by Michael Ross
After two hours, they drew into the dooryard of the Crump farm. The Crump men were not there, but Sara and Lydia greeted them. Luther set the brake and helped Albinia down from the chaise. Then he watered the horse at the trough and gave him a nosebag of oats, brushing him and checking his feet. He let horse and chaise stand resting in the shade of an enormous ash tree.
Turning to Sara, he said, “Missus Crump, could I get a drink from yer pump? I got my own cup.” He produced a carved wooden cup.
“Of course, Luther, help yourself,” said Sara. She hurried inside and emerged just as he had gotten a drink and doused his head. “And here are two johnny cakes for your trip home.”
Albinia saw he was amazed by this simple kindness. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. Lawd bless you! I best be getting back. My pass is no good after dark, and Miss Lucy be worried.”
Waving, Albinia, Sara, and Lydia went into the cabin as Luther mounted the chaise.
✳ ✳ ✳
Luther set out at a fast trot. He knew he had to pace the horse, but he also had no desire to meet a patrol alone, especially as afternoon lengthened into evening.
Once or twice he stopped and pulled off the road, to let the horse rest, but also to listen for the sounds of approaching hooves that might mean a patrol. Still more, he feared the baying of hounds, signaling slave catchers chasing their prey.
More than once, he touched the precious pass in his pocket. He had no idea what it said and knew even this could be scant protection against some of the patrols, but he had to trust the fact that Lucy, a Clay, had signed it, and few would be willing to cross her father, James.
Luther guessed Lucy either did not know or did not care about these fears and dangers when she sent Luther to drive her friend home.
He turned onto Richmond Road leading to Ashland and stopped for what would be the final time. Suddenly, he heard hooves and drunken laughter coming up the road from behind. Fearing the worst, Luther urged the horse to just under a canter, not wanting to lose control or break a wheel on a rock, and dashed wildly up the road for the safety of his home plantation.
About one hundred yards from the turn onto Ashland’s drive, three horsemen came out into the road in front of him. He pulled back hard on the reins to stop, so as not to run into them and injure Massa Clay’s trotting horse, the chaise, or the horsemen themselves, any of which could spell his doom. He sat, gazing about wildly and gripped by terror, sweat dripping down his face and back as froth came off the horse’s flanks, its sides heaving. The hoofbeats and hollering from behind came steadily closer until they surrounded him. There were four horsemen in back and three in front, all of them carrying pistols or clubs. One had a long black snake whip attached to his saddle.
Luther glanced from face to face in sheer horror, forgetting to lower his eyes. The men hooted and jeered. The one on the far left riding a common paint pony had a gray slouched hat with a feather sticking jauntily out of it, yellow teeth, and a stubbly black beard. His unkempt clothes showed him to be a poor “cracker” farmer, volunteering for slave patrol duty to show himself a man of power. His face pulled into a condescending sneer with a hungry look in his eyes that seemed to want to devour Luther. He shouted to the others, “Looky what we got here! Got us a black out for the evening, boys! Or maybe he done stole a horse and buggy, trying to run away.”
The man next to him sat on a long-legged chestnut stallion that kept fidgeting and trying to get the bit between his teeth. “Naw, Frank, I think we got us a blackbird thinks he can fly away. But round here we put blackbirds in pies for supper, cook’em good.” His red mustache and beard wrinkled in ugly laughter at his joke, his finer clothes denoting he must be one of the lesser planters. The gold stickpin in his red cravat glittered in the failing sunlight, the last rays glinting off the silver fittings on the pistol stuck in his waistband.
“Why, I recognize this black, boys!” said the last horseman in front. His terror mounting further, Luther recognized the voice of his old master, Jameson. “He used to be mine, but he got uppity and thought he was special. Clay offered me a good price for him, worth at least a couple of hunting dogs, so I let him go. Looks like he’s still uppity, thinks he can just up and take a horse and buggy! What say we teach him some manners, boys?”
“Shore nuff, Jameson,” said one of the riders from behind. “But if he’s Clay’s, we best find out his business first ‘fore we have any fun. Wouldn’t do to get the Clays down on us.”
