I Have Seen Him in the Watchfires

by Cathy Gohlke

  “I’m sorry, Rebecca. I didn’t mean to, but—Ma—how is Ma?”

  “Rebecca?” the widow asked.

  Rebecca licked her lips and looked away. “She be poorly. Real poorly, last I saw her.”

  “What—”

  “She be feeble.” Rebecca stepped back. “She be feebleminded.”

  That’s when I heard the knock on the door. But I couldn’t take it in. “What do you mean, ‘feebleminded’?” I teetered on the edge.

  “Masta Robert, you best hide. You hide now, or they gonna drag you off!”

  “But I haven’t done anything!”

  Now the widow took hand. “I’ll not let them take you, for Wooster’s sake, for the fact you brought my boy home to me. Come in here.” I followed her into her bedchamber. The knocking grew to a pounding. “Climb between the mattress and the ropes, face down, so you can breathe. Help him, Rebecca, while I answer the door.”

  I felt a fool, letting two women hide me in a lady’s bedchamber. But in the last few months I’d been shot at, nearly drowned, half starved, sick near to death, arrested, and nearly shot for being a spy. I sure didn’t want to be hauled off by the home guard, especially now that I was so close to Ashland and Ma. So I climbed between the ticking and the ropes, staring straight at the floorboards, while Rebecca made the bed above me. When everything was to her liking I heard the window lift, a swish of skirts, then the window sliding into place.

  Voices rose from the next room. Footsteps pounded the halls, searched the very room in which I hid. “You’re certain he didn’t come in here?”

  “Mr. Hubner, the boy left my son’s bedroll and crutch, then took off. I’ve no idea where he’s gone, and I don’t expect him to return. I’m only grateful he helped my Wooster home.”

  “Maj. McCain wrote for us to be on the lookout for a boy answering his description, said he might try to bring Wooster home. He said Wooster got mixed up after Gettysburg. Thinks his enemies are his friends now. Said that boy is a Federal spy, might be using Wooster to get information, and if we can we ought to catch him and take care of him.”

  “I don’t know anything about all of that. And as you can see, Wooster isn’t fit to tell you anything. Now, I must ask that you leave here so I can prepare my boy for Dr. Macey—before it is too late.”

  The bedchamber door closed. Voices argued, rose and fell. I heard the front door open, footsteps fade down the walk, the door close, and a bar slide into place.

  Twenty-One

  Minutes passed before the window creaked open. It sounded as though someone climbed over the sill. Soft footfalls padded across the room, came near the bed—and I knew they were not Rebecca’s footsteps. I tried not to breathe. There was a swooshing sound on the floor beneath the bed. Suddenly a small, dark face peered through the bed ropes into mine, our noses not five inches apart.

  “My name’s Hezekiah. Mama calls me Hez.” It was the same small boy that had asked my name in the town square that morning, the child whose mother had swept him down the street.

  “I’m Robert.”

  “That’s right. That’s what Mama said.”

  “You were in the town square this morning.”

  “Nope. That was my brother, Sam.”

  “You sure about that?” He looked like the very same boy. Hezekiah giggled.

  “Sam and me’s twins. Can’t nobody tell us apart but our mama. She named Sam for a prophet and me for a king—said it suits us.” He nodded, solemn.

  Then it hit me. These were Rebecca’s twins—the mulatto twins born in the slave quarters at Grandfather’s Ashland the first time I visited there. He’d be about the right age. “Is Rebecca your mother?” Hezekiah nodded. “Where is your mama now?” I felt ridiculous talking to him through bed ropes.

  “She working down to the tavern. She tell me come see you. She said for me to tell you stay right where you are this day. Those mens is combing the streets, searching every house for you.”

  “Does Mrs. Gibbons know you’re here?”

  “No. But that’s fine. Sam and me runs errands for the widow all the time. She won’t mind. Mama said the widow’s got to tend her boy and don’t have time to be minding you too. She say I can keep you company.”

  “I can’t stay here. I’ve got to be on my way.”

  “Mama say you stay here till dark. She said Old George’ll take care of everything.” Hezekiah stopped, considering things. “You sure got a pretty horse.”

