One of the men took a rope from behind his saddle. He made a loop and tossed it over Jake’s head and coiled it around his shoulders and chest, then yanked tight. Jake struggled, but his efforts only tightened the cords all the worse. Two or three of the riders jumped off their horses and grabbed his hands. Soon they were tied behind his back. The men took the other end of the rope and tied it somewhere, though Jake couldn’t see, then they scrambled back up onto their horses. Hardly knowing what they were doing, suddenly Jake heard a few shouts.
The horses galloped away. For a second or two he stood bewildered, then suddenly felt himself pulled viciously off his feet and along the ground. Up and down the rider dragged him behind his horse over the hard dirt. With his hands tied, Jake was powerless to protect his head. He twisted and bumped and tumbled behind the horse like a sack of potatoes. The rope cinched so tight around his chest that he could hardly breathe.
Laughter, shouts, and taunts mingled with the pounding of galloping hooves. He felt almost as if the horses themselves were trampling on his head.
Back and forth the soldier dragged him. His clothes ripped and tore. His bare skin was soon scraped and bleeding and caked with dirt. His head was pummeled to near unconsciousness.
The thought came into Jake’s battered mind that he was about to die. Fleeting memories of his mother, and even dimly behind them of his father, flitted through his brain.
Just as Jake’s awareness began to fade completely, an explosion of gunfire sounded. Another followed. Jake’s dull thought was that other riders were shooting as he tumbled over the ground. Their next shots would surely be through his head. His brain spun confused and out of control.
Shouts . . . more gunshots, louder this time. Why hadn’t his head been blown apart? Still he felt no bullet smashing into his chest or skull. How could they miss? Why was he still alive?
The horse had stopped. He lay flat on his stomach. Everything became still and quiet.
Though barely conscious, he struggled to listen. Horses were galloping away in the distance. Faintly he heard footsteps approaching. Then they stopped. Someone was standing next to him. He was dead now for sure. Standing straight above him, no one could possibly miss.
Warm, dreamy exhaustion filled him. His head swam in swirling light.
Then slowly everything went black.
MICAH DUFF
9
WHEN JAKE PATTERSON SLOWLY BEGAN TO COME TO himself, his first sensation was of a faint crackling sound. His brain was blurry and confused. Blackness surrounded him. He was cold.
Suddenly he knew what it was—it was the sound of a fire, the crackling of flames.
Was he dead? Had he woken up in hell!
The next thoughts that came were reminders of his dreadful secret, and what he had done and the terrible things he had said to his mother. No wonder he was here. He belonged to the devil now. It was nothing more than he deserved.
Slowly another sensation gradually filtered through into his senses . . . more crackling and sizzling. But with it came . . . what was it?
Jake sniffed at the chilly air.
It was the smell of bacon frying.
He struggled to turn toward it. Suddenly within him a thousand places screamed in pain. Every muscle, every bone, every inch of his body was scraped, cut, bruised . . . or worse.
A groan sounded. It seemed far away, yet Jake realized it had come from his own mouth.
He managed to open his eyes a crack. He could hardly move, but he could see. A few yards from him burned a small fire. A black pan sat on top of its coals from which apparently came the sound and smell of frying bacon. Now he noticed, along with it, the smell of coffee coming from a pot next to the pan.
Wherever he was, he thought, it couldn’t be hell. The fire was too small. And the old devil surely didn’t treat his guests with such luxuries!
Now he saw a few trees. The grey light of daybreak began to awaken his consciousness further . . . now more sounds . . . shuffling feet . . . indistinct voices . . . the occasional snort of horses from nearby.
He detected movement. He opened his eyes wider. There were men around, stirring in the morning mist . . . milling about . . . getting dressed . . . tending to their horses. They all wore the same color . . . the color of uniforms . . . he was surrounded by soldiers!
Another groan escaped Jake’s lips, this one of fear. He was alert now. He knew he was in danger! He had to get up . . . get away . . . get to the woods before they noticed he was awake! He had to get out of here!
