by Peter Troy
Cora looks over the Misses’ shoulder, rolling her eyes for only Mary to see. Mary can’t hold the laugh back completely now and lets forth a snort as she exhales, then quickly pretends to sniffle as if it’s tears she’s fightin’ back.
Let’s go, the train’s leavin’ in fifteen minutes, Mista Kittredge says.
They walk down the sidewalks carryin’ the small bags themselves, with the family trunk sent ahead. The Misses is still sniffling back tears, and Juss seems like she’s about to faint right there on the walkway. But Mary’s thoughts aren’t caught up with them for long, turnin’ instead toward her own situation. She gets to thinking about how this is no trip they’re takin’, like the one at Christmas a few years before the war. They’re moving, fleeing, and not likely to see Richmond anytime soon.
Almost lost in the noise of the train boiler building up steam, and the wagons moving quickly down the street, comes a low rat-a-tat-tat noise from a block away, the march-step of soldiers, moving toward them, gettin’ louder as they approach. People stop their carriages and step off to the sides of the streets, clearing a path for what might’ve once been a brigade or even a division but now looks like a broken-down regiment retreating through the city. The men are all in tatters, with clothes that are hardly anything that can be called uniforms—or even clothes, for that matter. At least a quarter of them have “shoes” made of strips of cloth tied together with string. Maybe half have no shoes at all. And as Mary and the Kittredges watch them go past, it’s hard to imagine that these men have lived through winter in the trenches dressed that way. They’re shadows of men, still marching in good form from habit, but otherwise lookin’ nothing like an army. There are no shouts from the civilians cheering them and urging them on again, and the men don’t even look from side to side, just straight ahead at the road before them, nothing about their appearance makin’ anyone believe that they can rally and beat back the Yankees once more.
It’s done, Mista Kittredge says quietly after they pass, shakin’ his head in sadness. They’re not an army anymore … only delayin’ the inevitable now. Just wastin’ more lives.
The Misses elbows her husband, but it’s too late to keep Juss from cryin’.
I’m sure the Lieutenant’s fine, Mista Kittredge says. Those fellas weren’t officers.
And then Mista Kittredge goes off to find the railroad official he made arrangements with, as the Misses comforts Juss. Mary stands beside them on the platform, and now, finally, the reality of the situation sets in for her. As of that very moment, she thinks, Cora and the rest of the Kittredge slaves are free. No runnin’ off required for them. All they have to do is stay in Richmond until the last Confederate soldier marches out and the first Yankee soldier marches in. And they’re free, not in the runaway sense, but accordin’ to Mr. Lincoln’s law.
It’s not anywhere near the first time Mary’s considered such things. But considerin’ a thing and havin’ it stare you in the face are different matters entirely. And it produces some strange thoughts in her mind, like, Why am I the only one not getting my freedom? Why am I dragged out of Richmond like that trunk filled with tea sets and lace curtains that I made? And she begins to feel that she deserves to be free, that any obligation she might’ve had toward the Kittredges for rescuing her off that auction block has been repaid many times over. She’ll always feel a sense of gratitude toward them and genuine love for Juss. But now she feels that she should have the chance to see if Micah’s still waiting for her. She wonders if he might be thinking of her now that Richmond is falling, that maybe he won’t have married another or turned bitter toward her because she didn’t run off with him. Then when she thinks about how it’s been more than two years since then, she figures that maybe a second chance with him is too much to ask for. But her freedom is not.
I found Oates, Mista Kittredge says when he rushes back. We’re ridin’ in the eighth car, an’ Mary, you’ll be ridin’ with the cabinet minister’s slaves up in the third car.
He says it with a sense of prestige connected to the very idea of riding with slaves who belong to such high-ranking men. And Mary knows Ol’ Cora’d be rollin’ her eyes something fierce if she was here.
Oates says we need to get aboard this instant. The minute th’government ministers are aboard, the train’ll be pullin’ out.