  I swallowed. Where was Stargazer now? “Do you know where my horse is?”

  Hezekiah shook his head. “But Old George know. He’s the best with horses anybody ever was.” Then Hezekiah patted my arm through the rope squares. “Don’t you worry. Old George takes care of everything. Everything be all right.” I wanted to believe that. “I got to go now. I’ll bring you something to eat later.”

  Hezekiah’s lips turned up into a smile before he scooted away. I heard him climb over the window ledge. Later the front door opened, and I heard the voices of the Widow Gibbons and a man, maybe Dr. Macey The door to the widow’s bedchamber never opened, but I could hear their muffled voices through the wall. I never heard Wooster. I wondered if he woke up, and if the doctor could bring down his fever. I wished the widow would come tell me something—anything—but I knew she had more important things on her mind.

  Light passed slowly across the floor. I dared not move, and I could barely breathe. I tried to sleep, but the ropes cut into my face—first one way, then the other. Finally my throat was crusted and the call of nature strong. It called to mind days Jeremiah and I’d spent riding in the false bottom of the Quaker family’s wagon. We learned mighty quickly to plan our eating and drinking and the times we’d be able to get out. I surely hadn’t planned for this.

  When I thought I couldn’t stand it a minute longer, I heard the window raised. In half a minute Hezekiah—or Sam, I couldn’t tell which—slid under the bed and stared into my face. He pressed his finger to his lips and whispered, “As soon as Mama come see the widow and they start talking loud you can slip out and do your business. Mama said she sure you got some by now. Said to use the widow’s chamber pot. She send some vittles for you, but says to be real quiet so the doctor don’t hear you in the next room.”

  “How’s Wooster? Did he wake up?” I whispered.

  Hezekiah shrugged. “Maybe Mama know after she see the widow.”

  A moment later I heard a knock and a door open in the far reaches of the house. Rebecca called, “Miz Gibbons? It Rebecca. I brought you some broth for Wooster. I made it fresh this morning over to the tavern. Is your boy awake yet?”

  “Oh, Rebecca, how thoughtful of you. It will be just the thing when Wooster wakes up! I haven’t wanted to leave his side, so I haven’t prepared a thing. Come in, come in.” There was some scuffling in the hallway. “There’s no change yet, but the fever’s just beginning to break.”

  “Thank the Lord. That a mercy.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is …” The widow and Rebecca kept a chatter running.

  Hezekiah lifted one corner of the mattress ticking, and I wriggled out. After I took care of everything needful, Hezekiah passed me a crock of stew and a slab of warm cornbread. I nearly choked it down, knowing there was not much time.

  Conversation in the next room slowed with the doctor’s plea. “Ladies! You must contain yourselves! This commotion will not help my patient.” Both ladies apologized at once. Their words came hushed, back and forth, still trying to cover for me.

  I slipped under the mattress ticking again as Hezekiah adjusted the covers above me. He slipped under the bed once more and whispered, “I near forgot. Mama said tell you when it gets dark she’ll send me to get you. Everybody goes to the love-feast early tonight. That be the time for you to sneak out.”

  “What about Stargazer—my horse?” I whispered.

  “Old George fix you up.” Hezekiah’s lips turned up as he pressed his finger to them again, then—just as fast—he slipped out and through the wind
ow.

  Maybe I did sleep after all, for it was nearly dusk when I heard Wooster moan through the wall, and the voice of his mother, “Wooster! Wooster!”

  There were murmurs and thanksgivings, and I knew Wooster must have woken up. Maybe he’d get his lovefeast, after all—or maybe they could bring it to him. I smiled, glad for him. But it made me itch to get on my way to Ma and Emily. I was so near—on Christmas Eve—half a day’s ride—and here I was, hiding under a mattress. Not for long. Surely Hezekiah would come soon. It was almost dark, near as I could tell.

  What had Rebecca meant about Ma being feebleminded? Was that what Andrew had been trying to tell me? I wanted to think on that and I didn’t. I tried to stretch. My muscles and joints had grown stiff in the cold room.

  A few minutes later I heard Dr. Macey in the hallway. “It won’t do him a bit of good to go out in the cold. He can attend next year’s lovefeast!”

