“Then connecting north to Charleston,” she jumped in, “would be a profitable run, considering that’s coal country. And the South is still rebuilding.”
He looked at her. “I should have asked if you could attend that luncheon today.”
She laughed softly.
“But I think I’ve saved the best news for last, Alexandra. I spoke with a porter at the train station today, and he told me the name of the community in Memphis where most of the freedmen workers who were on the No. 1 had lived. Some of the survivors hailed from there too, of course. I don’t want to get your hopes up, or mine either, because it may turn out to be nothing. But I’ve got some traveling to do anyway, so I’m going to go to Memphis and see if any of them are willing to speak to me. I leave in the morning and could be gone for a couple of weeks.”
Her expression clouded, and that alone endeared her to him even more.
“I’m almost finished with class. I only have another twenty minutes or so. If you can stay, I have something I want to share with you too.”
She could have asked him for almost anything in that moment and he would have said yes. “I’ll be waiting on the steps.”
“Thank you for waiting for me, Sy.”
“My pleasure. You’ve got me curious.”
She enjoyed that certain roguish smile of his, especially now that she knew he wasn’t the rogue she’d originally pegged him to be. She started down the steps when he reached for the stack of books and papers in her arms. She relinquished them gratefully, and they started in the direction of the teachers’ barracks, occasional oil lamps hanging from posts lighting their path.
She looked over at him. “Something you said to me recently has inspired me, and I wanted you to know.”
“And what was that?”
“About pursuing my degree, and about what—or who—is keeping me from it. So . . . I’ve decided to do it.” She appreciated the pride showing in his eyes. “Ella’s lending me her textbooks, and she’s also letting me read her collection of lecture notes. And, Sy, it’s so interesting. She’s so intelligent and has notes on every subject imaginable.”
“And you’re devouring them all.” He smiled.
“I am. I’m not getting much sleep these days. But there’ll be time for sleep later.” She gave a happy sigh. “Mr. White said he wants me to take a brief teacher exam, one they routinely administer to instructors who haven’t earned their degrees yet. Usually before they begin teaching, of course. But he said since he was confident in my ability to teach the introductory level classes, and we were under such time constraints he didn’t mandate it in my case. But it’s required for all teachers, so I’ll be taking that in coming weeks.”
“And I have no doubt you’ll do well.”
When they rounded the corner to the barracks she heard singing, and knew from his expression that he had too. They looked at one another and she grinned.
“Would you like to go listen? They won’t mind. I’ve done it before, several times.”
“Lead the way, Miss Jamison!”
She deposited her books inside her room, then met him back outside, and they covered the short distance in the dark to the dining hall. They entered through the back of the barracks, the beautiful blend of voices singing “Beautiful Dreamer” growing much stronger.
Alexandra offered a tiny wave to Ella, who was playing the piano, and the others when they looked their way. Mr. White, who was directing, never turned around.
“Let’s sit over here,” she whispered.
They took seats in a far corner, so as not to disturb, and Sy settled in beside her.
“They may be almost done,” she whispered, “but we’re sure to catch another song or two. They’re practicing for the tour Mr. White is hoping to take them on.”
The singers didn’t disappoint. They sang three more popular tunes of the day, a song from Handel’s Cantata of Esther—which Sy seemed to especially enjoy based on the way he leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees as he listened—and closed with “How Can I Keep from Singing.”
Mr. White concluded the rehearsal with prayer, and Alexandra and Sy bowed their heads as well. Following the director’s firm amen at the end, Thomas Rutling began to sing softly, tenderly, and Alexandra’s throat threatened to close.
It was the song she’d heard the group singing in hushed tones from the back hallway after the concert that night. The song from her childhood, which Abigail had sung to her. Her “go-to-sleep song,” as Abigail had called it.
In the morning when I rise, in the morning when I rise, in the morning when I rise, give me Jesus . . .
Listening to Thomas, Alexandra realized that what a local reporter had recently penned about the young man’s golden voice being “by far the best tenor voice ever heard in Tennessee” wasn’t hyperbole.
“He’s especially good,” Sy whispered beside her, and she nodded, glad he was here with her.
One by one, the other singers joined in, and the blend of their voices was nothing short of transcendent. Even . . . holy.
Benjamin Holmes, the other tenor, glanced in their direction, his gaze seeming at once alert and askew, and he nodded, as though aware of what she was feeling in that moment.
Ella had shared with her that Benjamin’s cleverness had once earned him the title of a slave who “knew too much.” But from what Alexandra knew of Benjamin, the depths of knowledge he could acquire had only begun to be plumbed. The young man had a wealth of talent.
How could anyone not see that these people were fashioned in the image of their Creator? The color of one’s skin had no bearing on that immutable fact. And for that matter, she thought with a smile, the same could be said for one’s gender. Why should being a woman preclude her from teaching at a university? Or from pursuing any other dream she wanted to pursue?
Give me Jesus, give me Jesus, you can have all the rest, give me Jesus . . .
Jennie Jackson caught Alexandra’s eye and flashed a sweet smile before closing her eyes again. Jennie had a voice that possessed power beyond her years. But it was the consistent kindness in Jennie’s nature that Alexandra found most endearing.
