At night he could move unseen. The rebel army was encamped, eating, and soon enough would be asleep. They would surely post sentries, but if he were lucky enough not to stumble on the perimeter of a campsite, he would not encounter them. Now was the time. Opening his haversack, he took out his Bible. Between the testaments was the drawing of the green-winged teal that Anna had made for him years before. He kissed it, and when he did he saw her face before him. He looked up at the moon, the same Virginia moon she might be looking at just at that moment. He could hear her wishing him Godspeed.
Taking a bearing from the stars, he set off to the east.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Walk through the Valley
The skills of a sailor can come in very handy, even on land. Lacking map or compass, Sam navigated by the stars. The Virginia sky had been his guide since the war began. He had studied charts before the battle; during the approach to Richmond he kept track of his position. He had a pretty fair idea of where he was. The James River, slow and wide, ran southwards and east towards the Chesapeake Bay. All the other big rivers in eastern Virginia did, too. He could not follow the James back along the path of the Union army’s retreat. The rebels would have set up lines just in front of the Union lines, somewhere between the field of battle and Bermuda Hundred. If he followed the James he would have to cross right through them to get back to his own troops. The James was no route to freedom.
If he could hold a course due east for fifteen miles or so, he would reach the Chickahominy, which fed into the James. Even if he navigated poorly and missed it, he would reach the larger York River in thirty miles. Either one offered some possibility of an encounter with a Union vessel—if a Confederate patrol didn’t stumble on him first. Night was his ally. Who would choose to go out searching for a lone wounded Union soldier when he could just as easily be asleep?
He could travel only very slowly. He had never walked with a crutch, let alone a homemade one. The ground was uneven, shifting from rocky and treacherous to wet and boggy in the course of a few hundred yards. A week’s worth of rain had put a new face on the terrain. Water had accumulated in every ditch and hollow. Where the ground was naturally marshy, it was now a swamp. To his great relief, the weather had changed dramatically in his favor. The stars blazed like torches in the cool indigo sky, and the moon lit his path like a lantern. Had he been healthy, he could have walked almost as though it were daytime. As it was, the pain in his left leg reminded him continually of the need for unusual care. Any misstep sent a jolt through it. He was alone and unarmed in hostile Virginia; if he should slip and worsen the injury, all chance for escape was lost.
He stopped frequently to drink from his canteen and orient himself by the heavens. It was at those moments that his thoughts flew to Anna Daisey. As his eye sought out the constellations that would lead him eastward, he imagined his destination to be Assateague Island, the farthest point eastward before the sea began. She wasn’t that far away, as the crow flies, but still impossibly far. He pledged again to himself and to his Anna that he would return to her.
Early on, his path was marked by the devastation of battle. The wreckage of equipment was everywhere: shattered caissons, broken wagons, dead horses. It was easy to see even by moonlight how strong the rebel force had been. Far stronger, he thought, than any Union general had imagined. It was no wonder that the day unfolded as it did. Drewry’s Bluff had dealt the Union another unexpected card. This one had proved an ace.
When the absolute dead of night had passed and the faintest stirrings of the oncoming day made themselves felt, he began to seek out shelter. Sunrise would be too late to search for a hiding place. By the time the dawn chorus of songbirds had replaced the shrill piping of the nighthawks, he had to be well concealed in a spot that prying Confederate eyes were unlikely to find. He figured he was about halfway to his destination. Time would tell. If he had not navigated well there was no saying where he might be headed. If his reckoning were good, another night’s travel might find him on the banks of the Chickahominy River. This was the time to rest. His leg was sometimes sore and sometimes numb. The splint held, but it could do only so much. His arm was rubbed raw by the crutch. For now, he needed a respite more than anything else.