But his groans had attracted someone’s attention. Jake struggled to turn his head. Beside the fire someone in a uniform stooped to one knee and stirred at the pan. He was dressed head to foot in dark blue.
The soldier turned toward him. The light of the fire flickered and reflected from the man’s face. Jake’s eyes shot open at the sight of it.
“So . . . you’ve come to at last,” said the man, revealing a smile of friendly greeting. He stood and walked toward where Jake lay. “I was beginning to think I’d lost you for good.”
All Jake could do was stare up in astonishment. The face looking down at him was black!
“Who . . . who are you?” Jake tried to say. He could scarcely speak. The words came out like the croak of a dying frog.
The man chuckled.
“You just lie still, son,” he said. “Don’t try to talk. Don’t try to do nothing.”
“But I gotta git outer here,” Jake said in a groaning whisper.
Again the man laughed. “You’re not going anywhere anytime soon, brother,” he said. “You got yourself mighty banged up. You got welts and bruises all over you, two or three broken ribs and maybe a broken arm besides. I don’t know if you could walk right now if you tried. So you lay still. You’ll be fine right here.”
“But where am I . . . who are you . . . what happened to those—”
Jake’s voice cracked. His mouth was too dry and his lips too cut and swollen to continue. The man saw him trying to lick at his lips, turned away for a minute, then returned and bent to one knee beside him. He slid a hand under Jake’s shoulders and lifted him slightly, then with his other hand put a cup of cold water to Jake’s mouth. With great effort Jake managed to sip at it, though it was painful to swallow, until he had downed about a third of it. The man eased him back down.
“The name’s Micah Duff, son,” said the soldier. “Private Duff. You’re with a company of Illinois volunteers heading for Chattanooga.”
“But . . . dose others . . . dose soldiers that . . .” Jake began.
“That was a small detail of rebs. They’d have killed you sure if I hadn’t come along. But they’re gone now. You don’t have to worry about them no more. I was out ahead of our company. That’s what I do—I’m a scout. And I tend the horses. I was scouting when I ran into them. Lucky for you I did too. In case you hadn’t noticed, they were wearing the grey of the Confederate rebels. We’re wearing the blue of the U.S. infantry. So are you.”
For the first time Jake looked at himself. His legs were covered by a blanket, and he saw that he too was wearing a blue army coat.
“It was all I had to wrap you in to keep you warm,” said the man named Duff. In Jake’s eyes, wearing the uniform of a soldier and having saved him from what would probably have been death, the fellow called Micah Duff looked fully a man. In Jake’s estimation, Duff might have been anywhere from twenty to thirty. In fact, he was but eighteen. He was only a few years older than Jake and hardly more than a boy himself.
Jake lay back and closed his eyes and tried to take in this latest change in his life. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. But he knew he was weak. And as he came more fully awake he realized the truth of what the young man had said—that he was seriously hurt and wasn’t going anywhere on his own anytime soon. He hurt everywhere!
He did his best to keep sipping at the water in the cup. Gradually he finished it and asked for a refill. After a little while, with Duff’s help, he
managed to sit up. Now his ribs and left arm really screamed out at him!
Duff handed him a cup of coffee. “Here,” he said, “this ought to help clear some of the fog out of your brain. It might not be too good, but it’s strong, which is all the men of this company expect. I’m not the cook, but a lot of them still come to my fire for their first cup of coffee in the morning. They say the cook’s coffee’s too weak.”
Jake took it with a grateful nod, and began sipping at the edges of the steaming cup. It was strong, all right!
“Now let’s see about that bacon!” said Duff. “You hungry?”
“I ain’t had no chance ter be hungry, suh,” replied Jake. “I’m barely waked up enuff . . . I’s still tryin’ ter figger out all what’s goin’ on.”
Duff laughed. “Well, you’ll be hungry soon enough, I reckon. By the way . . . what’s your name, brother?”
“Jake Patterson, suh.”
