by Alyssa Cole
She dug into her pack. “I have some bread and beef. Captain Hooper gave it to me while you were helping to clear the deck. I believe he felt a bit of guilt over placing us in harm’s way.”
“I’ll have it for breakfast,” he said as he settled onto his bedroll. “Now sleep. We’ll have to be up at first light and may have to travel well into the night.”
“All right.” She broke off a bit for herself and ate it quickly as Daniel stretched out beside the fire with his back to her. When she’d finished eating she stretched out onto the thin fabric over the hard, cold ground, too, using her sack as a pillow.
The sharp end of the note she had folded and braided into her hair pressed into her scalp, a reminder of what needed to be done. She had to find someone she could safely pass the information off to, her soul be damned. It was a small bit of information really, just enough to show Henry and his superiors that she was trying—enough to persuade them to help Papi as much as they could.
She lay staring at clouds scudding below the starry sky for what could have been hours. She stared so long that she began to see that there were more than she had ever thought possible, small clusters that appeared after her eyes adjusted, adding new depth to what she’d thought she’d known of the constellations. How had anyone ever used such a confusing morass of bright, blinking beauty as a guide? Maybe in truth, everyone was just as lost as she was, arriving at their destinations by confidence-driven chance, like Columbus bumbling onto the shores of the Caribbean.
She listened as she stared, and eventually Daniel’s breath came even and slow—he slept. He’d suspected a Confederate picket was in the area a few miles back. Could she make the journey to pass off the letter and return before he awoke?
She could try. As much as she hated it, she would have to.
She stood silently, holding up her skirts so that she wouldn’t rustle the leaves around her, and began making her way toward the path they had followed. Por suerte, she wouldn’t have to rely on the stars.
“Where are you going?”
She stopped, one foot raised and her heart pounding out of her chest.
“To relieve myself,” she lied.
“Don’t go too far. If a Rebel were to come across you, or a slave patrol . . .” He let the sentence trail off. She understood what he did not say aloud.
The truth of his implication was like another cluster of stars that had been just outside her field of vision but now came into focus and was now blinding in its obviousness.
She sucked in a sharp breath.
Daniel had been telling her since he’d met her—in the States she was a Negro and in the South she was any number of coarser words for the same. Henry had set her up with an escort toward the Northern line, where she had been able to insinuate herself into a Loyal League recruitment. As for passing along intelligence, she was lacking the only thing that would unequivocally show her allegiance to the Confederacy and protect her: white skin.
How perfectly ironic.
She walked back to her bedroll and threw herself on the ground with some force, ignoring the pain that jolted through her bones. She’d set out with the intention to spy for people who would do her harm in the blink of an eye without some visible sign that she was “one of the good ones,” and somehow she had still rationalized the decision. It had made so much sense in Palatka, with Henry feeding her sweet nothings.
You’re not like the others.
Something inside of her was rent in two at the memory of Henry’s words—she burned with shame that her ego had been so easily wielded against her. She thought of every morning when Lucia, her serving girl, had dressed her and brushed sweet-smelling oil through her hair. How Janeta had traipsed around in her fancy dress and ate fine food, keeping her gaze carefully averted from the slaves toiling everywhere around her. How she’d stopped asking those questions that had enraged her father and annoyed her mother once some part of her had begun to understand that she would not like their answers. She’d suppressed her curiosity and swallowed the lies, sweet and easy to eat, like flan.
She pressed her face into her rucksack and let the tears come. She had been silly to think she could free Papi this way and now she was trapped, unless she ran off in the night. If she did, she’d be alone and with no idea where she was going or how to get home without being captured, or worse. Henry had made it all seem so straightforward, but she now edged along a winding, rocky path through her very soul.
Who was Janeta Sanchez? What could she do in this world? To her father, she had been a princess; to her mother, evidence of her triumph over the manacles that had once bound her. To her sisters, she was the little girl who needed to be more feminine, more demure, less the morenita.
To Henry she had been an exotic delicacy to be consumed in the dark of night, when no one else could see. He’d always had some reason why he couldn’t tell his parents or friends, or make his intentions known to her father. She’d always made herself swallow his sweet lies, but distance from him had given the truths she’d once ignored with all of her might room to gallop—they’d been on her trail from Palatka to Atlanta to Illinois, and they’d finally caught up and trampled the fantasy world she’d built with Henry beneath their feet.
Janeta had always been the questioning kind, as Daniel had called her, but she’d stopped questioning Henry, just as she had stopped questioning her parents, and there could be only one reason for that. She hadn’t wanted to know what he would say if she’d pushed him hard enough. She’d placed her life and her soul into the hands of a man she couldn’t even trust to be honest with her.
Oh, you fool. You ridiculous fool.
She knew Daniel was awake, listening, as she should have known he was awake when she tried to creep away. He slept little, haunted by the hurt inflicted by the very system that she was supposed to be aiding.
For the first time, she didn’t fear what would happen if she were caught by the authorities. She feared the expression on Daniel’s face when he realized her betrayal. She feared that he would look at her with disgust and hatred and, worse, that it would be deserved. She lay in the darkness, wallowing in the knowledge of her own wretchedness, until sleep took her.
