The Freedom Star Page 7

  “There must be a sheriff or a magistrate? We got to tell somebody . . .” Isaac clenched his fists.

  “Won’t matter without a witness.” Thomas pointed at Gabriel. “Right now it’s just the word of one old slave.”

  Isaac studied Thomas. “So, what is you gonna do, Mr. Day?”

  “All we can do is trust the good folks here in Milton to do right. Even now, with talk of secession, war, and slave uprisings, most still try to pay us as best they can.”

  “Folks what ain’t got the cash, they still be paying in barter?” Mr. Jones seemed to be searching Thomas’s face for an answer.

  “Yes, my friend, we’ll be eating like kings—until we go broke.” Thomas smiled. “Chickens and pigs won’t pay our New York creditors.”

  _____

  Gabriel’s snoring filled the darkened room. Reflections from the Franklin stove danced across the ceiling. Gabriel was bruised a mite, but nothing broken. Isaac chuckled to himself. Gabriel said he didn’t have a trumpet, but that nose of his sure sounded loud enough.

  Isaac tossed restlessly on the narrow bunk. So many questions. Mr. Day wasn’t free. Maybe he owned slaves, but he was a slave too—held captive by the color of his skin.

  Closing his eyes, Isaac tried to push away the swirl of confusion in his mind. The fragrance of burning wood in the stove and the warmth of his blanket began to lull him to sleep, then he remembered church and Mr. Jones’ words: “Nobody’s gonna pay no never mind to no nigger what’s dressed like what he is.”

  _____

  Somewhere in the woods behind the bunkroom, a rooster crowed. Isaac wearily awoke. He stumbled to the washstand and splashed cold water on his face. Mr. Jones had already stoked the fire and had corndodgers sizzling in hog fat.

  “Morning Mr. Jones,” Isaac said. “I need to speak with Mr. Day. Save me some breakfast.” He dried his face and headed out the door.

  Isaac paced by the back door steps of the of the large brick home searching for the right words. Finally, he climbed the steps and knocked. After a moment, the door opened and the elder Mr. Day looked down at him.

  “Sir, I can’t be going to church this morning,” Isaac mumbled, staring at his feet.

  “What seems to be the trouble?” Mr. Day raised an eyebrow. “You ill?”

  “No sir, ain’t ill.” Isaac paused. He looked down at his shirt. “Ain’t got no proper church clothes, just this rag I works in.” He pulled the dirty cloth out from his body.

  “A shirt is it?” Mr. Day smiled. “You need not miss the Good Word for want of a proper shirt. Wait here.” The door closed.

  In a few moments the door reopened and Thomas handed Isaac a small bundle. “This should suffice. It’s yours to keep.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Day, thank you, sir.” Isaac backed down the steps, then turned and ran to the bunkroom.

  He cut the twine and spread the garment on his bunk. Seven oyster shell buttons lined the front of the white, finished cotton shirt. The full-length sleeves had cuffs that buttoned. Isaac touched the pocket on the left breast. He’d never owned a shirt with a pocket before. It had a stain, but it didn’t show much, except when he held it up to the direct sunlight. He hung his new shirt on the peg above his bunk and sat down to breakfast.

  _____

  Isaac caught his reflection in the window in front of the Yellow Tavern house as he waited for Mr. Day and his family. He turned, running his hand over the new shirt. Mighty fine, like how he’d look up in Philadelphia, meeting business folk or being admired by workers in his own shop . . .

  “Boy, you ready?” Mr. Day stepped out the door followed by his wife, Acquilla, and Thomas. They proceeded up the street. Isaac fell in step behind.

  A crowd gathered under the church portico while others shuffled through the arched doorway. White folks greeted the Days by name. Isaac smiled and nodded as he followed the Days into the church. They was just folks, friendly, too.

  Inside, they entered a small foyer, then Isaac followed the Days into the sanctuary, gliding his hand across the smooth, curved armrests at the end of the pews. Mr. Day’s handiwork? He inspected the craftsmanship.

  “Isaac, come here,” someone whispered.

