by Peter Troy
They’re back with a good haul while you’re still getting the crowd all together. And then you tell them about where you come from. And how you gonna get them to freedom. They listen like you was Mrs. Tubman, and you figure it’s ’cause you the man with the Spencer Repeater. Then you realize Thomas still got it, from when you gave it to him to go back with the boy for the tools. And you think maybe there’s something more than havin’ the Spencer that makes them listen to you.
It’s an hour before you get them all to the railroad bridge over the Edisto River. Where the Savannah-Charleston line crosses. And you know straight off that this is where your Daddy made his jump. Thomas looks at you. So does Momma. ’Cause they know. You shoot a glance at Bellie, but she’s smilin’ and talking to folks, like the place means nothin’ at all. And you nod. Knowing that she doesn’t need to know. Doesn’t need to think the way you do, the way Thomas and Momma do, too. That maybe your Daddy picked out this place to jump that train ’cause he knew it’d do just the job it done. And oh—how you wanna do something about it. How you wanna shoot something. Someone. But you can’t let yourself drift back into that fog that led you to kill Dunmore and the Embrys. This ain’t just about you now.
There’s some Union soldiers walking along the rail line, in something like formation. Twenny thirty of ’em. A patrol, most likely. But the shots you heard that morning came from upriver of Les Roseraies, not down. And you know that means Sherman an’ his army must be all around this place. Farther west maybe, the way this patrol is walkin’ with their rifles at the ready. They halt and look at you an’ your crew of twenty-two runaways. Women and a couple of old men’n boys. And one or two men around your age. But they focus on you. Focus on that Spencer Repeater strapped to your back.
The leader, a Lieutenant, stares down at you from just that thirty forty feet above. So you nod. Like you the man he’s dealin’ with, if there’s need for dealin’. But he just turns to the back of his line and hollers some orders. Only he’s not instructing his men, but the fifteen twenny runaways he’s got following at a long safe distance. Tells ’em to follow you. And then there’s forty-one of you, counting yourself. And now you’re really like Mrs. Tubman. Moses. Leading ’em out of Egypt.
It takes a while to assemble everyone together once the new ones are with you. Turns out there’s another twenty or so not far off that couldn’t keep up with the soldiers, these folks say. And you tell the two best men from the new ones to go back an’ get ’em. Meet you on this side of the river. And they go, straight off.
You give Thomas the shotgun and tell him to take Momma and Bellie and all but the boy that took the tools and three other good men. Tell him to lead the rest on down the river far as they can go ’til they’re ready to fall over. And you’ll be there by nightfall. Momma and Bellie are the only ones that don’t do just as you said. Feeling like they finally got to have you in their lives again, after they thought you were gone forever. And now you gonna leave them again. So, no. They say. But they go eventually. When Thomas tells ’em you’re only doin’ what his friend woulda done, what Samuel, your Daddy, woulda done.
Thomas gets them moving, and you smile just a little to see him like this. Like that fear got so built up that it just spilt out and onto the ground and now he’s back to bein’ a man. Not a mule. Or maybe it’s ’cause he ain’t just thinking for himself now either. But you don’t waste any time trying to figure these things out. Instead you get the boy and the three other men and tell them to cut every short tree they can find to make into rafts. You go too, and when the first buncha branches and small tree trunks gets brought back, you stay with the boy. Show him how to set the thick ones on the bottom. Make a frame. Then the small ones on top. You and he finish the first one and get the frames for five more all set. And it’s getting late in the afternoon now and no sign from the ones who fell behind the troops. So you leave the boy behind to finish the rafts, and set off with the Spencer.
You’re not more than a mile from the railroad when you hear a few shots. Sound like tiny snaps, and you know they’re not from the Union soldiers or any local man with a shotgun. A pistol probably. Maybe a twenny-two. Somebody in over his head, considerin’ your Spencer. And that’s just what it is. An overseer from one of the local plantations got a six-shooter he’s using to try and corral the stragglers back. Like they’re cattle gonna get spooked so easy. And there they are laying down on the ground, kids, old folks, and the two good men you sent off to find them. You pull out that Spencer and start firing. Seven shots go like nothin’, even though you don’t aim at nothin’ but sky. Just to create some noise.