  “But it may do his spirit a great deal of good, Doctor. His heart is set on it.”

  “I can see that, Widow Gibbons, but I must object. His fever’s just broken, and he’s weak as a kitten. There’s no buns, you know—the war… it’s only candles this year for the children.”

  “The Christmas Eve lovefeast is never ‘only candles,’ Doctor,” the widow chided. “And his mind seems made up—don’t you think so?”

  Dr. Macey sighed. “If you can’t dissuade him, make certain he is wrapped up warm and sits nearest the stovepipe in the church. I don’t believe he’s taken anything catching—just exhausted and undernourished. Fatten the boy up a bit!”

  “You know I will, Daniel!” The widow’s voice was smiling now.

  “More hot broth before he moves an inch and something solid tomorrow. I’ll check on him the day after. Call me if the fever returns.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you so very much for coming.”

  There were footsteps and then, “The Lord has seen fit to spare this boy to you, Widow Gibbons. I’m grateful.”

  “And I, Dr. Macey. And I.” The widow’s voice trembled.

  The door closed. The bar slid into place. The widow’s light footsteps hurried back to Wooster’s room. I slipped from the ticking, and, careful to crouch below the window ledge, rubbed life back into my arms and legs. A crack of light spread from beneath the door. I knew the widow was lighting her evening lamps.

  “Robert,” she whispered, stepping inside the door and closing it against the light just as quickly. “Wooster’s awake and asking for you.”

  “That’s good news!”

  “But you must be quick. Now that the doctor’s gone, my neighbors will all be stopping by to see how Wooster is and bringing their greetings and broths. There will be much coming and going. You won’t be able to hide here.”

  “Robert?” Wooster’s call was weak, but the sound of his voice blessed my ears.

  “Wooster!” I whispered back, creeping toward the door.

  “Stay low,” warned the widow. “We want no shadows before the windows.”

  I crawled to Wooster’s room while the widow busied herself in the parlor, lighting lamps to attract attention from the street.

  Wooster’s eyes stood wide in his pale face. He looked small and scrawny and lost in the mountain of pillows and quilts piled around him. It was all I could do not to laugh—mostly for the joy of knowing he was safe and finally home. But what I said was, “You lazybones.”

  He grinned. “Go home,” he said. “Go home to your ma and that girl.”

  I felt the heat creep up my neck, and I aimed to go and do just what he said. But I didn’t know if I’d see Wooster again, or when. I couldn’t think of anything fitting to say. I crawled across the floor, beside his bed, and reached up for his hand. His grip was weak, but he held on, and that was enough.

  His blue eyes bored through mine. “God go with you, Robert.”

  I nodded, tried to speak, but gave it up.

  “Robert,” the widow whispered, passing the doorway. “You must go now.”

  “Hezekiah said he’d come at dusk—that Old George would help me—”

  “They’ll be true to their word. Take this muffler.” She scooted it across the floor with her foot. “Wrap tight, and—”

  A knock came at the door.

  “Ach!” she blustered. “It’s started already.” She adjusted her cap and whispered, “You’d best slip outside the window as I answer the door. Crouch behind the shrubbery there and wait for him.” She turned to go. “If I don’t see you again, Robert—thank you. Thank you with all of my heart for bringing my son home.” She squeezed my arms as I crawled past. I swallowed hard. “Hurry now.”

  And that was it. I crawled back to the widow’s room and was out the window and crouched behind the shrubbery before I knew it, before I spoke again to Wooster. I wanted to tap a goodbye on his window, but I heard the widow and another lady talking, exclaiming over Wooster’s being alive. I knew I dared not risk it, for Wooster or for me. And then a tug came at my elbow. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  “You ready?” It was Hezekiah.

  “I never heard you coming.”

  “That right.” He tucked his hand in mine. “Old George say keep low and make our way to the north end of town, up by God’s Acre. He say put on this jacket and pull this hat low. If somebody come near, walk like you old—like you him.”

  I pulled on the coat and hat. Hezekiah grabbed my hand again. I followed him, amazed by how small he was, how he took it all in stride. He put me in mind of William Henry, when we were young boys, and the way he had of taking charge in everything we did, no matter that he was only six months older.