“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Jake,” said Duff, forking out several slabs of the sizzling pork onto two tin plates. He handed one to Jake. “But one thing we gotta get straight,” he went on, “—I ain’t no sir. I’m just a black man like you.”
“I ain’t no man, Mr. Duff,” said Jake. “I’s just a kid on da run tryin’ ter keep out er sight an’ make it to da norf.”
“How old are you, Jake?”
“I don’t know . . . twelve, I reckon, maybe thirteen by now. I kinder lose track er time hidin’ out like I been doin’.”
“Hey, Duff, looks like your invalid’s gonna make it after all,” a voice interrupted them. Jake turned to see a white man looking him over as he approached.
“Yes, sir,” said Duff. “I’m trying to get some coffee into him.”
“If anything will bring the life back into him, it’s your coffee! How you doing, son?” he said, glancing down at Jake.
“Uh . . . okay, suh.”
“Gimme a cup of that coffee of yours, Duff,” he said, handing the private an empty cup.
Duff filled it. The man took a sip, grimaced, then walked away.
“Well, Jake,” said Duff when he was gone, “I’m eighteen, so that makes me a little older than you, but not old enough for you to call me no sir. So you see, I’m just a few years ahead of you, though being a soldier makes a man of you quicker than other things.”
“Why are you a soldier, Mr. Duff? Ain’t you a slave?”
“A slave! I’ve never been a slave, Jake. I’m from Illinois and I’m as free as any white man alive. Why . . . were you a slave?”
“I’s still a slave, Mr. Duff,” said Jake.
“Talking to you, I’m not sure I like the mister any more than I do the sir. Nobody’s called me a mister in my life. All the men around here just call me Duff, or Private Duff. So why don’t you do that too, Jake, if you don’t want to call me by my name.”
“I’ll try, Mr. Duff.”
“What I want to know, then, is what all this is about with you being a slave. You can’t still be a slave . . . not while you’re here with us. Why do you say you’re still a slave?”
Jake glanced around and lowered his voice. “I’s a runaway, Mr. Duff,” he said. “Dat’s why I’s tryin’ ter git to da norf. I’s in a heap er trouble. Dat’s why I’s on da run.”
“Why you say you’re in trouble? What happened?”
Briefly Jake told him about his mother and about attacking the white drifter. But he didn’t tell him the worst of his secrets.
“What will dey do ter me, Duff?” Jake asked when he was through. “Da white soldiers . . . what dey do when dey fin’ out I’m a runaway?”
“They won’t do anything. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you—you’re with friends now. You might as well get used to it, ’cause you’re going to be with us for a spell, at least until you get recovered enough to walk.”
“But what will I do? I ain’t no soldier like you.”
“You let me worry about that,” said Duff. “You can help me with the horses. Nobody’s going to bother you. Once you’re up and about, I’ll make sure you earn your grub. You know anything about horses?”
“A little. My papa wuz real good wiff horses. Dat’s what he did.”
“He was a slave too?”
Jake nodded. “Till he lef’ us,” he said. “I ain’t seen him since I wuz a little kid.”
Duff took in the statement thoughtfully but did not reply. He could tell from the cloud that came over Jake’s face, there was more to the story. He was curious, but he would let whatever he might need to know come out when the time was right. Micah Duff may have been young, but he was wise enough to know that there is a time to press and a time not to.
NEW SURROUNDINGS
10
PRIVATE DUFF WAS RIGHT. IT TOOK JAKE A LONG time to recover from his injuries. The company couldn’t stop and take time for him to mend just because they’d picked up a runaway black. They had to keep going. And those next few days were mighty painful for Jake.
Private Duff did his best to make a comfortable place for him to lie in one of the wagons, with as many blankets as they could spare. But the bouncing and bumping hurt so much that there were times Jake didn’t think he could stand it. There is nothing quite so painful as broken ribs. Every bump the wagon wheels went over sent jabs from a hot iron straight into his chest. But Jake didn’t have much choice, unless he wanted to ride on a horse. That would have hurt even more.
