On command, he and the other students took their seats in the small room. Four large windows illuminated blackboards on the other three walls.

  Many of his classmates were already pulling assignments from their notebooks. He glanced at his own scribbled notes. Although barely a month into the academic year, Henry was already behind.

  The professor commanded, “Take boards.”

  All cadets rose and went to their assigned portion of the blackboard. Henry’s heart raced as he copied the homework problem onto the blackboard. The instructor required all work to be shown, but Henry wasn’t sure how he’d arrived at his answers. The cadet beside him finished with a confident flourish of his chalk.

  “Mr. McConnell, recite the lesson, if you please.” Professor Robertson, a distinguished gentleman with flowing white hair touching his shoulders, stood before Henry. He stroked his beard as he stared with apparent curiosity at Henry’s solution.

  Henry snapped to attention. “Sir, the cadet is not prepared.” Beads of sweat moistened his brow.

  “Very well.” Professor Robertson nodded at Henry, then strolled between the desks and centered himself on another blackboard. “Mr. Wheatley, would you be so kind?”

  “Yes sir!” Cadet Wheatley tapped his chalk on the boards as he explained each step in his solution. “. . . and finally, subtracting forty-five from each side leaves us with x equals minus twenty-two. Are there any questions?” The New York cadet turned toward Henry with a sneer.


  “Very well, Mr. Wheatley.” Professor Robertson nodded, then turned to the class. “Will everyone please continue with the next problem?” He glanced at Henry as he returned to his desk.

  Henry slowly erased all evidence of his first problem, then turned a page in his composition book and pretended to study his notes. Eventually, he scratched the second equation on the board in handwriting so small as to make it undecipherable from more than a few feet away.

  Finally, the minute hand on the clock above the door stood straight up. Professor Robertson rose from his chair, tapping the blackboard with a wooden pointer. “Copy the problems from the blackboard and come to class tomorrow prepared to recite your solutions. Dismissed.”

  The class snapped to attention, then rushed for the door. As Henry walked past the instructor’s desk, Professor Robertson waved him aside. “Mr. McConnell, a moment, if you please.”

  “Sir?” Henry centered himself before the professor’s desk as the last of the cadets left the room.

  “At ease, McConnell.” Professor Robertson sat on the corner of his desk. “Now, tell me, son, how do you intend to master geometry and trigonometry when you can’t even solve a simple equation?”

  Henry snapped to attention. “Sir, the cadet must . . . the cadet will . . .” Henry lowered his head. “Sir, the cadet does not know.”

  “McConnell, do you know where I’m from?”

  Henry looked up. “No, sir.”

  “Shenandoah Valley, not more than a hundred miles or so from that tobacco farm you call home. Do you know what my most difficult subject was?” The professor didn’t wait for a response. “Algebra. I know what your upbringing gave you, same as most of the southern boys. Your momma served you heavy doses of Shakespeare, Homer, Byron, and Defoe, but you never had a need for higher numbers so you know little past the basic arithmetic. Am I correct?”

  “Sir, the cadet can learn this, it . . . it just isn’t anything he’s ever studied before, least ways not anything he’s paid any mind to.”

  Professor Robertson pointed to the blackboard that still held traces of Wheatley’s homework. “The Cadet Wheatleys of the world would as soon see West Point become a northern academy. To them, Virginians and Carolinians are outsiders, throwbacks to a frontier lifestyle. It doesn’t help that most of you southern boys come here ill-prepared for the rigors of the engineering curriculum.”

  Henry relaxed and looked at his instructor. “Professor Robertson, all of that may be true, but what does it have to do with me passing algebra?”

  “Nothing, if all you want is to go back to that Virginia arm and grow your tobacco.”

  “Papa’s a long way from turning the farm over to me.” Henry shook his head. “And when he does step aside, I reckon my brother’s next in line to take over.”

  “Then you’d best pass your subjects or get used to the idea that you’ll be working for your brother. Consider this, McConnell. Virginia needs strong cadets to represent her, both here at the academy, and later, in the army. When Lieutenant Colonel Robert Lee was superintendent there weren’t issues with North-South politics. Now, the academy is being pulled apart by these elections and we cannot allow the genteel influences of our southern heritage to be lost to future generations of cadets. You and your southern friends must not only compete, you must excel.”

  Professor Robertson held out a small red book. “This primer is what most northern cadets would have seen in their preparatory schooling. Read it. Practice the problems. Come see me if you have any questions.” The professor took his seat and pointed to Henry. “McConnell, you can learn this, just as I did, and it is important to Virginia that you do.”

  Henry quickly thumbed through the textbook and then he glanced at the clock and tucked the book under his arm. “Thank you, sir. I’ll not disappoint you. By your leave, sir.” Henry turned on his heel and raced out the doorway.

  _____

  Henry held the reins and stroked the animal’s muzzle as he stood in West Point’s great riding hall. The horse nuzzled Henry’s arm. The cavalry claimed the best riding stock. The nags that West Point used to train officers who would eventually lead that cavalry were leftovers. When not used for riding instruction, they were beasts of burden, harnessed to draw cannon and caissons about the Plain during weekly artillery drill.