“All right, boy,” said Jameson, fingering his black snake whip, “What’s your business this evenin’ that you’re out on the roads? Running away?” Jameson laughed nastily.
Luther, remembering his role, made sure to keep his eyes down on the road. He wanted no reason for Jameson to hurt him—and hurt him he knew he would, given half an opportunity.
“Massa Jameson, I’m a good slave. You know dat. I been sent on business by Miss Lucy Clay to deliver her friend Miss Albinia home, ‘bout six mile from here. I try my best to get home by dark. I gwine show you de pass Miss Lucy give me.”
He carefully reached into his pocket with two fingers to give them no cause to think he might be pulling out a weapon and brought out the pass signed by Lucy. The man called Frank moved his horse over and examined it in the fading light.
“He’s shore nuff got a pass—says here signed Lucy Clay. Reckon it’s legitimate?”
Luther reached for the pass to retrieve it, but Frank held it just out of reach.
Jameson said, “Let me see that.” Spurring his horse over, he took the pass from Frank, to Luther’s alarm.
“Why, this ain’t nothing! This is just a grocery list he probably stole. I don’t see a pass; do you, boys?” he jeered, tearing the paper into small shreds. “I think we got us a runaway. Everybody knows a black off his plantation after sundown, regardless whose he is, gets nine lashes. Right, boys? We got to do our duty as patrollers. Get’im down!”
Three men behind dismounted, and Luther’s terror knew no bounds. Wildly he looked for a way of escape, but the forest was thick on both sides of the road, and the ditch on each side was too deep to allow the chaise to pass without flipping over. Returning to Ashland without the chaise would earn him a whipping there.
“Please, Massa, please! Don’t do this! Ya know it ain’t dark yet, and I got a pass from Miss Lucy! The house is just up the road—go an’ ask her if she done sent me out with her friend.”
Rough hands pulled him down from the chaise. One of the men set the brake and tended the horse while the others tore off his shirt, tied his hands over his head, and bound him to a tree. Jameson dismounted with a wicked grin on his face, unfurled the black snake whip, and cracked it a few times in the air to test it. He broke a small branch near Luther’s head and laughed.
“All right! Let’s see how uppity you are now.”
Jameson coiled the whip and prepared to lay on the lash, standing only about eight feet from Luther, helplessly tied to the tree. “I don’t have to worry about damaging my property now, and the law is on my side.” He struck viciously, with all his strength, drawing blood and leaving a long, angry cut across Luther’s back.
Luther cried out in agony, “No, Massa, no! Please!”
Just as Jameson prepared to give a second stroke, the sound of hooves thundered on the road. A fine-looking sorrel stallion came to an abrupt halt. A burly man climbed down and, pitching the reins at the nearest man with an air of authority, bore down upon Jameson. The sun was just disappearing behind the ridge.
“And what do ye think ye’re doing with Mr. Clay’s property, eh?” came the Irish-accented voice, belonging to Sean Flanagan, overseer at Ashland. “I don’t believe it’s after sunset, and this young buck was sent to do a job by Miss Lucy herself. Ye’ll kindly drop that whip, Jameson.” Flanagan drew a pistol from his belt. “Else I’ll blow a hole in ye the size of Georgia.” The pistol was pointed at Jameson’s head. “Did ye not see tha lad’s pass?”
“Pass?” Jameson said innocently.
“We saw no pass, right boys? Only a list of grocery supplies that he does not have. I could not see the use of that. I figured perhaps he’d been sent on an errand, tried to run away. We’re just protecting Mr. Clay’s property, as the law says.”
“With that kind of protection, Mr. Clay would be bankrupt in a fortnight. Cut him down!” Flanagan cocked the pistol to add emphasis to his words.
Begrudgingly, Jameson signaled one of the other men, and they cut Luther down from the tree.
“Pick up your shirt, boy,” Flanagan ordered, without taking his eyes or the pistol off Jameson. “Now you gentlemen stand aside, or me boys will be forced to give you reason for horsemanship.”
Glancing over their shoulders, Luther’s tormentors saw a number of Negroes with pitchforks standing behind them, menacing the horses. Reluctantly, they parted. “My boys will just follow us home. Luther!” Flanagan commanded. Luther slowly and painfully mounted to the driver’s position, as Flanagan climbed in as passenger, tying the reins of his horse to the rear of the chaise. “Anyone who moves gets a ball in the head or Mr. Clay to deal with tomorrow,” he said.