Getting used to his new surroundings, getting used to the routine, and getting used to the kindness both the white and the black soldiers showed him helped the days gradually pass. Ribs are also mighty slow to heal, but gradually he was able to put up with the pain a little better.
There were only three blacks in the company. It took a lot of getting used to being around so many white men who didn’t treat him like a slave. Watching Micah Duff and the other two colored men behave around the white soldiers was like nothing Jake had ever seen before. They acted like he’d never seen any black person act around whites.
Though Private Duff was busy doing all the things that soldiers do, he had time to take care of Jake too. Whenever the company stopped, and especially every evening when they made camp, he tended most of the horses—though some of the officers took care of their own. But he still did everything he could to make Jake comfortable. He brought him food and water and checked his bandages every once in a while. Jake began to think that Duff was part doctor as well as everything else he did!
After a week or so, Jake began to get around pretty good. He could use his right arm to eat and get his shirt on and off and do most of the things he needed to do. But Private Duff still tended him as faithfully as ever. A lot of the white soldiers took an interest in Jake too. They came around when they were camped to ask about him and see if there was anything they could to do help. Before long, the whole company had adopted Jake as if he was one of their own men.
Though he was always busy, in his own way Micah Duff was a quiet young man. There were times as Jake woke up in the morning, before he said anything or tried to get up, when he just watched his new friend—whether Duff was feeding and watering the horses in the distance, or tending the fire or brewing his well-known early morning pot of coffee, Jake found himself wondering what Private Duff was thinking about. There was a look in his eyes that made Jake curious, a look that made it seem as if more was going on inside his brain than he let on. At least that’s how it seemed to Jake. Of course, there was more going on in Jake than he let on too.
Cheerful and friendly though he was, Micah Duff knew the value of quiet. He knew how to let silence speak, how to let the quiet say what it had to say. He didn’t try to fill the air up with words every minute. At first, after he got to feeling better, Jake squirmed a bit at the silence. But gradually he grew more comfortable with it. That helped him pay more attention to things around him. Watching Micah Duff not only taught him how to enjoy the quiet, it also taught him how to look and observe and notice things he wouldn’t have seen
before.
Private Duff didn’t come right out and tell Jake what he was thinking. He didn’t say, “Now, Jake, you need to learn to listen to what the silence has to show you.” He let him sit with him at the fire and stare into it, neither of them saying a word for maybe twenty minutes until Jake was at peace with the silence. He let Jake figure out for himself that sitting quietly with your own thoughts was a good thing.
As time went on, he taught Jake a lot with words too. But the words always followed the quiet watching and observing and listening. First came the silence, then came the words. For a long time the two of them would sit staring into the red and yellow and orange flames licking at the chunks of wood, which popped and sizzled occasionally.
Fire’s got an attraction and lure to it. You can’t help staring into it. Mesmerizing is what you’d call it. Staring into a fire helps quiet you down. One day after waking up early, everything was already quiet around them.
After a long time, Private Duff finally spoke. His voice was soft.
“Light’s a pretty amazing thing, isn’t it, Jake?” he said.
“Uh . . . I reckon so,” said Jake.
“Just think what it would be like without light,” Duff went on. “We wouldn’t know what anything looked like. Imagine what night must have been like before there was fire. Must have been pretty fearsome, not knowing if the sun was going to come up again.”
“Why would dey hab thought dat?” asked Jake.
“I don’t know that they did,” replied Duff. “But back in those days a long time ago, the world was a fearsome place to the first men and women who didn’t know how things were. I imagine them being afraid when the cold and darkness came, and maybe being afraid the sun was gone forever. Darkness is a fearsome thing, don’t you think, Jake?”
“I reckon so.”
Again it was quiet. They stared into the fire a long time. After a while Duff stood up and took a few steps away from the fire. Jake hadn’t noticed from staring into the flames, but the light of dawn had begun to show at the eastern horizon. Duff stood staring at it for the longest time, with Jake staring at him. The men around the rest of the camp were beginning to stir.
A Perilous Proposal Page 5