  He turned. Thomas motioned for him, then turned and walked toward the rear of the church. Isaac followed. When they reached the foyer, Thomas pointed to a narrow stairway in the back corner. “The slave balcony is up there.”

  Isaac could only nod. A fancy shirt didn’t change what he was. He climbed the stairs.

  The only seats were two long wooden benches. An old woman with a kerchief tied about her head sat on the far bench, her arm around a young child dressed in a plain white frock. Isaac nodded to the older woman and took a seat on the near bench. He gazed at the sanctuary below. Aisles on either side separated the pews along the walls from the wide middle section. In the front corners, pews faced inward, toward the raised wooden pulpit. Mr. Day and his family sat in the pew up front on the left.

  A woman seated at a piano played a single chord and the entire congregation stood as one and began singing. Isaac recognized the hymn from the revival meeting he’d attended last summer. He joined in, trying to remember the words.

  After the hymn, the minister raised his right hand. “And now, let us bow our heads and lift our hearts in prayer to the Lord Almighty.

  “Dear Heavenly Father, Your humble servants come to You this day to confess our sins. We have not lived by Your word. We are unworthy of the blessings You have given us, and we ask Your forgiveness. We ask, Lord, that You give us a mild winter so’s hungry mouths will be fed and, if it be Thy will, we humbly ask that those gathered here today be blessed with good health and prosperity. Finally, Lord, we ask that You heal the rift that is tearing our country apart. Touch the hearts of those in power and give them the wisdom to see the truth as You know it to be. Lord, as distant drums are sounding, we stand in humble assuredness that if war comes to this divided land, You will stand firmly with Your faithful servants here in North Carolina and bless our righteous cause. We ask these things in Your son’s name—”

  “Amen,” the congregation responded in unison.

  Isaac opened his eyes and took his seat. During the prayer, a young woman had found her place at the far end of his bench. Her black, closely cropped hair glistened. Smooth, dark skin reflected the warm glow of the morning light. She sat erect, her hands folded in her lap. Her simple dress was that of a house servant, pale blue, unadorned. Surveying the room as she settled into her seat, her gaze paused for a moment on Isaac, then, without acknowledgement, she turned her attention to the pulpit.

  Isaac quickly looked away. Had she seen him staring? She had to be a slave girl, but she had—what was it Henry used to say? An air, she had an air about her. So, who owned her? Did she have a man? A pretty girl like that, she had to have a man . . .

  In time, the drone of the minister’s voice ended. The congregation stood, raising their voices in unison for the final hymn. Following the benediction, a buzz of conversation floated up from the sanctuary. Skirts rustled behind him. Isaac turned. Where had she gone? He rushed down the steps and into a throng of people. The old woman with the child came down from the balcony. Isaac followed them outside, searching up and down the street.

  As he wandered back to the Days’ house, Isaac carefully checked every passing carriage and scanned all the side streets. Nothing. Somehow, she’d vanished. He entered the bunkroom and took off his Sunday shirt, hanging it carefully on a peg over his bed. Without a word, Isaac slipped on his old work shirt.

  Gabriel sat at the table, his left eye swollen and his cheek bruised, sipping a mug of sassafras tea. “You look snake bit, boy. Preacher put a scare in you with his fire and brimstone?”

  Isaac flopped onto his bunk and folded his arms behind his head. “Gabriel, you know anything about women?”

  “Ou-w-e-e-e. You got you some serious trouble, Gabriel can sure enough see that. Who is she?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t know
nothing about her. She came to church late and left before I could talk to her.”

  “Sounds to me like the good Lord has figured out how He’s gonna get Isaac back to church to hear His word again next Sunday.” Gabriel crowed with laughter.

  Chapter Ten

  December 1860

  A shadow moved into the sunlight that poured through the open double doors and across the dusty floor. Isaac looked up from his work and smiled. “’Morning, sir. I’ve mostly finished that dresser. You done taught me well. Come see.”

  Thomas stood in the doorway. “Later,” he said. “Grab your things. You have a visitor.”