  We kept to the shadows along the bricked walks and sometimes cut through yards or wintered gardens. Wherever Hezekiah led, I followed. We reached the back of the churchyard as the town square lamps were lit. Hezekiah pulled my hand into the shadows. “We late. We got to wait now till they close the church doors. Too easy for somebody to see us cut up through the cemetery with those street lamps.”

  As if they’d heard, a group of men, shouldering muskets, marched down the path near the front of the church. “They’s home guard,” Hezekiah whispered and pushed against me, crowding us both into the church’s shadow. “They been lookin’ for you all day. I heard ‘em talkin’ down to the tavern. They say you a spy—that Maj. McCain want you took, no matter what.” Hezekiah waited till they’d passed. “Is you a spy?”

  “No,” I whispered. “I’m not a spy. I’m just trying to get to my family.”

  Hezekiah nodded. “That right. That what Mama said.”

  “Your Mama is a fine lady, Hezekiah.”

  “You can call me’Hez.’”

  “Thanks, Hez—King Hez.” I smiled and squeezed his hand. “And thanks for helping me.”

  “That all right. I like to do it. It better’n sweepin’ round that tavern all day, all night.” He peeked around the church corner. “Let’s go.”

  We’d started up the path again when we heard a long, shrill whistle—a man’s blast on two fingers. “Stop! You, there! Stop!”

  “Home guard!” Hezekiah cried. “Run! Run now!” He pushed me away from him and ran back down the hill, straight for the home guard, his arms outstretched. “Help! Help me!” he cried.

  I was too startled to run, didn’t know where to run.

  “Robert!” It was Old George, hidden behind a stone pillar. I dived into the shadows. “A block over and up this street-there be a coffeepot—on a post—climb inside—up from the bottom! I’ll lead them off this way. Stay put!” He pressed a penknife into my hand and took off through the graveyard.

  Hide in a coffeepot? Old George must have gone off his noggin. And what was the penknife for? I couldn’t protect myself with that!

  But I ran the direction he’d pointed. I kept to the shadows when I could, but gaining time was the thing needed now. Behind me I heard Old George cry out, “Help me! Help me! He here! He come by here!”

  I ran as fast, as hard as I could.
Most of the town filled the church, so the streets were bare. I ran till my side hurt, till I could barely breathe. I took a side street and ran the two blocks, having no idea where I was going, wondering if I was already running in circles, still wondering what Old George could mean—hide in a coffeepot on a post. How would I find a little pot in the dark? How would I hide inside?

  And that is when I saw it. A twelve-foot coffeepot stood, like a sign, an advertisement, on top of a wooden post outside a darkened tinsmith shop. The pot was gigantic—so big it stuck out into the street. It had to be the thing Old George intended. I could try running on, but I didn’t know where I was or which way to go, let alone how to find Stargazer. If I stayed I’d be a sitting duck—but a hidden sitting duck. “I trust you, Old George,” I whispered and headed for the pot.

  The street was empty, the windows of houses and shops darkened. How was I supposed to get inside? Old George had said to climb up through the bottom. I reached up, ran my hands around the outside, across the bottom, and found the latch for a door, a trapdoor. It wasn’t easy to pull it open, harder still to hoist myself up and pull the door to behind me. I had to straddle the trapdoor and try to catch the latch. That’s where Old George’s penknife came in handy. I shook my head. He’d thought of everything.

  There was room inside for three or more of me, but I had to keep my feet off the trapdoor. I was out of the night air, but in no time the cold from the tin seeped through my bones. There was no way I could stay there long without freezing. I prayed Old George had another plan.

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty minutes passed before I heard horses’ hooves pound the road in front of the tinsmith’s shop and voices shouting directions for a search of the area. My heart beat a pounding rhythm right along with them, and I prayed the riders would not see, would not think of the coffeepot standing in plain view. It seemed an unlikely place to hide. I wondered how Old George had conjured it.

  I wondered, too, what had become of him, if the home guardsmen had roughed him or believed whatever yarn he’d spun. They were still searching—that was certain—and knew for a fact I was somewhere in the town.