You reload, easy as can be with this breechloader. Then he fires one, and you know where he is. An’ you let go, seven more shots almost right where he’s standing. But not exactly. Feeling somehow that you can’t kill this fool. Feeling like you don’t want to kill anyone unless you have to. And it’s all quiet as you reload, wondering how that hate’s not there anymore. ’Til the runaways start percolating. Stand up, watching the overseer ride off south. And then they jubilate some. Before the men you sent to get them tell’m to come on.
You’re back to the meeting place as it’s getting on sundown. And the boy and the three other men you left got four more decent-size rafts ready to go. You figure the math in your head. More than sixty of you and five rafts means twelve or thirteen for each one. So you get fourteen onto the weakest one, just to be sure. When it doesn’t sink, just getting the passengers a little wet is all, you smile at the boy. Who reminds you of yourself more than ever.
It’s well past dark when you get to No Man’s Land. See the ones from Les Roseraies. Announce to everyone that they’ll be safe just a few miles more down the river. And then it’s everyone onto the rafts, and all the stuff they carried is left behind. ’Cause it don’t matter when you that close to freedom. And floatin’ down those cool waters starts some of ’em singin’ in low, humming voices. And you don’t do anything to stop ’em.
You spend that night on the beach, two men standin’ guard to the west in case anyone followed you. And you telling them about Edisto Island where there’s a school for colored folks and whatever they’re gonna need. Just waitin’ for them, that close. Next mornin’ you go in that rowboat across the inlet with Thomas and a few others. Find that Quartermaster Corporal that gave you the rowboat in the first place. Tell him about the folks on the mainland. Only there don’t seem to be any more boats available. Not with Sherman coming this way. ’Course, a hundred dollars makes them boats reappear. And by the early afternoon every one of them folks, all sixty-three of ’em, are off the shore. And on Edisto Island. Free.
Takes another fifty dollars to buy food from the Quartermaster Corporal. At least something more than the hardtack and some halfrotted potatoes he usually gives out to runaways. And then a sort of feast breaks out. ’Cause these folks ain’t breathed this sea air, or anything like freedom, ever. And you think, seeing them like this. Jubilatin’. That it makes up for the disappointment your own freedom was. ’Cause this ain’t just about you now. When one of the strays you went back for, a preacher of sorts, gets to praying, they all join in. Thomas and Momma and Bellie do, too. And soon they’re asking the Lord to bless you in a special way. Like you’re their Moses. Like the Lord sent you here to find ’em.
And in the middle of all the jubilation, you walk off just to be on your own, for a few moments. Breathing deep, thankful breaths. Thanking your Daddy for everything he taught you about being a man. Preparing you for this very day. And you say goodbye to him, like you never got to, years ago. Telling him your inheritance, that indigo field … thousand pounds or not. Has come in at last.
MARY
RICHMOND
APRIL 2, 1865
So it turns out that everything’s falling all at once, instead of the slow crumble it’s been these last nine or ten months. Mista Kittredge has been all out of sorts with the Misses ever since February, when the dress shop got closed down altogether. And with h
ow Mista Kittredge sold off all the slaves except Cora and Ginny and Mabel in the kitchen, and Mary, of course, it looks like the Mista and Misses’ll be startin’ off down in Carolina with nothin’ like the household they had just a year ago.
Richmond’s become a corpse. And saddest of all is that there’s all these people still around to watch it get buried, Mary included, watchin’ it whimper to a sad end while most folks are still holding on to memories of its past glory. The whole South is gettin’ to be a memory, too, and slavery right along with it, and now it’s just the hardest part left. Mista Kittredge has his sources in the war department, he always says, and they told him the end wouldn’t come ’til early June at best, late April at worst. There isn’t any more money to be made from the folks of Richmond anyway, since any flour and cornmeal has been requisitioned directly by the war department for months now, and it only ever trickles its way down to the soldiers and civilians in little bits not anywhere close to filling any of their bellies. Mista Kittredge still has a few barrels left from months back, but nobody’s got much of anything to buy them with.
