Whispers of War

by Naomi Finley

  As I regarded John, I noted the same wisdom in his eyes, the channels etched into his face as though chiseled by a master carver. Years and slavery had claimed our youth, but was it possible the future wouldn’t be so bleak?

  “Why you luk at me lak dat?” I said.

  He smiled, his teeth gleaming against dark flesh. “You a fine sight.”

  I waved a hand at him. “Reckon I changed. Ain’t de gal you ’member.”

  “We all change. Dat what years do,” he said. “You still my ’oman, and I love you jus’ de same.”

  I smiled and placed a hand on his, finding solace there. The same strong hand that had explored my body with passion and tenderness, removing the filthy touch of Masa Adams. Healing had trailed from his fingers as he’d held my trembling form until sleep overcame me.

  When Missus Adams sold me, I’d never thought I’d find comfort again, but I had. Not in the loving ways of my man, but in my daughter, her children, and angel gal. They had given me a reason to rise each day, breathing life into a soul depleted. Gratitude at the blessings bestowed upon me swelled in my heart.

  “Pete your boy?” I asked.

  “He be.”

  “You love his mama?”

  “She was a good ’oman.” His dark eyes rested on mine. “But she never filled de void in my heart after you left. Dat a place dat lay empty till now.”

  I glanced at my chapped and dry hands as worry gnawed at me. “Hearts mended, only to be split open again.”

  “What you mean?”

  “Ef’n your masa comes luking, what den?”

  “We face dat day ef et comes. De white ’oman say she help me.”

  “Angel gal be a good woman.”

  “You speak of her wid fondness.”

  My bosom heaved as love and devotion warmed my heart. “She lak my own gal. I raised her. I de only mama she ever knowed.”

  “Such consideration be dangerous.”

  “She mine,” I said hotly. “She white, but she mine. I die for dat gal.”

  He raised a brow. “Only one white person I ever cared a smidgen ’bout.” His gaze drifted, as though traveling back in time. “Went by de name Amelie. Reminded me of an injured cub, yearning for love and acceptance.”

  The tenderness with which he spoke of the white woman stirred a twinge of jealousy in me. “You speak of her wid admiration. Who be dis woman dat turn your head?”

  John chuckled and leaned forward to pat my hand, then winced, gripping his wound.

  I tensed and stood, gently pressing him back in the bed and tucking the covers around him. “Be careful. We don’t need you opening your wound. Masa Ben won’t be happy.”

  He smiled, weariness pulling at his eyelids. “Ah, my Rita.” He lifted a hand and cupped my cheek, and my tears flowed again.

  I pulled my chair closer, and when seated, I said, “Tell me more ’bout dis white woman.”

  Leaning his head back against the metal headboard, he peered at the whitewashed rafters. “She was but a child. I reckon eighteen or so. De first time I set out to find my boy, I came across her in de woods, half starved. But et wasn’t jus’ de body dat was starved of nutrition, but a soul needing healing. I never intended to stay so long in dem swamps, but somepin’ ’bout her reminded me of you. A dim glimmer of de spirit left in her from de harm she’d come to at men’s hands…” His jaw quivered. “Our time together was too short. But I luk back at dat time wid fondness. I often wonder where she be now.”

  Pride replaced all jealousy as I beheld him. “Maybe she better off for meeting you.”

  He shrugged, and as though putting thoughts of the woman from his mind, he said, “I afraid to ask, but I must know. Where is my gal?”

  His reference to my daughter seeded by Masa Adams expanded the love I held for him, and I leaned forward and kissed his weathered cheek before pushing to my feet. In my excitement and doubt that it wasn’t all a dream, I’d forgotten about Mary Grace. “She up at de big house.” I smiled down at him.

  “She here?” His eyes widened.

  I bobbed my head eagerly. “After I was sold by Missus Adams, de Hendrickses buy me and bring me here. I lived a good life here at Livingston. Better dan any slave ever hope for, and when Missus Hendricks died, she freed me and my gal.”

  His mouth dropped open, then he mumbled a few words in his native tongue before saying, “May de gods rain blessings upon dis house.”