Recovering his evil joviality, Jameson called after them, “That’s all right, boys, let’em go. Hey, Luther! Shall I pay a visit tonight to your mother, or your sister, do you think?”
Safely in the buggy, Luther glared at Jameson, but did not dare respond. He knew that any provocation would be taken out on his mother and sisters—Jameson’s threat was not empty. Anger blazed in him, but outwardly he kept it in check, except for the burning in his eyes. He clicked to the horses, and the buggy began to roll, the other slaves serving as a rear guard, walking backward warily toward the plantation road.
Luther was still bleeding and in pain, but he dismounted from the chaise and gave it and the horse into the care of the groom, an elderly slave named Albert who had been born on the plantation in Henry Clay’s time. Albert had white specks of hair and wizened features, a ready smile and a soft whisper for the horses he cared for. He stooped with age. Seeing Luther’s pain, he clucked softly. “You got one dem patrols on you? Lawd a-mercy! Go see Auntie May. I’ll take care all dis. Get cho sef fixed up ‘fore you go to Miss Lucy. Ain’t no sense upsettin’ her wid it.”
“Thanks, Albert. Believe I will.”
Instead of going to the yellow-brick slave house near the great house that served as his quarters, Luther went down to the lower slave quarters nearer the fields. Night was falling rapidly; he knew he did not have long before quarters would be checked, and he still had to look in on Miss Lucy for any last-minute orders before she retired. A fire burned in front of Auntie May’s cabin, who acted like his mother. She had a huge heart and looked after four motherless boys on the plantation. She was sitting on a stump by the fire, a wiry, middle-aged woman with premature gray streaks in her hair, wearing cotton homespun dress, and humming softly, staring at the fire just outside a whitewashed brick hut. The slave quarters were luxurious by most standards; they even had glass windows. Auntie May looked up at his approach.
“What’choo doin’ down from de big house, Luther?”
“Ran me across patrollers, got cut.” He turned, showing the blood that had seeped into his shirt.
“Oh, hon. Take dat shirt off and lemme see what I can do.”
“Gotta be quick. I still got to see Miss Lucy before dey goes to bed.”
Rising, May went to fetch a bucket of water and a rag. Luther took his shirt off, and she carefully washed away the dried blood from the angry welt on his back. He winced a few times but made no sound.
“At least dey only got you once. How’d you manage that?”
“Flanagan came and stopped ‘em. Jameson was in de group. He’d a taken my hide off.”
“Didn’t Miss Lucy gib you a pass?”
“Yes’m, but Jameson, he just rip it to shreds, say it don’t count. Nobody gonna take de word of blacks like us.”
“Ain’t dat de truth,” she said, finishing up. She went into the hut and got a clean shirt. He tugged it on gingerly, trying not to break the wound open. “Get on up to de big house; don’ want more trouble. I see you Sunday. Pump some mo’ water over it if’n ya gets de chance,” advised May. She gave him a brief hug, and Luther hurried off toward the mansion.
LEXINGTON RIFLES
May 1859
Will trudged from the one-room schoolhouse, heading to the corner of Second Street and Mill Street. The afternoon was already hot, mosquitoes buzzing and flies active. He thought about his encounter a few days before with the dashing young gentleman on the Versailles road. He had talked it over with his father and decided to follow up on whatever opportunity the young man might offer. His father had heard favorable things about John Hunt Morgan and decided it might be worth Will paying him a visit.
The town was bustling. A new batch of slaves milled about at the Cheapside auction block. Will puzzled over what Morgan would do—after all, he had already thanked him, hadn’t he? Will had just done the decent thing, shooting the cat about to attack the unwary traveler. His brow furrowed and he felt nervous, sweat trickling down his back. He did not want to seem like some money-grubbing opportunist. Reaching the white arched door of the brick mansion, Will knocked. An elderly Negro dressed in a suit and white cotton shirt opened the door.
“Yes, sir? What may I do for you?” he asked.