* * *
A howl so pained as to be inhuman woke her. A growl cut through whatever vestige of sleep clung to her, and she grasped for her knives, ready to take on whatever beast had happened upon them. As she fought through the clinging haze of sleep, she wondered if perhaps it wasn’t El Cuco, come for her at last.
She stumbled to her feet and searched for Daniel, and fear iced her heart when her gaze landed on him. His face was a rictus of pain in the light thrown off by the low-burning fire, mouth agape and eyes squeezed shut. No, not pain—fear unlike any she’d ever known. His hands went to his neck and scratched at his skin, and his feet kicked at the ground.
She rushed over to him, unsure of what to do. Lucia had told her tales of men who’d died when awoken from the throes of a nightmare, and she’d never seen a man so deep in the dream world as Daniel was now.
She sheathed her knife and scrambled the dew-frosted leaves beside the smoking embers of their fire. She couldn’t wake him, but seeing him in such agony was too much to bear. More pragmatically, they also couldn’t afford to attract attention with his cries. She knelt beside him and took hold of his hands, gently trying to stop their grating. He resisted at first, but then gave in and began thrashing his head about instead. She moved her knees closer so that when his head lifted it landed on her lap instead of banging against the hard ground.
After dropping hard into her bunched skirt a few times, his head slowly nestled into her lap with his eyes squeezed shut. He shifted and drew his body up, the heavy bulk of him shifting so that his face pressed into her thighs. The warmth of his exhalations passed through the layers of fabric, just barely, warming her skin, but there was nothing untoward in the motion. Instead, it evoked a cloying tenderness, the same her sisters had probably experienced when trying to figure out
just what to do with her torn dresses and frizzy hair after Mami had died and before Lucia had taken on that role.
Mami.
Janeta dropped his hands and did what her mother had always done when Janeta had been frightened by bad dreams. She ran a hand over his soft, tight curls, humming along to a lullaby her mother had sung only when they were alone.
Drume negrita,
Que yo voy a comprar nueva cunita . . .
Strange how her mother had insisted she was not like the slaves during the daylight hours, but sang the same songs of comfort one could hear in the slave quarters in the dark of night.
Janeta sang quietly, caressing Daniel gently and hoping he’d awaken soon. The woods around them were quiet, but she kept her ears open for the sound of breaking twigs. His cry had been so loud; anyone could be heading toward them.
A la negrita se le salen
Los pies de la cunita
Y la negra Merce
Ya no sabe que hace
His head was warm and damp with sweat, and his eyelashes fluttered. His gaze met hers for a moment, wide and filled with fear, and then a second later he was up and on his feet faster than a startled cat.
“What happened?” He was still breathing heavily, but he was breaking down camp, listing to the side as he kicked dirt over the remains of their fire.
“You had a nightmare—”
“Goddammit.”
Janeta startled, but he wasn’t cursing at her. He leaned over the flames, fists balled and resting on his thighs. “My throat is hoarse. I screamed, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said, fists tightening. He breathed heavily, then shook his head.
“I do not think you could control it, Cumberland. There is no need for an apology.”
“I apologize for that very reason. I should be able to control it, and because I can’t, the enemy may be heading in our direction as we speak.”
His movements were still slowed by sleep, but he began rolling up their sleeping blankets and grabbing up their rucksacks. She suddenly felt keenly aware of the dark woods around them, and the lightening sky, and the very real threat of the Confederate pickets that she had just a few hours ago thought to seek out.
“All right. We need to orient ourselves,” she said. “We are supposed to be heading east, yes?”
“Yes.” Daniel looked this way and that, his expression grim; then he reached into his pocket for a compass. Before he could open it, a voice sounded from behind them in the trees.
“You all runaways?” It was a man’s voice, and the sound of it sent a chill down Janeta’s spine. They’d heard nothing, no footsteps approaching or breaking twigs or shuffling leaves.
Daniel dropped the compass back into his pocket and reached for his gun. “No, we’re not runaways. We’re free people and have the papers to prove it.”
“I can’t read none. Don’t need to see no papers.”
No. Oh God, Janeta hadn’t thought of that either—many of the very men sent out to catch slaves were illiterate.
“We’ll just be on our way, if you don’t mind,” Daniel said in a voice that made it quite clear that they’d be off if their questioner minded, too.
“Y’all all right? We heard hollerin’ and we thought it was a haint.”
“We’re fine,” Daniel responded. His breath was still coming fast; for him this may have been his nightmare becoming reality.
“All right, then. You hungry?”
The voice was closer now, and Janeta could hear the leaves moving nearby.
“It’s a trap,” Daniel muttered. “Don’t fall for any false kindness.”
She remembered how he had come to be sold into slavery.
“Well, we set up not too far from here,” the man said. “’Bout to have breakfast before heading out if you want some company on the road. Heading toward Meridian.”
Lake had mentioned that Meridian was near their destination. Something stirred in Janeta. Could this truly be chance? Or was it a trap? Had the Russians set them up?