  A visitor? Who would come to see him—and wouldn’t Mr. Day be angry about interrupting his workday? “Yes, sir, be right there, soon as I cleans up.” Isaac put away his tools and swept aside the wood shavings. He snatched his jacket from the peg on the wall and followed Thomas outside. Two familiar horses were hitched in front of the Day house. Isaac gave Thomas a questioning shrug. Thomas smiled and nodded toward the street.

  Isaac followed his gaze. Suddenly, he clapped his hands and let out a laugh. “Lord almighty! Henry? Is that you, Henry McConnell?”

  Henry crossed the street from the general store swinging a paper sack in one hand. He walked straight to the larger horse and swung into the saddle, then pointed to the smaller animal. “Get your tail up there. Time’s a-wasting. There’s critters afield and we’re going hunting.” Henry hooked one leg over the saddle horn and crossed his arms. A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

  “Henry,” Isaac said. “You tell me, did you up and quit that army school?”

  Henry shrugged.

  “Schooling don’t suit this white boy.” Isaac jerked a thumb toward Henry. “Never done a hard day’s work in his life. Horses, hunting, and women, that’s all he lives for.”

  Thomas raised an eyebrow and glanced at Henry.

  Henry laughed. “He knows me well.”

  Thomas smiled and nodded.

  “I’ll have him back in a few weeks—unless the bears get him.” Henry held the bridle of the smaller horse as Isaac mounted.

  “Well then, good hunting.” Thomas waved.

  Isaac turned his horse and nudged it into a trot. “Fess up, Henry. What is you doing here? Your pa’s gonna tan your hide if’n you got throwed out of that school.”

  Henry held out the paper sack. “Got you something.”

  Isaac smiled as he pulled out a handful of gumdrops. “You knowed they was my favorites.”

  “Henry, you in some kind of trouble again?” Isaac said, turning his horse toward the bridge. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

  “I am a cadet in good standing.” Henry straightened in the saddle. “I’m passing all my classes and I have the highest ranking of all the plebes in horsemanship!” He swept off his hat and bowed.

  “So why ain’t you up there at West Point?”

  “Christmas. I got four weeks leave. Figured I’d came home for a visit, but I didn’t figure on having to ride clear to North Carolina to rescue you from that chair factory. What in tarnation are you doing there?”

  Isaac popped another gumdrop in his mouth. “Your pa sent me here to apprentice under Mr. Day.”

  Henry nodded. “I reckon it beats tobacco farming.”

  “It sure do. You serious about hunting bear?”

  “Serious? Six months of book learning—never mind putting up with Yankee officers—I’m in need of some righteous distractions. Figured we’d head up along the Staunton River. You remember that cave we camped in last year?”

  Isaac adjusted his hat. “The one they calls Injun Jim’s?”

  “That’s the one. We’ll camp there.” Henry shot Isaac a quick glance, then leaned forward in the saddle. “Last one over the bridge is sleeping with a polecat!” He spurred his horse and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  _____

  Florence sat beside the hearth holding a squawking brown hen on her lap. She smoothed the bird’s feathers. “There, there. Florence ain’t gonna hurt you none, least not so’s you’ll notice.” The hen settled, clucking softly. In a feathery blur, Florence snapped the bird’s neck, then dunked the flailing carcass into a pot of just-boiled water. She held it under with a forked stick and began singing, “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” Hot water loosened the feathers for plucking, but too long in the pot and the meat would begin cooking. One verse would be enough.

  Winter chickens took more plucking. Pinfeathers grown for warmth didn’t come out in clumps like the larger feathers. Each had to be plucked separately. Florence pulled her chair into the afternoon sun on the cookhouse porch and rocked back, humming as she pinched out the tiny feathers.

  A breeze gathered dry leaves, tossing them against the side of the barn. Joseph ran past carrying a stick, followed close behind by one of the McConnell’s dogs. Florence gave him a stern glance. “That boy disremembered the woodpile again . . .”

  With Abraham and Isaac gone, firewood chores fell to Joseph. She should holler at the boy, but the respite offered by the quiet warmth of the December sun felt more precious right then than what few sticks of kindling the boy might split in the next hour. She let him pass.

  To the southeast, a cloud of dust swirled near where the farm land met the post road. riders coming?