And when I am alone, oh when I am alone, and when I am alone, give me Jesus . . .
In her mind, Alexandra could hear Abigail’s sweet voice. Not as cultured and refined as these, but no less precious or moving. It was a voice that had shaped her youth, and resonated inside her even now. What had happened to Abigail? One day the woman had been there, a house slave in the Jamison home. And the next, she hadn’t. Alexandra remembered asking her mother about her.
“Alexandra, we do not question the decisions your father makes about the slaves. That’s his business. Abigail is gone and isn’t coming back. That’s the end of it.”
But it hadn’t been the end of it. Not for her. Barely ten years old at the time, Alexandra remembered crying for weeks. She’d even asked Melba about it. But all Melba had said was that Abigail had been sold.
Give me Jesus, give me Jesus, you can have all the rest, give me Jesus . . .
Maggie Porter, the powerful soprano who’d performed the role of Queen Esther in the cantata, slowly raised a hand as her voice ascended so beautifully that Alexandra bowed her head in response. Ella had confided in her once that Maggie’s voice was arguably the strongest and best-trained among the singers. And Alexandra couldn’t deny it.
Fifteen-year-old Eliza Walker, an alto whose customary horseshoe braid only accentuated her spherical brow, took the lead on the next verse.
And when I come to die, oh when I come to die, yes, when I come to die, give me Jesus . . .
Alexandra found herself wanting to sing along with them. And if she was perfectly honest, she was a little jealous of their abilities. Her voice was nothing like any of theirs. Phebe Anderson, another contralto, softly sang the chorus again as the others hummed along, and Alexandra would have sworn the veil to heaven lifted ever so slightly. She could all but feel the brush of it against her face.
She looked into the faces of the extraordinary men and women standing before her. Did they have any idea how special they were? How gifted? Only God himself could have brought all these voices, all this talent, together in one place.
For a purpose, Lord. Please, for a purpose.
She looked over to see that Sy had bowed his head. His eyes were closed. But as if sensing her stare, he looked up, then reached over and gently took hold of her hand.
“Thank you, Alexandra,” he whispered. “For sharing this with me.”
Her eyes watered. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it—once, twice—then covered her hand between his. The warmth from him traveled the length of her body. And as calm as she’d been only a moment before, now her pulse raced. Not since David had she been touched like this.
David . . .
She still loved him. Would always love him. At times she still felt the heartbeat of that love deep inside her. So much so it took her breath away for the longing of it. So how could she have the feelings for Sy that she did? And yet she couldn’t deny having them.
It felt like a betrayal somehow.
She’d once told Sy that when she looked at him all she could see was Dutchman’s Curve. And while that was still true in part, it wasn’t the whole truth. Not anymore. And the realization was startling.
Taking a deep breath, she wiped the corner of her eye and gently tugged her hand free from his. He looked over at her, but she didn’t look back.
The song ended, and after making quick introductions between Sy and the singers, she walked with Sy back to the barracks. But the silence between them felt stilted now. She kept her hands conveniently clasped at her waist.
They reached the steps, and she bid him good night and started inside.
“Alexandra?” he said softly.
She turned.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes, everything is fine,” she said quickly. But even as she said it, she heard the false note in her voice. And judging by his expression, he did too. She realized then how she might have given him the impression that she felt more than only friendship for him. Because she did. And yet, she couldn’t. “I hope your trip goes well, Sy, and that your time in Memphis is successful.”
He stared, his gaze far too discerning. “I appreciate that. But I sure would like to know what’s wrong. If it’s because I took your hand a moment ago, then I—”
She shook her head. “No, it’s not that. It’s . . .” She briefly bowed her head, unable to look him in the eye and say this. “I’m grateful that we’re friends, Sy. Truly. And again . . . I hope you find the answers you’re looking for. That we’re both looking for.”
He said nothing for a moment. Then he nodded. “Take care of yourself while I’m gone, Alexandra. I’ll see you when I get back.”
She heard the hint of a question there at the end and simply answered with a smile, then walked into the barracks.
Awhile later, with Ella asleep on her cot, Alexandra lay awake, the churning inside her keeping sleep at a distance.
This was her world. She’d found the purpose and meaning for her life that she’d been searching for. That David’s love had prepared her for. Sy’s life was in Colorado. A world away. A world where she didn’t fit. She saw that so clearly now.
She simply needed to make sure that he saw it too.
“Miss Jamison? Miss Jamison?”
“Yes, Lettie, I hear you!” Alexandra looked across the classroom, forcing patience into her tone while blowing a strand of hair from her face. She felt worn to the bone. And . . . restless. The hunger gnawing her stomach didn’t help.
But as Ella had said recently, the meals served at Fisk, though lacking in nutrition, still constituted more sustenance than most of their students enjoyed.
Ella Sheppard constantly seemed to be looking for the blessing in every circumstance. A trait Alexandra appreciated but had yet to master.
The thermometer outside hovered at near ninety degrees, and the threat of rain hung heavy in the air. A threat that—if the angry skies made good on their bluster—would churn the sun-packed dirt surrounding the barracks to muck and mire, while challenging the already leaking roof of the old structure to what could likely be the final showdown.