“Why would you offer us food and ask us along?” Daniel had his revolver in his hand now. Janeta’s pulse had quickened, her heart hammering loudly in her ears.
A white man stepped out from behind a tree. His hair hung straight under the brim of his hat, fine enough to get caught up in a gust of wind, but when he stepped close, it was clear he wasn’t just white. The planes and angles of his face weren’t so very different from Daniel’s, even though his complexion was.
One of the sleeves of his coat caught in the wind, flapping against his chest. The sleeve was tied off toward the middle, showing that his left arm came to an end near his elbow.
“We getting refugeed,” the man said. His eyes were clear and blue. “Massa done sent us along to his people in Meridian ’cause he was scared the Yanks would come set us free. We on our way, and if you on your way . . .” He shrugged. “Just seemed like it wouldn’t hurt none to ask.”
“Refugeed? Does that mean that there are soldiers or an overseer with you?” Daniel’s grip on his gun tightened. He glanced briefly at Janeta, who was tilting her head as she did when she tried to understand a word. “Some masters send their slaves to areas where they think they’ll be safe from Union soldiers, often with an armed detail to prevent them getting stolen or running off themselves. They call it refugeeing.”
The man shook his head. “No, nothing like that. Massa ain’t that rich, and we ain’t got no need for an overseer. The old man know we gonna go where he told us to go.” His brow furrowed a bit.
Janeta stared at the man. His expression was too earnest to hide malice, unless he was very, very good at pretending. She had been fooled before, but mostly because she’d wanted to be. That was not the case here, and she studied him intently. There was concern in his eyes, and a hesitation that someone pressing a lie wouldn’t have left room for. He wanted them to come along, certainly, but mostly because he seemed to be worried about their welfare.
Janeta approached Daniel and spoke in a low voice. “It would seem to me that if we wish to avoid being discovered for who we are, it might not hurt to surround ourselves with those who we aren’t.”
“What do you mean?” Daniel kept his eye on the man but leaned his ear toward Janeta.
“I mean that when we were on the pook turtle we came under attack just as if we were soldiers. If we are with a band of refugeeing slaves, people will not think to check to see if we are detectives. We can part ways when we get to Meridian, and we have our papers to prove we’re free.” He didn’t say anything, and she wondered if perhaps she wasn’t being naïve again.
“I’m not sure it’s that simple,” Daniel said. “But let’s see what there is to see.”
She was surprised he capitulated so easily.
“Perhaps it will be safer for you to be with others. I put you in danger with my wailing,” he added grimly before turning to the man. “We will come visit your camp and then decide whether to head out with you, if that’s all right.”
“I’m Augustus,” the man said, holding out his right hand. Daniel shook it reluctantly and Janeta inclined her head in his direction.
Augustus smiled, revealing two large front teeth that were so immediately endearing that Janeta was even more sure he wasn’t leading them into harm’s way. She hoped she was right.
“Let’s head back.”
CHAPTER 11
Daniel wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find—he’d been tensed and prepared for a trap, which wasn’t much different from how he navigated most every situation these days—but instead they found a small group of Negro men, women, and children engaged with preparing breakfast or breaking up their camp.
It unsettled him, how near they had been in the great stretch of woodland. If Daniel’s pathetic cries had attracted unwanted attention, these people could suffer for it as well. And if they were this close, that meant others might be as well.
Daniel followed Augustus over t
o where a man who resembled an older, more haggard version of Augustus was loading up the wagon. His hair was curly instead of pin straight and his skin a shade darker, though still light enough to unsettle Daniel at first glance.
“Jim, this here is Cumberland,” Augustus said. Daniel could hear something underlying his tone—deference? Apology? Or perhaps something more sinister? “I found him and his lady out in the woods, and thought it would be nice for them to travel with us. They headin’ toward Meridian, too, so it just makes sense.”
Jim heaved a sigh, and Augustus shifted from foot to foot and frowned.
“If it’s a problem, we can leave,” Daniel said. He didn’t know what the tension between the two men was, but he had troubles of his own and didn’t need to get drawn into anyone else’s.
“Ain’t no problem with you. It’s him that’s workin’ my last nerve. You got any siblings, Cumberland?” Jim asked, his gaze on Augustus.
“No.” He glanced to his side and found Janeta had wandered off. He tracked movement in his peripheral vision and saw she’d made her way toward the women and children as if they weren’t among possibly dangerous strangers. He would have thought she’d know to stick close to him, but if there was anything he’d learned about his partner it was that she was too trusting.
He looked back to Jim, who snatched off his hat and scrubbed at his curls.
“Then you might not understand how aggravatin’ it is when you tell your fool-head little brother not to go chasing into the dark woods for sounds that might be slavers baitin’ him, and he does it anyway.”
Daniel felt something move through his body in a wave—the slightest unclenching of clenched muscles. There was no faking that type of anger for the well-being of another. That didn’t mean Jim’s care extended to Daniel and Janeta, but it did mean that they likely weren’t a threat. At the very least, not the kind of threat Daniel had anticipated.
