The Freedom Star Page 5

  The scuffling of feet drowned the opening notes of a waltz as cadets dashed across the floor in search of dance partners.

  Henry raced too, sliding to a stop in front of Belinda, his left arm cocked behind his back and his right hand extended. Bowing, he gazed into her eyes. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

  She blushed, accepting his hand with a curtsy. Henry twirled her onto the dance floor with a purposeful grace born of long evenings of secret practice with Edward.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Belinda.” His stomach tightened, reminding him of his recent beating.

  “Why, Henry McConnell, I do believe you have found your talent for moving in three quarter time. The ladies present, and especially their feet, will be most appreciative of your newly discovered penchant for the waltz.” Belinda squeezed his hand and gave Henry a teasing smile.

  Henry floated across the dance floor, hoping she couldn’t feel the pounding in his chest. They shared small talk. She returned his attentions with flirtatious laughs. When the music ended, a pattering of applause rose from the room.

  A tall cadet strolled across the dance floor, heading straight for Belinda. Henry cut him off, stepping up to Belinda and extending his hand. “I would be honored to share the next waltz with you.”

  “Henry, you are quite forward, aren’t you? But I would be delighted . . .” she curtsied and took his hand.

  As they whirled to the music, Edward clumped past with the young blonde in tow. He appeared to be attempting some variation of the box step as he stared at his feet and counted, “One two three, one two three . . .”

  When the music ended, Belinda turned to Henry. “I must spend time with others. It would be improper for a lady to save all her dances for one gentleman.” She batted her eyes.

  “Would you care for some refreshment first?”

  “Why, yes. Thank you.” She fanned herself with her hand. “I am as dry as can be.”

  Henry went in search of the punch bowl, no doubt already spiked with a covert addition of rum. He found the table festooned with cups, plates and pastries. After ladling fruit punch into two cups, Henry maneuvered through the crowd to where he had left Belinda.

  A rousing polka ended and Belinda and another cadet whirled off the dance floor, laughing as they high stepped together. Henry caught Belinda’s eye. She rushed to him, pulling her dance partner by the hand. “Henry, you do know George, don’t you? He dances a wonderful polka!”

  Henry nodded at Cadet Wheatley. “We are acquainted.” He turned away from the taller cadet and held a glass out to Belinda. “Here’s your punch. I hope you find it refreshing after such vigorous exercise.”

  She gave Henry a reproving frown, then turned toward Cadet Wheatley. “George, I do thank you for a most enjoyable dance. Now don’t be a stranger. I would be so disappointed if we could not share another polka.” She tilted her head and curtsied. Cadet Wheatley returned the bow and stepped away.

  “Now, Henry, I declare, you are exhibiting all the annoying symptoms of genuine green-eyed jealousy. You must allow me my polkas.”

  Henry drained his cup, then took Belinda’s, setting both on a table along the wall. “Let’s dance.”

  Henry whirled Belinda into the center of the swirling crowd. Silent and purposeful, he concentrated on matching his steps to the music.

  “Henry, it is so warm in here. I must have some fresh air. May we go outside?”

  “With pleasure.” Henry guided Belinda around the dance floor until they reached the end of the long hall. There they exited through the double doors. A few couples danced on the flagstone patio. Others shared quiet conversation or talked in small groups. Laughter cut through the stillness of the cool evening.

  “Is there no place without interruptions?” Belinda asked.

  He pulled at his collar, swallowed hard, and pointed. “Yonder is Flirtation Walk.”

  “I suppose you must go there often?”

  His face warmed. He wiped his damp palms on his coat. “Never been out there. The rule is, cadets aren’t allowed on Flirtation Walk without a lady on their arm.”

  “Will I do?” She hooked her arm in Henry’s.

  He smiled. They walked in silence until they came to an overlook on the cliffs above the wide Hudson River. Moonlight painted a white swath across the dark waters below. Without the protection of the trees, the air turned cool.