“I’ve come to see Mr. Morgan. Is he at home?” said Will.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“No, I don’t. But Mr. Morgan said I should come and see him. I met him on the Versailles road the other day.”
“Are you the boy with the fine shootin’?”
“I reckon so. Is Mr. Morgan in?”
“Wait here. I’ll see if he’s receiving visitors. You can sit here in the entryway if you like.” The servant hurried off toward the back of the house while Will gazed about, afraid to sit on one of the rich dark wood chairs with bars in the back, taking in the yellow walls with white trim and a curved stairway to his right. Ahead, he could see a reception area and a pianoforte. After a few minutes, the young man he’d met on the road came striding in, his coal-black hair, long, straight nose, black beard, and expressive, close-set eyes just as Will remembered. The man’s mouth curled up at the corners in a smile of recognition.
“Well, if it isn’t my young marksman! I did want to thank you properly, Will.”
Will gazed up at the six-foot-tall, trim figure. “Yes, sir.”
“I appreciate quick thinking and good shooting. I asked around a bit about you. I understand you’d like to go to university?”
Not sure where this was leading, Will hesitated but then replied enthusiastically, “Yes, sir! I like to read and learn. I have just about finished what the local school has to offer. I want to be a lawyer, but I only know some Latin and no Greek.”
John Morgan pursed his lips and chuckled. “I have a proposition for you. I am a businessman, and I hate to see talent wasted. However, because I am a businessman, I expect to get a return from my investment. I would like to invest in you. Suppose there were a spot open at Transylvania University here in Lexington for you, say for a year, to see how it goes. Also, I’ve started a local militia, the Lexington Rifles, to learn military procedure and some cavalry maneuvers. We mostly drill as infantry, however. Your fine shooting skills would get some use, maybe even improvement, if you were to join us. Interested?”
Will felt as if a whole new world had just opened at his feet. He could scarcely contain his excitement, but he did not want Mr. Morgan to think him young and silly. “Yes, sir!” He beamed. “Thank you, sir!”
“Excellent!” Reaching into his pocket, Morgan produced a letter bearing a red wax seal and handed it to Will. “You just take that letter round to Mr. Lewis Warner Green at the university. Tell him John Morgan sent you. And report to the little college lot at Transylvania Wednesday afternoon at five. Look for Corporal Thomas Logwood. He’ll see that you get situated. It is across from Morrison. Don’t be
late!” he said with mock severity.
“Yes, sir! I mean, no, sir! I mean—I’ll be there!” stammered Will.
“Good, good!” Morgan said, growing serious, fixing on Will with gray-blue eyes. “You know, discipline and honor are important to any man. It is how armies function, how battles are fought, both by soldiers and in our own lives. Knowing how to fight, how to act together as a unit—these can be valuable skills. A man needs to know he can depend upon his brothers in arms. One day not too far off, I fear our fair state may be at war, a war to preserve our state, our way of life. We may have to fight for what we believe. Could you do that?” asked Morgan.
Will was thoughtful and prayed quickly. Could he really fight? In a war? He decided that if it was to protect his home and family, he could. He nodded. “Yes, sir, I could. I believe that freedom means being able to do as we think right and best, with God as our guide, not just acting because someone far away told you to.”
“As do I, Will.” Morgan extended a hand, treating Will as an equal. “Until our next meeting.”
The old servant showed Will out. He could scarcely believe it—in an afternoon, his life had been transformed, the door open to seemingly limitless possibilities—education, military training, and a new friendship at a social level previously beyond his reach.
✳ ✳ ✳
The following Wednesday, Will showed up at the college lot as instructed. He looked at the young men milling about, searching for someone in charge. Most of them wore bright green uniforms with brass buttons, and several sported sabers hanging at their sides. There were stacks of muskets and squirrel guns about, no uniformity in weaponry. Will carried his Springfield musket and felt blessed to have it, seeing some of the other guns. He nervously scanned the group, conspicuous as a newcomer without a uniform. He noticed a tall, lean man, who looked to be in his early twenties, with a light brown mustache who seemed to be giving instructions and trying to get the men to come to order. His hazel eyes sparkled with mirth as he jovially tried to get a few to move into line. Will approached him.