  She sang quietly, plucking and watching. In time, a wagon came into view. Florence squinted, then sat back and smiled. “That ol’ mule never could walk straight—always looking like he was gonna fall over in his tracks.”

  The driver sat tall and upright, his wide brimmed hat casting a shadow over his face. She shielded her eyes from the afternoon sun. Praise the Lord. Abraham was home.

  The last plucked chicken hung with the others as Abraham strolled up from the barn. He stopped in front of the porch, placed his hands on his hips, and bent over, as if trying to get a better view. “I declare, you ain’t my Florence, you’s all young and pretty. What’d you do with my ol’ woman?”

  Florence folded her hands in her lap and looked into Abraham’s eyes. “What is it about your time on that road that makes you all addle-brained? Don’t you be playing no tricks with me, Abraham.”

  He stepped onto the porch and pulled her into his arms. “Been three weeks doing for others, sleeping in barns, eating hoe cake, or worse. All the time, I been thinking about my Florence and how I misses her cooking.”

  Florence buried her face in the familiar musk of the old woolen shirt. There had been too many nights alone. A sob caught in her breath.

  “Hush, woman. Ain’t no call for tears. I’s home. We’s together again.”

  She looked into his large brown eyes. “Every time you goes on one of them jobs, you takes my heart with you.”

  “And I always brings it back . . .”

  “These is hard times, Abraham. Can’t nobody know what the future holds.”

  He smiled, pulling her close again. “I always comes back, woman. I always has and I always will.”

  _____

  Isaac tossed his blanket over a pile of leaves, smoothed the lumps, then settled next to the fire and lifted the stewpot lid, sniffing the aroma as he stirred. “Near done. Be better if’n we had taters and carrots, but at least you remembered the onions.”

  Henry shrugged. “I can’t think of everything.” He fixed his blanket on a rock shelf dug into the side of the cave.

  The cave’s small and well-hidden opening belied a spacious interior with three large rooms. A natural spring bubbled into a basin carved in the rock that held the water before it spilled over and disappeared again through cracks in the floor.

  Henry took a seat next to Isaac and held out his tin plate. “I’m sure grateful to Florence for teaching you to cook.”

  Isaac ladled a serving of rabbit and onions. “Was Pa what taught me. Critters ain’t like farm stock. Critters need slow cooking, more seasoning.” Isaac took a bite and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Tell me about West Point.”

  Henry laughed. “Arm
y’s different, that’s for sure. They got more rules than ticks on a hound. They even have rules for what you can look at.”

  “Don’t you be funning me.”

  “Honest,” Henry said. “I got punished once just for looking at a pig.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “We was on the parade grounds for inspection and this wild hog come running out of the woods; he tears across right in front of us.” Henry made a sweeping gesture with his fork. “I sure wanted to chase that porker. We don’t get much fresh meat up there.”

  Isaac nodded. “Would have make for some good vittles, that’s for sure. You catch him?”

  “I done good, Isaac, honest. I stood my place, didn’t move—not much anyway—though every muscle in my body was twitching. I figured I was demonstrating the absolute best in army discipline. Well, the captain comes over and hollers like I’d just dropped my musket in the mud.” Henry held out his plate.

  Isaac ladled out another serving. “If’n you was standing so still, how come he hollered?”

  “He said my eyeballs were wandering. Don’t that beat all? Two hours punishment tour for looking at a pig.”

  Isaac laughed. “Good thing it weren’t no pretty girl, they’d a locked you up for sure.” He paused, then looked at Henry. “You like it up there?”

  Henry poked the fire, stirring a fountain of sparks. “The army’s where I want to be, and West Point’s going to get me there. I like the soldering part, it’s the class work gets me to worrying, mathematics and such—”

  “You still having trouble with them numbers? I thought I’d teached you good.”

  “Not talking about just adding and multiplying and such. They have something up north they calls algebra.”

  “Ain’t never heard of no algebras.”

  “Shoot, you’d probably do good at it, the way you’re all the time doing figures in your head. How’d you ever learn that, anyway?”

  Isaac lifted a burning stick and traced a flaming figure eight in the air. “Ain’t no learning, it just always been there—like with you and horses.”