  Belinda shivered and snuggled against Henry. “Chilly . . .”

  He put an arm around her shoulder.

  “Like back there between you and George.” She gave him a questioning look.

  “That? Just a difference of opinion.”

  “Really?”

  Henry took his arm from her shoulder and leaned against the stone wall. “Some don’t care much for us southerners. All this political talk has folks riled.”

  “Henry, are you a Lincoln man?”

  “I’m a soldier.”

  “And you are from Virginia.” Belinda stepped back and seemed to study him. “You don’t own slaves, do you?”

  “My family’s owned slaves for more than a hundred years,” he said. “It’s a natural and honorable economic system.”

  “It is so cruel . . .”

  “Nothing cruel about it. We take good care of our nigras. We feed them, clothe them, give them homes. They’re a right happy lot. Folks up here are making an issue out of simple property rights.”

  “But Henry, they’re not just property. Those are people. They have rights too. Why, how’d you feel if you were sold off at some auction?”

  “You ever meet a nigra?”

  Belinda shook her head.

  “They’re different. Good folk, mind you, but most are a mite slow, like children.”

  “I read in Harper’s Weekly that all they need is their freedom—”

  “Do you know what would happen if all those slaves was to be set free?” Henry said. “They’d starve—that’s what. They don’t have the means of making a living on their own.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Last month you mentioned a friend back home, Isaac, I believe you called him. Is he one of your coloreds?”

  Henry rubbed the back of his neck. “Sure, his mama’s our cook, best cook east of the Mississippi.”

  “Is he a helpless child?”

  “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  “Well, is he smart?”

  Henry leaned against the wall. A cloud drifted in front of the moon, momentarily darkening the overlook. “Isaac reads some, does figures too.” Henry chuckled. “You should see him work long division. He figures numbers in his head faster than old man Crowley down at the mercantile can do with his pencil.”

  “He doesn’t sound helpless, Henry McConnell.”

  Henry poked at a stone with his boot. “Isaac and his folks are different. They’re like family and he’s like a brother. Florence and Abraham, that’s his mama and his pa, they’ve been with us since before I was born. They don’t know any other way, and they don’t want to be set free. Where would they go? Besides, they like it where they are.”

  Belinda tossed a pebble over the cliff. “Henry, have you ever asked Isaac what he thinks about that?”

  “It’s getting late.” He took Belinda’s arm. “I need to get you back before your ship sails.”

  Belinda stood fast. “Henry McConnell, you and your coloreds present me with a dilemma. Whatever will become of my standing in New York society if you don’t change your prehistoric views?”

  “New York society be damned.” Henry turned and began walking back to the dining hall. Belinda ran to catch up, taking Henry by the arm. He looked straight ahead as they walked on in silence. Just before they reached the patio, Belinda pulled him to a stop. “This might be our last private moment until next month,” she said. “I don’t want to say ‘good-bye’ without giving you something to remember me by.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

  Chapter Seven

  November 1860


  Morgan stared across the table. Please, Lord, no more battles . . . not tonight. He pointed at the chair. “Enough of this. Take your seat.”

  “But Father,” Patrick said, “that Black Republican bastard will bring us to ruin!” His long red locks bounced as he pounded the table.

  “Sit down, and you will keep a civil tongue while you’re in this house.” Morgan shook his fork.

  “Father, you are ignoring the issue of property rights.” Patrick dropped into his chair. “If Lincoln takes the presidency, slavery will be outlawed in the territories. The South will never again have a stronger voice than we have today. Breckenridge will open the territories to slavery, and with that we’ll gain political allies to help fight off those abolitionist nigger lovers.”

  “I am not ignoring the issue of slavery, but the question of the Union is at the fore. John Bell understands the importance of the Union. I dare say, Abraham Lincoln understands it better than your Mr. Breckenridge. Without the Union, the South is nothing—a collection of farms with no markets, pitiful rail lines, and scarcely any manufacturing.”

  “We have Europe. Great Britain, the French . . .”