He lifts their two large bags and turns toward the train, and the Misses is right beside him. But Justinia is slow to follow, and Mary wraps her arm inside hers and leans her head toward her ear.
Y’know, Juss, you don’t hafta get on this train, she says. We don’t hafta get on this train.
And Juss looks at her as if she’s spoken French to her.
What? she says. Daddy just—
Train’s pullin’ out any minute. Lookit all these folks around here. We can walk right into that crowd of ’em over there and get lost in it ’til the train goes.
And for a second she thinks she sees enough of a spark in Juss to go along with it, the way she could always get Juss to go along with things. But then they’re all startled by the sound of a shell descending frighteningly close to them. It whistles to the ground and explodes perhaps a block away, and there are screams from nearby and panic. Another shell follows almost on top of it and lands even closer, just a hundred yards or so from the train. At the end of the platform a coach pulls up next to the tracks, and they can see what looks like several cabinet ministers, and then President Davis himself, step out and toward the caboose of the train. And Mary looks at Juss and sees the answer is no.
This is it now, sir, a man in uniform says to Mista Kittredge by the door to car number eight. This is gonna be the last train out ’fore the Yankees come pourin’ in.
And Mista Kittredge pulls at Justinia’s arm, leading her onto the train to where the Misses is already sitting down. Mary can see Juss flop down on the seat facing opposite the Misses, looking toward the back of the train and beginning to cry again as soon as she sees Mary. Then Mista Kittredge is calling to Mary, snapping his fingers and then reaching for Mary’s bag when she is slow to follow.
That’s all right, Mista Kittredge, Mary says, I can carry it.
Well, let’s go then. I wanna make sure Oates told the attendant on that car up there about our arrangement.
And they walk through the confused crowd to the other end of the train, a cargo car just behind the coal bins. There aren’t any seats in it, but Mary looks inside and sees well-dressed slaves sitting on their bags or on the floor, or on the large trunks stacked near the front of it.
That’s it, Mary, it’s all arranged, Mista Kittredge says. We’ll see you in Danville.
He watches Mary step on the train, then he’s off without waiting for a response, walking so fast he’s practically running, all the way back to car number eight. The steam whistle blows three times, and Mary looks around at the folks in the car, all of them with sad looks on their faces like they’re defeated every bit as much as the Confederate soldiers they saw marching down the street. None of them are talking, not to her, not to each other, just sitting there waiting to be taken to wherever it is their Massas say.
As the whistle blows twice more, Mary’s heart starts to race, thinking back to the first time she ever rode on a train, back when she was something like these folks here, beaten, robbed of any spirit, being taken to that auction block in Raleigh. Only now she’s not scared the way she usually is when those kinds of memories come to her. Instead, as she hears the steam pushing the locomotive wheels slowly into action, hummph … hummph … hummph … hummph, it’s like the sound calls out to her, bringing her back before the train ride to the auction block … back to the rhythm of Gertie’s heavy breaths, hummph … hummph … hummph … hummph, standin’ there in the Deep River, with Mary beside her while she’s catchin’ her breath … hummph … hummph. And closing her eyes, she can almost feel the cool water trickling through her fingertips again, and the images of being carried away, just her and Gertie off to someplace where it’d just be t
he two of them and the little cabin by the stream somewhere … and freedom, pure and perfect as that water …’til it’s almost like hearin’ Gertie’s voice whisperin’ to her when she first set foot in Deep River and Mary wanted nothin’ of it … and Gertie breathin’ hard … hummph … hummph, just to stand still there in the water, but reaching out her hand to Mary … C’mon, Chil’, jus’ that first step gonna be the hardes’ one … hummph … hummph … then you be okay … Gertie ain’ gonna let you fall … hummph … hummph.
And when she opens her eyes, a step is all it is—sliding open the door—seeing the wooden platform beginning to run out ahead of them—the train moving quicker with every hummph … hummph … until the locomotive and the coal bins pass the end of the platform … and a smile on her face now as she holds tight to that bag in her hand and takes that step, feeling the wood of the platform beneath her feet and then a few little steps to catch her balance—and hummph … hummph … the train still pulling away and nobody seemin’ to notice she’s not on it anymore.