  “Forward, lean forward, man,” The riding master, Sergeant Daniels of the dragoons, yelled at the hapless cadet whose turn it was to charge his steed through the saber course. “Extend your body, man. Make your saber sing through your enemy’s hair.” Sergeant Daniels threw up his arms and kicked at the dirt. “Mr. McConnell, kindly remount and demonstrate once again to this pathetic gaggle of mule drivers how the U.S. cavalry is supposed to attack.”

  Henry swung into the saddle, laid the reins across the horse’s neck, and turned his mount. Nudging the horse with his boot, they galloped to the far end of the ring. Henry turned the animal and spurred it into a run straight for the ranks of straw figures staked out across the rink. He rose in his stirrups, flattened across the horse’s neck and swung his saber left, then right, decapitating straw men on both sides.

  “That, gentlemen, is a cavalry charge.” Sergeant Daniels smiled and folded his arms.

  Henry reined in his steed, slowing the animal to a trot as he rode to the center of the ring. Facing his classmates, he brought the hilt of his saber to his chin and, with a flourish, swept the blade down to his side in a flawless sword salute. As his classmates cheered, Henry bowed in feigned humility.

  “Thank-you, Mr. McConnell. That will be all.” Sergeant Daniels turned to the other cadets gathered in the riding hall. “Mr. Wheatley,” he commanded. “Mount up and show us how they ride in the great metropolis of New York.”

  “They ride behind their horses, in the trolleys,” someone called out in a southern drawl. The hall resounded with catcalls and whistles.

  Sergeant Daniels ordered the class to attention. “Gentlemen, and I take great liberties in using such a term in reference to you hooligans, you will now remain at attention until every cadet has successfully ridden the course. Should you speak, waver, or drop we will begin again. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Daniels!” The class responded in unison.

  Cadet Wheatley mounted and rode to the far end of the rink. He brought his horse to a full gallop, leaned across the horse’s neck and swung his blade. His aim was off. The impact of blade against the wooden post holding the straw figure unseated the cadet, sending him hard to the sawdust floor. Muted laughter echoed through the riding hall. Wheatley snatched his saber from the ground and sat, arms across his knees, his face twisted in an angry scowl.

  Sergeant Daniels turned aside to Henry and muttered, “Never yet seen a New Yorker what could make a decent cavalry officer.” He slapped his crop against the side of his leg. “Next.”

  Each cadet in turn ran the course. Several required more than one attempt before landing a killing blow on the dummies. When Sergeant Daniels finally appeared satisfied, he commanded, “At ease.”

  Cadets staggered, rubbing stiff necks and stretching tired legs.

  “Gentlemen. Someday one or two of you might find yourselves leading dragoons, but most will be lucky to land in the infantry. For those who do make the cavalry, know this; you must ride better than the men you lead. You will be in front. Your troopers will observe how you set your mount. They will notice how you treat your mount. They will know which of you is in charge. Will it be you, or will it be the horse?”

  Sergeant Daniels walked away, motioning the class to follow. “Over here, by the wall.” He walked to the side of the riding hall and pointed to a mark on the wall above his head. “Look at that, gentlemen. Back in ’43 we had us a cadet was the best-damned horseman to ever ride in this man’s army. During a demonstration for General Winfield Scott himself that little cadet jumped a horse over a bar set at six foot, three inches. Never been done before or since. None of you have a prayer of ever riding that well, but that is what you a
ll must strive for—excellence. Nothing less will do.”

  “Sergeant,” a down east voice called from the rear of the group. “That cadet, where is he now?”

  Sergeant Daniels rubbed his chin. “I hear tell he quit the army a few years back—grew tired of soldiering, I reckon . . . but to hear it from them that was here that day, why, it was something to see.” He looked at the spot on the wall. “Some horseman, that fella. Name was Grant, if I recall; Ulysses Grant.”

  Henry touched the faded mark.

  Chapter Five

  October 1860

  “You, boy, get over here.” Morgan McConnell stood on the covered porch of the farmhouse and beckoned.

  Isaac dropped the armload of firewood and hurried to the porch steps, brushing bits of tree bark from his frayed tunic. He bowed. “Yes sir, Massa McConnell?”

  Morgan settled into his cane-backed rocker. He withdrew a match from his pocket, drew it across the tabletop, and relit his cigar. Drawing the smoke in slowly, he hooked a thumb into the corner of his coat pocket and studied his young bondsman. Tall, lean, muscular—a prime specimen of African manhood. On the market that buck could bring twelve hundred dollars or more.

  “Boy, your daddy teach you all he knows about furniture?”

  Isaac lowered his head. “Sir, Pa done taught me a lot, but he ain’t taught me everything, least not yet. He knows more about working wood than most any man alive.”

  Morgan smiled. Boy’s got a right to be proud of his ol’ man. He tapped the ash from his cigar. “I reckon from where you stand old Abraham would be the best there is. Your daddy’s sure enough a fine carpenter, and he earns me good money.”

  Morgan took another long draw on his cheroot, then leaned and pointed the cigar at Isaac. “You’ll be worth more to me as a craftsman than you’ll ever be as a field nigra. Your daddy ever tell you about that nigra down in Milton, name of Thomas Day?”