  “Damn the French.” Morgan shook his head in disgust.

  “Morgan!” Ella tapped her finger on the table. “It is no wonder your sons act so uncultured.”

  Morgan sighed. “Patrick, we need the North. We need the Union. Your secessionist rabble there in Charleston will tear this nation apart and we will be the poorer for it.”

  “Gentlemen, would one of you kindly pass the sweet potatoes?” Ella raised an eyebrow and locked her gaze on Morgan.

  Morgan turned his head. “Tempie, come fetch the sweet potatoes for Miss Ella.” He ignored Ella’s frown and continued, ”It is the responsibility of every son of our grand commonwealth that birthed the likes of Washington and Monroe to take a stand. We must ensure that the republic they founded is not torn asunder.”

  Patrick started to respond, but Ella shot him a stern glance and placed her finger to her lips.

  Morgan took a deep breath. They’d had enough of politics. He must change the subject. Scanning the dining room, his gaze fell upon Polly. Sweet child. Takes after her mother—same delicate features.

  “Polly, how are your studies?”

  “I have mastered the romantic languages, Papa. Quel temps croyez-vous qu’il fera demain?” Polly raised both hands in a question and cocked her head.

  Morgan looked at Polly, then Ella. He shrugged.

  “I think the weather will be quite stormy if you don’t eat your greens.” Ella turned to Morgan. “And I hear from Sarah Johnston that one of their nigras ran off yesterday.”

  “Yes, spoke with Sam last evening. I sent Sean to help with the search. They’ll be needing all their slaves when the planting starts next spring. It’s important that we support Johnston, same as he would us.”

  “I hope this isn’t the start of more trouble.” Ella dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Some northerners were in South Boston last week. Folks said they were Quakers. There’s talk they were trying to stir up the nigras.”

  Morgan shook his head. “I wish those damned Quakers would mind their own business. Last thing we need is trouble with the darkies. Remember that uprising over to Southampton County, what was that, thirty years ago?”

  You mean with that that nigra preacher, Turner?” Ella said.

  “That’s the one.” Morgan slapped the table. “Got the darkies so worked up they went out butchering innocent white folks. We don’t need any God almighty Philadelphia Quakers getting our nigras riled again.”

  Patrick took a bite of biscuit, chewing as he spoke. “I talked to Clancy this morning. He said when they catch that nigger he’ll be made an example of. If you ask me, a hundred lashes wouldn’t be enough.”

  Morgan shot Patrick a stern look. “And nobody asked you.”

  “But Father, Sam Johnston doesn’t pamper his niggers. He understands the benefits of good discipline.”

  “What Sam does with his nigras is his business, but I won’t hold with beating slaves on this farm. We sent you up there to Charlottesville so’s they could learn you good business sense. They teach you anything at the university about husbanding your assets?”

  “Whipping is training, no different than teaching a dog to fetch.”

  Morgan shook his head. “Why do you suppose Johnston’s nigras are all the time running off, while ours are perfectly content?”

  “They’re content because life’s too soft for McConnell slaves.” Patrick rested his elbows on the table, his palms raised.

  Morgan dismissed him with the wave. “As good Christians, we need to show the rest of the nation that slavery is a just, righteous institution. We have a duty to treat our nigras good, same as we treat our livestock, or any valuable property.”

  “But not coddle them, Father.”

  “God intended the black race to use the strength of their backs, not their child-like minds.” Morgan wagged a finger. “It is our Christian duty to be caring stewards. If we treat our nigras well, they will repay us with their love, their loyalty, and the sweat of their brows. No nigra ever ran from a good master, nor would they want to.”

  “Well Father, the day’s coming when we’ll wish somebody around here had paid closer attention to those niggers.” Patrick jerked his thumb toward the rear of the house. “Take that boy, Isaac. He spent so much time with Henry he’s beginning to think he’s white. There’s one slave that surely needs a whipping.”