Then there’s the deep breath of freedom to fill her lungs, and there are tears too and smiling besides, knowing what she’s leaving behind. She looks up at the numbers of the cars as they pass, five then six then seven, until the hardest one of all to see go. And there’s Juss starin’ out the window still, not seein’ Mary right away, but then, just for a moment, she can see Juss’s eyes go wide and her hand come up to cover her mouth. But just before it gets there, Mary thinks she can see a bit of a smile startin’ to form on Juss’s face, the kind that comes just before the tears. And she knows they’ll be plenty of those, but first that bit of a smile … something for her to hold on to and remember her friend by.
And know these last twelve years ain’t all been for nothin’.
ETHAN
COOPERSTOWN
APRIL 4, 1865
The news poured into town the previous afternoon, and people celebrated the way they should celebrate such news. Not like it was vengeance being brought upon those damn Rebs, but like it was one step, one day, closer to the end of this whole damn war. Ethan hadn’t been able to sleep for more than a few restless moments at a time, thinking all the while that it was as if the great walled city of Troy had at last fallen. And he could only imagine what it’d been like for Micah. So when he heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs the next morning, he knew it had to be him. And he waited only a few minutes, making sure that Aislinn wasn’t stirring, to slip out of their room and join his friend on the porch.
Nice mornin’, Ethan said, after he’d run the gauntlet and made his way to the front door.
I was tryin’ not to wake anyone, Micah replied, still getting used to living with more people than he ever had before.
I’m gonna hafta talk to th’carpenter that fixed those stairs. Third one from the bottom’s got a creak in it like you wouldn’t believe, Ethan said. Shoddy work.
Yep—tough t’find good men these days, Micah replied, as they slipped into their now-familiar banter.
Ethan sat in the chair next to Micah, looking out over the dark landscape with just a suggestion of light appearing over the hills to the east. Their two family histories seemed forever intertwined after the events of the past few months. Corrine and Isabelle had been staying here at the house along with Micah for going on a month now. They’d stayed in Brooklyn with Ethan’s family for the first two weeks after they finally got a boat off Edisto Island. And now they were waiting on the better weather of summer, when there’d be more work for everyone and they could get a place big enough for the three of them.
So what’re you still doing here? Ethan asked matter-of-factly.
Micah looked at him, a little perplexed.
Richmond’s an open city, Ethan added, knowing what it would mean to Micah.
Micah looked away from him, back out over the hills, like he was allowing himself to dream a little again.
You figure I should see if she’s still there? Micah asked.
Ethan pulled his head back and let his eyebrows crowd over his eyes.
You have other pressing engagements to tend to? he asked. I know the Hoffmans’ chicken coop needs fixing, and the Richters are lookin’ to do somethin’ about th’leak in their barn, an’ th’Wesleys want a porch like this one and—yes, I guess that’s enough to keep a workin’ man from goin’ after the woman he loves. A woman it sounds like is worth chasin’ to the shores of the Ever After, but sure, this makes more sense. Maybe you can fit her in sometime in July or maybe August, an’ then just see …
And Micah’d already started laughing by then.
You think she’s still there? Micah asked, hopefully.
Only one way t’find out.
And Micah nodded, looked out over the porch railing again.
Ten-thirty train’s still runnin’ outta Richfield Springs, Ethan said. Henry said we could take the carriage.
Mmmm, Micah responded.
’Til Ethan grew impatient.
Just how long you gonna keep that woman waitin’?
And the hopeful hint of a smile on Micah’s face was all the answer necessary.
MICAH
RICHMOND
APRIL 12, 1865
His first steps through the streets of his former home are unimaginable. Maybe a third of the city gone completely. Other sections with pockmarked streets where shells landed. Buildings torn through or burnt to the ground. Like the Longley place, with nothing but three brick chimneys and a foundation to say there’d even been something there. And there’s not the kind of lustful joy he might’ve felt to see such a thing not so long ago. Just shaking his head over and over.