In the dim light he spied the trunk of a huge fallen tree. It appeared to have been struck by lightning. Ten or twelve feet remained standing; the rest lay nearby. Moss and decay were overtaking it. The trunk had been split partially open by the strike. With a little effort a person might wriggle inside, if he were thin enough. Sam figured he was. Using a long stick, he probed the tree with for snakes. Nothing crawled out. He stepped inside the trunk with his good leg, dragging the other behind it. The sky was noticeably lighter now. He could just barely make out his surroundings within the tree trunk: leaves, fallen branches, club moss. He found that he could sit with his broken leg extended. It was a godsend. He could sleep.
He was surprisingly hungry. He took it as a good sign. He ate half the rations he carried in his sack and drank his fill from his canteen. For the moment, he was alive and safe. He let his head lean backwards onto the splintered wood of the tree and breathed deeply. One night’s journey done. It was as though angels had come to lift the burden from his soul. In minutes he was asleep.
Sam was awakened by the sound of conversation and marching boots. In his half-slumber, he imagined himself back among the Union line, but when he roused himself and looked around he remembered. Peering up through the veil of leaves above him, he saw that the sun was high. A group a men was nearby—who were they? He pressed himself flat against the tree trunk. Only someone who made the effort could see him. If these were Confederate troops, and one of them did look inside, he was a dead man. He lay still as stone. The group stopped nearby. He heard the clanking of metal and the sounds of horses, then the heavy creaking of wagon wheels. The wagons were some distance behind. When they caught up the whole procession moved past him. Many wagons passed, pulled by teams of horses. The men spoke little. He could not make out what they were saying. Most likely they had brought supplies to the army and were returning for more. Soon they faded into the distance, and silence returned. He breathed deeply again, and the tension left his aching body. He had been lucky. Any thought of moving during the day left him.
He slept again, fitfully, the heat of the afternoon increasing until near sundown. When night fell he stepped from the shelter of the old tree, his joints stiff from their confinement. Darkness was his liberator. Cool air washed over his face. It was time to move. With his knife he shaved some wood away from the support of the crutch so that it fit his shoulder better. The pain in his leg had dulled, or perhaps he was learning to ignore it. He tightened the straps around the makeshift splint. He was hungry. There was little left in his haversack. Tonight he had to make the Chickahominy. He closed his eyes and thought of Anna Daisey:
She stood beside her house on Chincoteague, a bunch of wildflowers in her hands. What kind? He looked at her, and waited for her to speak; her lips were parted as if to speak, but she said nothing. He did not recall what he said, but she smiled.
The ground was firm and flat. Again, by the grace of God, the moon was bright. He checked the stars, gritted his teeth, and set off due east.
He passed no towns. When he crossed over tilled ground, he was careful to look for the nearby farmhouse and stay well clear of it. The farms were quiet at night. Foraging deer were often silhouetted against the horizon. They would raise their bowed heads as he approached and then amble away. Once, a pair of red foxes darted across his path. He saw no sign of soldiers.
The smell of wood smoke put him on alert. Did it come from a farmstead chimney, or a patrol encamped nearby? When he caught the scent all his senses were heightened. He would stop, ears straining for the crackling of a fire or the sound of men talking. He peered into the darkness for the dancing light of flames. Seeing none, he would continue, moving from tree to tree in case someone might suddenly emerge from the woods. A sentry who o
verheard him might think he had heard a bear.
No sentry appeared. The terrain was more even than it had been the first night, the ground drier and easier to navigate. Sam pushed through his fatigue and pain. He did not want to risk another day on the run. He was tired of hiding.
He could tell that daybreak was not far away when he descended a grassy hill and was greeted by the most welcome sight he could imagine: the reflection of the moon in the Chickahominy River. It had to be the Chickahominy. None of the little streams he had crossed along the way had amounted to anything. This was a river, to be sure, the first waterway of any size that he had encountered. He stood still and gave thanks to Heaven.
He had stepped onto a muddy landing just beyond a sharp bend. Groves of willows lined the bank up ahead. The opposite shore looked flat and level.