But something else was contributing to her restlessness. Sy had been gone for nearly two weeks, and despite every moment of every day being spoken for, his absence had left a bigger void in her life than she’d anticipated.
“Thank you, Alexandra,” he’d whispered to her the night they’d listened to the singers. “For sharing this with me.” As it turned out, the two of them had more in common than she’d originally thought. And yet—
“Miss Jamison?” Lettie said again.
“Yes!” Alexandra answered, grateful for the distraction. “Just one moment please, Lettie, and I’ll be right there.”
Lettie nodded, the young woman’s excitement about her studies evident in her insatiable enthusiasm. She was older than Alexandra had first thought. Seventeen. And more mature. Lettie had also come into class already knowing her letters and able to sound out words.
The young woman would make a fine teacher one day—if Alexandra could only help her focus that exuberance.
Alexandra surveyed the classroom to make sure the other students were on task, then bent again to help the seventy-year-old Miss Henrietta who, in only six days’ time, had mastered the alphabet. These students’ thirst for knowledge ran deeper than any she’d ever seen. And with good reason. As George White stressed again and again, education meant freedom. The same, when she thought about it, as it meant for her.
Alexandra pulled her attention back. “Miss Henrietta, you’re doing so well. Simply take your time and sound out the letters of this word one by one.”
Eyes bright, the older woman nodded and bent back over the text—and did exactly as Alexandra instructed.
“Very good!” Alexandra gently touched her shoulder, aware of other students watching, listening. And learning. “Now, Miss Henrietta, I want you to put all of the letters together. But slowly this time. And remember, there are only three syllables in this word.” Alexandra held up three fingers. “And the e and the r in this word are pals. They like to stick together!”
The older woman smiled, nodding. Then looked back at the page. “Mmm . . . eh . . . nnn . . . i . . . sss . . . t . . . er . . . e . . . d. Min . . . is . . . ter . . . ed.” Miss Henrietta looked down at her three outstretched fingers and counted. “Mi . . . nis . . . tered.”
“Excellent!” Alexandra felt a rush of joy as unmistakable pride brightened the creases in the woman’s cheeks and brow.
Miss Henrietta had been a house slave all her life, so she’d seen “scores o’ paper plumb full o’ odd scratchin’s before,” as she’d put it. But as a slave, she’d never been taught to read or write. Those were privileges strictly forbidden to slaves, and punishable by whipping, imprisonment, or worse.
“Now try the entire sentence again,” Alexandra urged. “I know you can do it.”
“For . . . even . . . ,” Miss Henrietta began. “The . . . Son . . . of . . . man . . . c-came . . . not . . .”
Several fellow students sitting in adjacent desks and on the floor leaned in as she—slowly, painstakingly—read the passage.
“. . . and . . . to . . . give . . . his . . . life . . . a . . . ransom . . . for . . . many.”
Claps and congratulations abounded when she finished, as they always did when someone succeeded. And Alexandra joined in.
“Now it’s my turn. Right, Miss Jamison?” Jacob reached for the Bible on Miss Henrietta’s desk.
“Yes, Jacob. It’s your turn.” Alexandra gave the young boy a smile, then chose a new verse in the gospel of Matthew and set him to sounding out the words, the others looking on.
She regretted that they didn’t have enough Bibles and spellers to go around. As it was, in this class alone six students had to share the same Bible and spelling book,
and the bindings on the Bibles were split and cracking, the pages torn and some missing. The spellers were no better.
She’d actually considered taking the Bibles apart book by book and then passing them out, but Mr. White had greatly frowned upon the idea.
Thinking of the trunk of pristine books back in her bedroom at her house, she got the same sick feeling she did every time she thought about leaving them behind. How was her mother doing? Worried about her, no doubt. Alexandra needed to make contact with her, and had an idea about how to do that. But she’d need to enlist Ella’s help.
Young Jacob began sounding out his letters. After making sure he was on track, Alexandra crossed the room to help Lettie.
The students rarely complained about having to share the Bibles and books, but it slowed their overall progress, and Alexandra had told Mr. White as much. Still, the school’s finances were in a shambles, and the debate over the potential tour for the singers raged on.
Only yesterday she’d again overheard Mr. White arguing with gentlemen from the missionary board in his office. She and Ella had lain awake on their cots last night wondering if the ferociousness of the disagreement itself might actually portend the end of Fisk University.
Neither of them had gotten much sleep.
If Fisk ended up closing its doors, what would she do? She’d heard a couple of the other teachers talking in their room a few nights earlier saying they’d either move to Atlanta to help with the freedmen school there or go back home, to the North.
But there would be no going home for her. Bridges had been burned that could never be crossed again. At least, not with her father. But far worse for the students if Fisk closed. What would happen to them? To their futures? To Ella and the other singers? Surely God hadn’t brought all this together only to see it fail.
“Miss Jamison.” Lettie held up one of the spelling books. “I’m just wonderin’ if I can go ahead and be startin’ on the next one.”
To Wager Her Heart Page 20