  God be praised, I thought. The one true God. John was like most slaves plucked from their countries and forced to shed their gods and convert to the Christian faiths of their masas. But I had been born in America and believed in the God my mama and pappy had taught me about from the time I was knee high. John had kept his gods alive by giving them the names of the saints from the Catholic faith, a disguise often used to preserve beliefs and culture in the new world. My faith had been the anchor that had gotten me through the years since I was parted from John’s arms. The Calm in the storm. The Comforter of the nightmares and fears that often became smothering. Without my faith in Him, I’d be a weak vessel, and in the Creator I found my strength.

  “I go git my gal, and tell her de good news.” I turned to leave, but swung back. “John?” Joy beat in my chest.

  “Yes?”

  “I a grandma.” I beamed. “Got two grandbabies to fill my days. A family of my very own. Right here on dis land.”

  Tears misted his eyes. “Many nights as I thought of you and our gal, never could I have imagined dat life be so good to you. Et makes our years apart worth de longing and hurt.”

  I frowned at the thought, and for a moment reflected on how I’d yearned for him, never once thinking our separation was for the greater good. As I left to retrieve my gal and grandbabies, I offered thanks to God for the blessings He continued to shower on me and mine.

  Reuben—alias Oliver Evans

  THE RIGORS OF THE NEW York winter aggravated the familiar throbbing of my foot, where toes had been lost to frostbite in earlier years. The stinging cold burned the tips of my ears, and I pulled up the fur collar of my coat as I turned to glance through the hatter’s frosted window. Amelie browsed inside the shop, stopping to admire a green velvet bonnet.

  “Dammit, woman, hurry up.” I lifted numb fingers to my mouth and blew into them to warm up. Tick, tick, tick, the pounding in my head ignited and raised my awareness before the words took form.

  Become an attendant to a woman, have you? the voice taunted. Have you forgotten they’re the bane of men’s existence? You must rid yourself of her, or she will surely become your successor. She is too close. Too smart.

  Silence. I gritted my teeth and rubbed my temples to block out the nattering before turning from the window. Thoughts turned to Rawlings’s revelations on Livingston. The man hadn’t been eager to report until Rufus and I resorted to extreme measures to pry it from him. It was as I’d suspected: Willow and her husband were involved in aiding fugitives. Rawlings had exposed their illegal activities, including an impressive operation in which they taught their niggers how to read and write, and marketable skills, in the hope that one day liberation would come to all darkies. I grinned, relishing an image of a rabid Charlestonian mob bent on destroying the Armstrongs. However, I couldn’t arrive in Charleston and reveal my discovery because doing so would see me in a jail cell next to them. No, I would use the knowledge as a weapon against them, in my time and for my benefit. The Armstrongs’ and Ben Hendricks’s deaths would rest at the feet of a cause more fitting, and Rufus and I would be exempt from the crime.

  I lit a cigar and inhaled in rapture, its effect soon smothered as I observed the bustling New Yorkers, their continuous rambling and gaiety.

  Imagine a world where no human existed. The carnage that would annihilate them, wipe them from existence, the voice cajoled with feverish ecstasy.

  Adrenaline coursed through my veins. What an incredible rush. An end to a world congested with humans, inventions, turbulence, and their repulsive scent. A universe vac
ant of life, sound, and movement. An end of nature in its entirety. Freedom from the voices prattling around in my head from morning till evening. I inhaled deeply, expanding my lungs. Yes, I could visualize and crave a world where silence reigned, and with it, perhaps some sort of peace.

  The boisterous voice of a woman set me on edge, and I stiffened at its familiarity and scanned around me until my gaze locked on the owner. Whitney Tucker. My chest tightened, and I snuffed out my cigar and took a second look to be certain. Indeed, it was none other than the hag herself. She strolled toward me, engaged in conversation with a well-tailored older lady.

  I cursed under my breath, and swiftly grabbed the doorknob of the hatter shop and ducked inside out of sight. Hidden behind a wooden form adorned with a ridiculously huge hat, I observed the women as they approached.

  “Shall we try the hatters before finding a coffeehouse to warm our bones?” Tucker’s companion said.

  Discovery would ruin everything. I glanced around for an escape, my gaze pausing on the back door to the shop as my ears tuned in to Whitney.