Still, what bothers Mista Kittredge, and the Misses especially, is that they won’t be able to take most of their best things with them on that last train out of Richmond. It’ll just be those two trunks full of silver tea sets and picture frames and gold jewelry wrapped in silk-laced curtains that they managed to slip out already on a train bound for Danville, Virginia. The Misses’s brother was supposed to pick that up when it arrived a week ago, but they have no way of knowin’ if it got there or not, since the telegraph is for military communication only now, and there hasn’t been any mail in at least a month.
So Mista Kittredge announced just the day before that by the end of the week they’d be leavin’. It’d be Mista Kittredge and the Misses and Justinia and a few more trunks of picture frames and linen and clothes and such … and Mary, all gettin’ on a train to Danville. He said it to Cora and Mabel and Ginny like it was the worst news they could ever hear in their whole lives, that they’d be left behind. And Cora and Mabel and Ginny did their best not to break out in laughter and celebration right there, savin’ it for a minute later when they walked in the kitchen. When Cora saw Mary not long after that, she just nodded her head up and down with her lips pursed tightly and her hands perched on her hips.
See that now, she said, you jus’ like a little pup to them what they figure they can take wit’ ’em wherever they goes.
And Mary looked sternly at her, using every bit of anger she could find within herself to keep from crying in front of her. She’d thought the same kind of thing, too, wondering why she’d be the one to go and not Ginny or Mabel who at least knew how to cook. But she offered Cora her own explanation.
Juss wants me to go with them, she said, purposely not putting the Miss in front of her name and then walking out of the room.
So Miss Juss wants her little pup t’come along, Cora said, and walked away with a look on her face as if she’d been right all along.
But then the morning of April 2 brings news of a Yankee victory south of Petersburg, and Justinia and Mary are sent to her room to pack one trunk, that’s all, ’cause they may be leavin’ as early as the next morning. Of course, Justinia has no interest in packing, wantin’ only to talk to Mary about what, or more especially who, she’s leavin’ behind.
I can’t leave him here! Justinia says, talking about Lieutenant Farnsworth. What if he’s wounded? What if he’s been captured? When this is over, he won’t know where to find me.
Aww, Juss he’ll find ya, Mary answers. Lieutenant Farnsworth knows about your Momma’s brother down in Carolina. He’ll be comin’ lookin’ for ya, Juss.
He knows about them livin’ in Raleigh. He doesn’t know that they’ve moved to Greensboro! I haven’t seen him since we got that letter from Uncle James last month.
Mary’s been able to see Justinia growin’ up fast these last few years. And the tears Juss cries now are not the sort from the spoiled child she used to be but a woman’s, filled with the sadness of everything that’s beyond her control. Mista Kittredge wouldn’t give his consent on their gettin’ engaged back at Christmas, but he did let them leave off with a sort of understandin’, like they were engaged to get engaged once the war’s over. Still, Mary knows that having an understandin’ is as good as bein’ engaged in a woman’s eyes, and she feels something awful for Juss. She wants to at last tell her about Micah, and tell her how much she knows exactly what she’s feelin’. But there’s no time for any of it, ’cause the Misses bursts into the room, frantic.
Today! We’re going today, she says breathlessly. Right now! The final train is leavin’ in an hour. The Yankees broke the lines at Petersburg and—oh, it’s awful. Your father says we can take one trunk for all of us, an’ even that he’s not sure of—so you’ll have to wear as much as you can. One dress over another. Wear your jewelry, but cover it with a shawl—oh—hurry Justinia. Your father says this is the only train he knows for certain we can get aboard. The troops are retreatin’ through the city right this moment. Hurry!
And with that she’s out of the room and off to her own. But Mary and Justinia have nothin’ like her sense of panic.
Did you talk to your Momma about stayin’? Mary asks, as if all that news hasn’t sunk in.
Of course not. Do you see her? She’d never allow it.