Around the bend came a boat, moving slowly. A lantern hung in its stern. Sam shrank back and hid himself in the brush. To his horror, the boat made directly for the landing. If its pilot beached his boat there, he would not be twenty feet from Sam. Still, if he did not move he might escape detection. He unsheathed his knife and waited, barely breathing. The sky was still dark.
The boat glided noiselessly onto the mud. It was a big rowboat, with no mast or sail. A lone man rowed it. Cargo filled the bow: a large pile of fish. When the keel scraped to a halt, the oarsman leapt out, splashing through the shallow water towards shore. He took hold of the gunwale and pulled the boat farther onto land, beaching it. He stood still, his back to Sam, and then turned to face in his direction. Leaning backwards with his hands braced on his lower back he stretched himself into a curve. He appeared to have been rowing a long time. His feet were bare. He wore ragged canvas pants and a homespun shirt that hung loosely around his long neck. A straw hat covered his head. He stood up straight and took his hat off to wipe his brow. The moon shone fully on his face.
He was black.
Sam Dreher did not know what a lone Negro was doing rowing a boat full of fish down the Chickahominy River in the dark of night. They were in Virginia, so the man must be a slave. Sam was unfamiliar with the laws and customs of slavery, but his instincts told him that a slave in this situation was probably doing something he ought not to be doing. So was he. That would make them allies.
He could only guess when another boat might come along, and who might be in it. He decided his chances were better with this man. He stood and stepped forward out of the brush.
With the quickness of a snake, the man reached into his boat, coming up with a long curved knife. Dropping back to his place, he spread his feet wide into a fighting stance. Sam realized he still held his knife as well. He leaned on his crutch and raised his arms over his head. The man said nothing.
Sam broke the silence in a low voice. “I am a Union sailor,” he said.
The black man stared at him, looking closely at his uniform in the moonlight. “Put away that knife, then,” he replied.
Sam didn’t stand much of a chance in a fight. Had he wished, his opponent could have attacked already. He sheathed his knife. The other man stowed his knife in his belt and moved closer. They could see each other clearly now.
“What are you doin’ here?” the Negro asked Sam.
“Trying to get down this river to the James,” Sam replied.
“And that leg?”
“Broken in the battle.”
“Battle two days back?”
“The same.”
The man nodded. “You took a lickin’, ain’t that so?”
“So I hear,” said Sam. “I was left behind.” The man said nothing. Sam was still unsure of him.
“And what might you be doing here?” Sam asked.
The black man laughed a low, throaty laugh. Suddenly a wide smile covered his face. “That sure is some question for a crippled Yankee soldier to be askin’ just now, ain’t it?”
Sam was unsettled. “Well?”
The man laughed again, a deep huh huh huh. “Sorry to say you won’t be gettin’ an answer. But if you can let that part go, I believe I can help you.”
It was good enough for now. It had to be; Sam had few choices.
“My name is Sam Dreher,” he said, and extended his hand. The black man stepped forward to meet him. “Ain’t you the gentleman,” he said. “They call me Moses.” He took Sam’s hand in a powerful grip. He towered over him.
“Now this is what we’re goin’ to do,” Moses declared, staring him full in the face. “About a minute is all I need. You're goin’ to wait for me, and then I’ll fix you up. You follow that?” Sam nodded. “Set yourself down on that log over there, right out in the open, and keep quiet. No need to concern yourself with anything you’ll see here tonight.” Sam did as he was told.
Moses climbed up the grassy bank a little ways and leaned back, cupping his hands to his mouth. Sam heard the sound of a nighthawk, but lower and longer. Three times. Moses retreated to the side of his boat. In less than a minute three black men emerged from the woods nearby, quick as cats. One by one they embraced Moses silently. They were dressed much like him. One was older, his hair shining silver in the moonlight. Immediately they spotted Sam, and froze; Moses held a finger to his lips and shook his head up and down: go ahead. Nothing to fear. He leaned over the gunwale of his boat and reached under the pile of fish, pulling back the corner of a canvas tarpaulin. He held out his arm. A face emerged from beneath the canvas cover. Out of the boat stepped a black woman.