  “Enough, Patrick.” Ella nodded at Morgan. “Your father has been dealing with the slaves since long before you were born. He is not only a smart businessman, but also a good Christian. You should heed his word.”

  Polly frowned. “Patrick McConnell, you lay a whip on Isaac, you’ll answer to me . . . and Henry.”

  Patrick kicked his chair back as he stood. “Sometimes I think this family has turned into an abolitionist mob. Wouldn’t surprise me to find all our nigras sitting around this very table come Christmas Day, sipping tea and eating cake—with y’all serving them!” He threw his napkin on his plate and stormed out.

  Morgan caught Ella’s worried look. He lowered his voice. “His passions are stirred by the goings on with the elections. Once the presidential race is decided, he’ll settle back to learning tobacco. Give him time.”

  _____

  “Lincoln in a Landslide!” The headlines jumped off the front page of the Richmond Daily Dispatch. Morgan tossed the newspaper on the lamp table and looked at Patrick seated on the sofa across the parlor. “It’s finished, son. Your Democrats did no better than John Bell and his Constitutional Unionists. The South must accept this result and move on.”

  “The Carolinas will not be accepting. Mississippi will not be accepting.” Patrick pounded his fist into his open palm. “Word from Charleston is that South Carolina will leave the Union. Virginia must do likewise or we forfeit our rights as slave owners. Our way of life will end.”

  Morgan set his reading glasses on the newspaper. “Virginia is the birthplace of American democracy. She will never secede.” He tapped his finger on the paper. “The Union cannot be ripped apart by the likes of Senator Chesnut and his Carolina cronies. When he speaks out against democracy and union, it’s nothing short of treason.”

  “Treason? When the northern voters talk of taking away our rights and our means of a livelihood, as they did when they placed Lincoln on the throne, then it’s high time we recognize that universal democracy is no friend to southern sovereignty. When the abolitionists can vote away our way of life we are no longer either safe or welcome in their union.”

  “Patrick, we solve nothing, you and I. You are my oldest. I’m relying on you to one day manage this farm for you and your brother. It is only important that we agree that the farm comes first. Without our tobacco we have no future.”

  Patrick grabbed his hat and walked to the door. He lifted the latch, then turned and faced Morgan. “Yes Fa
ther, and without our niggers we have no tobacco.”

  Chapter Eight

  November 1860

  Mist floated above the Dan River as the wagon approached. Isaac gazed absently at leaves swirling in the eddies around the bridge’s large stone arches. Sean O’Farrell paid the toll, then flicked the reins. The muted plodding of the horse’s hoofs on the dirt road gave way to echoed clops on the wooden planks within the darkness of the covered bridge.

  Isaac had crossed that river years ago, in a time before the wide, two-lane bridge. Then he’d been in the back of the wagon, with Pa driving. The old Boyd’s Ferry had carried them across to pick up a load of lumber from a mill in North Carolina. Now he rode up front.

  Isaac glanced at the short, graying Irishman beside him. Mr. Sean was a good man. He got the work done, but he looked out for folks too. Isaac had sure enough seen worse.

  Sean gave the horse the reins and rested his elbows on his knees. He turned to Isaac. “Well, me boy, yer off for a grand high adventure now, are ye?”

  “I reckon, Mr. Sean. Never lived away from the farm before, except when me and Henry goes hunting up country. I expect I’ll be learning right much from Mr. Day, but I reckon I’ll be missing Mama’s cooking some too.”

  Sean laughed. “Your ma give ye some vittles for the journey? Ye’d be wanting to share now with old Mr. Sean, would ye not?”

  Isaac reached under the seat and produced a bundle wrapped in a bright red bandana. Sean’s face beamed as he accepted one of the large golden biscuits.

  The wagon rolled into the early morning sunlight at the far end of the bridge.

  Sean took a bite, talking as he chewed. “I don’t never tire of Florence’s biscuits. Your ma’s the best cook in all of Virginia. Just wish ye’d thought to bring along some sorghum.”