President Lincoln visited Richmond a week before. All the colored folks swarming the streets to meet him. Reporter for the newspaper Micah read it in compared it to the Messiah being welcomed into Jerusalem. Said that if they had palms to lay before the President, they certainly would have. And he wonders if Mary had still been there for the excitement. Wishes he could’ve been there, too. Not so much to see Lincoln. Just that all the fuss made it impossible to get into the city. Took him eight days from Cooperstown. Every day maybe the one where Mary slipped away. Or maybe, if she was gone already, the day that little bitta thread that’d help him find her got swept away somehow.
It’s mostly just Yankee soldiers and colored folks in the streets now. Plenty of smiles on all their faces now that Ol’ Bobby Lee, like Ethan calls him, surrendered altogether. And the war’s all over but for the last little bits of it. Killin’ the ones so stubborn they won’t stop ’til it’s all just chimneys to mark what used to be. The whole land covered in the penance of slavery.
And as Micah walks to the Kittredges’ store, he’s relieved at least to see it’s still there. Nothin’ in it, and windows smashed in out front, but still there. And his and Mary’s special meeting place around back left untouched. Then the walkway up to the house, and his heart up near his throat like it was first time he saw her. Thinkin’ now that maybe she’s still here after all. That maybe God could forgive the man he was enough to give him that one more chance. But then as he gets closer he can see Union soldiers walking out the front door. And more sitting on the front porch. Union flag draped from a window on the second floor like it never’d be if Mista Kittredge was still there. And the only hope he can see is the colored soldier standing guard by the door.
Beg pardon, Suh, he says, just to be safe. Might you know the family that lives here?
The soldier looks down at him. Suspicious.
Why you wanna know? He says.
I used to live here—well, not here, but in Richmond, Micah answers.
You run off?
Yes, two years ago.
From this place?
No, this is where my …
Where yo’ gal live? The soldier asks, smiling now.
Yes, Micah replies, disappointed that this is the first colored soldier he’s ever spoken to.
An’ you run off wit’out her an’ now you come back to f
ine her? An’ you ’spect she be happy t’see ya when you run off on ’er like dat? He says, laughing louder with each breath. I lef’ my gal in Carolina befo’ the war, an’ I ain’t botherin’ t’go back an’ find ’er. I jus’ find me anotha one.
Well, I had no choice. Micah says.
Well, you go an’ see if dat gone git you anywhere wit her. And he can’t stand up anywhere near straight any more from his laughing.
Micah starts to walk away. Gets maybe three four steps, then the soldier calls him back.
Hold on jus’ a minute here—I think I know jus’ where yo’ gal is. He says, opening the door to the house and pointing back at Micah. You jus’ wait there, an’ I go get someone t’fetch her.
And the soldier steps inside for a bit. Talks and laughs with another colored soldier just inside the door. Then comes back out and stands his post.
You jus’ wait right dere. He says.
And Micah can tell by the way he laughs to himself that it isn’t going to be Mary. Then he hears the soldier inside the door talking.
I dunno, he just told me there was someone here to see ya.
The front door opens, and the soldier outside looks back at Micah.
This here yo’ gal? He says. And stops laughing before he can get started. Since it’s clear straight off that they know each other.
It’s Cora. And Micah feels more relieved to see her than he ever would’ve imagined being.
Well, you come back afta all. Cora says.
And Micah nods. Lets a half-smile come over his face. Is she here?
Now you two sho’ got dis way of passin’ each other comin’ and goin’, an’ here’s me gettin’ stuck in the middle same as always.
And with the colored soldier standing there silent as a column, Micah and Cora talk only in essential details. Him about the North. About ending up in Cooperstown. Nothing about the Home Guard or Dunmore and the Embrys. And her about the end days here. How he’ll be prouda Mary jumpin’ off the train like she did. And how she left just three days before. Volunteered on a hospital train goin’ to Washington. Didn’t know where she’d go after that.