She smoothed out her skirts and pushed back the kerchief that covered her hair. The older man stepped forward and took her in his arms. He turned and placed a hand on Moses’ broad shoulder, lingering only momentarily. Waving a silent farewell, the group disappeared into the woods.
Moses walked to Sam. “What did I tell you?” he asked. “One minute, I said.”
“Where is she going?” Sam asked.
“Where are you from, yourself?”
“Pennsylvania.”
“Ain’t that something. That’s where she’s goin’. Her son’s been there for some time. Things go right, she’ll be with him Sunday this time.”
Sam knew now what he had witnessed. He had heard of it, but never seen it operating up close. They called it the Underground Railroad. It was the way slaves escaped their southern owners.
“What part of Pennsylvania?” he asked.
“Don’t know.”
“Don’t know, or can’t say?”
“Don’t know. But if I did know, I couldn’t say.”
“You do your work well,” Sam complimented Moses.
The broad smile crossed his face again. “I like to think so,” he said. “Had enough experience at it.” He crossed to the boat and took hold of the bow.
“You can’t help me with this, can you?” Sam shook his head.
“Don’t you worry about it,” said Moses, grunting with the effort. He dragged the rowboat along the bank until it was hidden in a thick tangle of tall weeds and overhanging boughs. “That’s where we’ll keep her safe until nightfall,” he said, wiping his hands on the grass. With his bare foot, he smoothed over the track left by the keel of the boat, and scattered a handful of pebbles in his path. A canvas bag was slung over his shoulder. He carried the lantern from the boat.
“Now follow me and we’ll get you set up.” He stared at the sky. It was beginning to lighten very faintly. “Get along, Samuel, no time to waste here.”
Sam followed him fifty paces upstream. They were in thick growth now. They climbed up the incline of the bank, Sam making progress laboriously with his crutch. Moses stopped by an enormous willow tree. A huge bough had cracked off and lay on the ground. Moses expended a hand.
“Hop on over this best you can,” he said. Sam swung his leg carefully over the bough and stood on the far side. Just behind it was a tunnel was cut into the hillside, facing the river. Its entrance was cloaked by tall grass. Moses motioned with his arm.
“Get on in here,” he said, holding up the lantern so that Sam could see insi
de the tunnel. It was made of packed earth, three or four feet high and twenty feet deep. Sam peered into the shadows. It could shelter many people at once. “This is where you goin’ to stay today,” said Moses. “I’ll come back for you when it’s full dark.” Sam was puzzled.
“Where will you be in the meantime?” he asked.
“Don’t you mind,” Moses chided him. “If anyone should ask you, you don’t know, do you? Safer that way. Don’t you worry, though. Folks stay here all the time.”
Moses reached into his bag. “You hungry, Samuel?” Sam was very hungry. He nodded. Moses brought out bread and salt fish. “You got water for the day?” Sam had refilled his canteen. He had enough. “Till dark, then,” said Moses, turning with a wave of his hand. He was gone.
For Sam Dreher the day passed quickly, most of it in blessed sleep. He could stretch out fully in the tunnel, his head lying on his rucksack. It was almost unnaturally quiet. From time to time a warm breeze would waft inside. The faint songs of birds and the buzzing of insects seemed far, far away. In late afternoon, as the shadows cast by the sun grew deeper, Sam dragged himself to the opening of the tunnel and looked out cautiously through the grass. He saw no movement but the gentle swaying of leaves in the breeze. A little ways below him, the Chickahominy flowed silently past, green and dark. It was a slow, shallow river, hardly navigable by a boat of any size. He crawled back into his makeshift shelter and slept, the burden of the last three days heavy on his tired body.
When darkness fell, Moses came for him as he had promised. The moon was low on the horizon when he parted the tall grass at the entrance of the cave.
The Sea is a Thief Page 23