  “I appreciate everything you’ve done, but honestly, Aunt Em, I can’t accept anymore. I’m a grown woman and can purchase my own things.”

  Kill the woman, the voice urged. In doing so, you will send a blade into Willow’s heart.

  “No, the time isn’t right,” I said as the women walked by. “Soon enough, Willow will die, and all she loves.”

  “Oliver?” Amelie’s voice seized me, and I shook my head to gain focus, fighting against the power of the voice. “Who are you talking to?”

  My vision cleared, and I forced a smile. “Amelie, darling.”

  Confusion pulled at her face, and she glanced at the large storefront windows before shifting her attention back to me. She tilted her head as though trying to read me.

  “What is it?” I pushed down panic. I feared no person, and especially not a woman.

  Her face softened, and the grandeur I’d come to relate to Madam Amelie returned. She had become the one human I found tolerable—for the meantime, anyhow. “It’s nothing.” She smiled and swept toward me, a vision in furs and silks. Slipping her hand in the crook of my elbow, she said, “Shall we leave?”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Yes. I asked the shopkeeper to have my parcels delivered.”

  “Very well, let us go then.”

  The memory of Whitney and the woman she referred to as Aunt Em fresh in my mind, I stepped out onto the street and collided with a woman weighed down with parcels. “My apologies, ma’am,” I said, careful to keep my alias, the respectable and dapper Oliver Evans, intact. Inside, I seethed with annoyance and wanted nothing more than to kick her parcels into the street. Instead, I bent and retrieved her packages.

  As the woman continued down the street, I glanced at Amelie, who stood peering away from me. “Are you ready, my dear?” I claimed her elbow.

  She swung to face me, looking dazed, but as before, she pushed it away and beamed. “What do you say we sit for a bit?”

  “I’ll hail a cab, and we’ll return home,” I said.

  She peered up at me through thick lashes. A gesture that failed to deliver the impact she had intended, but I smiled benignly regardless. “Not just yet. I’m not ready to return home.” She returned a hand to my elbow, and I permitted her to guide me down the boardwalk until we reached a coffeehouse.

  “They have the best pastries,” she sang as she pulled open the door and, without waiting for me, strode inside.

  I grumbled and followed after her. The low drone of patrons made me twitch, and perspiration beaded on my brow. I glanced back at the door.

  “Oliver?” Amelie’s voice rose above the rest.

  To my approval, she’d chosen a table in the far corner. One that provided a clear view of the door and the comings and goings of people. Eagerly she motioned for me to join her.

  After I’d seated myself and an attendant brought our steaming cups of coffee and pastries, for which Amelie offered a gushing thank you, she lifted the mug to her lips and, eyes sparkling with delight, peered at me over the rim.

  My fingers froze halfway to my coffee mug as I heard Whitney Tucker’s voice. I tensed and looked around the shop to locate her. Not finding her face amongst the patrons, I assumed that she sat behind me.

  “What is it? You appear to have seen a ghost.” Amelie’s warm fingers touched mine.

  “Mindful not to reveal myself, I looked askance and found the Tucker woman and her companion seated behind a tall plant. She sat with her back to me. The grip on my chest loosened, and I turned back to Amelie. “A bit faint, is all.” I took a rather large bite of the sickly sweet pastry in an attempt to avoid answering her.

  “Perhaps some food will clear the lightheadedness,” she said in approval.

  I swallowed the mouthful and took a long sip of the coffee. The next twenty minutes passed with light conversation, and as usual, I let Amelie take the lead. As she spoke, I tried to keep my foot from tapping the floor as the need to flee raged within me. If the Barry woman noticed me, my plans would go up in smoke. It was best if Willow Armstrong and her acquaintances had forgotten about me.

  As Amelie took her last sip of coffee, I asked, “Well, should we go?” Not giving her the option of an answer, I rose.

  Wrapping furs around herself, she stood and followed me out of the coffeehouse, but a short distance down the boardwalk, she halted. “How could I have forgotten?” She stamped a foot and placed a hand on her forehead in exasperation.

  “What?”

  She pointed across the street. “I just recalled that I have a meeting with Mr. Curtis about the purchase of the property in Five Points.”

  “Right now?” My muscles tensed in agitation.