Maybe if I—
But then they can hear her father’s footsteps in the hallway approaching the door to her room, and both of them bounce up off the bed and over to her closet. Mary pulls a few dresses out and pretends to be sortin’ through them with her as her father knocks loudly on the door.
Justinia!
Don’t come in Daddy! I’m not decent!
We hafta go! Immediately!
We’ll be downstairs in two minutes, she replies, then looks desperately at Mary.
Now, Justinia! her father shouts.
Help me put these dresses on, Justinia mumbles to Mary with a look of surrender.
She picks two of her plainest dresses out and hands them to Mary. Mary’s surprised at the random choice but says nothing. She helps her pull one then the other over her head, then asks what jewelry she wants to take.
Oh anything, Justinia replies. I don’t care anymore.
Mary goes to the vanity table and opens up the jewelry box, still thinkin’ about what’s going on in Juss’s mind, and not thinkin’ of how she needs to be packing for herself. She holds up a necklace that her father gave her years before.
You wanna take this? Mary asks.
Fine.
Then she sees the brooch that Lieutenant Farnsworth gave her for Christmas. She holds it up as well and asks again, You wanna take this?
Fine.
You gonna be all right? Mary asks.
Justinia only shrugs her shoulders and falls into a defeated posture.
I know what you’re goin’ through, Mary says.
And Juss looks up at Mary with sad eyes that turn doubtful.
How could you? Juss says.
Mary looks back at her, hurt by the realization that the closest person in the world to her these last twelve years doesn’t know anything about the man she loves. She thinks of how she’s heard every detail about every boy or officer Justinia ever batted an eyelash toward. Shouldn’t sisters, the way Juss always calls the two of them—shouldn’t they know all about each other?
Justinia! her father yells again from the bottom of the stairs.
We best be goin’ before your father comes back up here, is all Mary says.
Justinia! The scream is from halfway up the staircase now.
They open the door and walk quickly downstairs, and it isn’t until they’re standin’ by the front door that Mary realizes she has nothin’ of her own packed, and worst of all, the fifty-seven mourning veils she’s made over the last year are still stuffed inside her mattress.
Oh, Misses Kittredge, Mary says quietly to her, trying not to let Mista Kittredge hear. I onl
y got dis here dress. Can I run an’ fetch anotha?
I had Cora pack you a bag to take, the Misses replies reassuringly. Of course, it isn’t reassuring at all to Mary.
Then Cora walks up behind her and presents her a big cloth bag that bulges at the seams with its clasp barely shut.
I didn’t know which dress you’d a like the mos’, so I throwed a buncha dem in there, Cora says in an unnaturally sweet tone. Perhaps freedom will make her a different person after all, Mary thinks, and takes the bag. Then Cora carries on like none of them have ever seen from her.
Ohhh, ol’ Cora’s gonna miss you all. You sho’ been good to Ol’ Cora, she says, talking in a way she never did before and looking at the Kittredges, who stand with confused looks on their faces. An’ Mary, she continues, I knows we had our mischief ’tween us, but Ol’ Cora’s gonna miss you, too, somethin’ fierce.
It’s about the strangest thing Mary’s ever heard from her, callin’ herself Ol’ Cora like that. And she thinks that maybe Gertie was right all along about how Cora saw her like she was a daughter somehow. But then Cora walks up to Mary and hugs her, placin’ her head on Mary’s shoulder away from the Kittredges. I know all ’bout them veils you been makin’. Don’ worry, dey in dere too, she whispers in Mary’s ear. ’Cept for five or six I kep’ for myself. Ol’ Cora’s gotta eat, too.
She pulls back from Mary and holds her at arm’s length. You take care o’ you’sef’, an’ you take care of de Kittredges, too, now. Dey’s the bes’ Massas you eva gonna hope fo’.
Mary nods at Cora, doin’ all she can to suppress a smile, and Cora doesn’t help matters when she winks at her. But then the Misses, overcome with emotion at Cora’s short speech, begins to cry again.
Oh, we’ll miss you too, Cora, she weeps, and throws her arms around her.