  “I’m afraid so.” She looked apologetic as she withdrew a timepiece from her velvet satchel. “You mustn’t wait for me. I will see you at home in an hour or two.” She rose on tiptoe and kissed my cheek, and without waiting for a response, she swerved and stepped into the congested street.

  Baffled at her lapse of memory, I regarded her as she wove through carriages, peddlers, and hansom cabs. After traversing the street, she opened the door to a brownstone building with a sign overhead, clearly stating it was indeed a lawyer’s office. However, suspicious, I darted into traffic and succeeded in crossing without incident. In a window of the office, I saw Amelie greet a man, and he thrust out his hand and clasped hers before gesturing for her to take a seat.

  So she spoke the truth. I cranked my neck to ease the tension before hailing a hansom cab. As I entered the carriage, I took one last look at the coffeehouse and set my jaw as my thoughts returned to savoring the demise of the Armstrongs.

  Behold, their blood will rain like mana from the heavens, the voice sang.

  I sank back into the seat and lit a cigar, allowing all pressures to dissolve.

  Whitney

  ABRAHAM LINCOLN’S ELECTION AS THE sixteenth president of the United States and the first Republican to win the presidency left New York streets, shops, cafes, and restaurants buzzing about the recent debates by Mayor Woods and his officials and their ambitions to leave the Union. New York relied heavily on the Southern states, and without them, the city would suffer financial ruin.

  “I do miss the warmth of the South,” I said to Aunt Em as we strolled the boardwalk, our hands weighted with parcels. The frosty air nipped my nose, and the relentless chill seeped through my furs and wool.

  Aunt Em laughed. “Too many years away has lowered your resiliency in a proper winter. In the North, we can withstand what Mother Nature sends our way.”

  My teeth chattered like they were carrying on a conversation of their own. “It is a season I could do without.” I pulled the new cashmere shawl that I’d fashioned into a scarf, and brilliantly so, closer around my throat and wished I’d purchased the heavy knitted scarf instead. Pretty or not, the one I’d chosen had been more of a fashion choice, and perhaps a li
ttle vanity as I’d imagined Charleston’s ladies eyeing it with envy. While standing in the store, marveling over the piece, it had seemed like a splendid idea, but now in the cold, I recognized how pride had led me astray. I’d been downright foolish, in fact.

  Aunt Em’s merriment faded. “A little meat on your bones would help. You’ve become much too skinny, my dear. I wonder if the heart longs for something once questioned.”

  My heart skipped a beat, but I kept from meeting her inquisitive stare and focused on the snowflakes dropping on my woolen mittens before they melted.

  The relationship between my mother’s sister and I had been one I treasured, and her perception of the emotions I strove to keep hidden always caught me by surprise. She understood me as so few did, and in her presence I didn’t feel like an outcast. She allowed me to be myself. I’d idolized her all my life, and envisioned having a life as grand as hers. But recently, thoughts of my quiet homestead pulled at the heart, throwing me into a flurry of confusion.

  Jack had gone off to West Point, and although I missed him terribly, I hoped his training would calm the rage inside him. He wrote often, and I cherished every word, but the love and passion in my little sister’s letters filled me with a yearning to see her again. I smiled. Sweet, sweet Kimie. Although I was older, it was I who looked up to her. Often, she’d stumbled in at night, weary from the hospital but kindled with infectious joy and enthusiasm. I craved the happiness that she exuded. The joy I witnessed in Willow and Bowden. Like Kimie, my friend’s work for the cause gave her purpose and a fire in her bosom.

  My heart clenched as I thought of Knox, and how I missed the safety of his love and attentiveness. Although I’d written several times, no word came from him. I took the silence as his displeasure with me, and rightfully so. Would he ever forgive me? He had every right to take a new wife. Many times, I’d wanted to ask Willow if he had found comfort in the arms of another, but stubbornness and shame stilled my pen. Then nausea surfaced before the ever-pressing guilt that had accompanied me since I’d left. During my time away, I’d blamed my confusing emotions on Willow and what she’d said in the orchard that day, deluding myself into believing it had played with my mind. But in all honesty, her words had only magnified the guilt and the questions I’d attempted to evade.