Plantation Nation (9781621352877)

by King, Mercedes

  "You know, Miss Eleanor," she said, "I must have been senseless, thinking I could make this work."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Taking inventory of medical supplies at the hospital that afternoon, Dr. Niles Hillman wondered if disease alone would determine the outcome of this stalling war. Measles and camp fever had mounted casualties during the late summer months, but loose bowels and the shakes still presented themselves daily. Against these enemies, Dr. Hillman battled a sense of hopelessness. Opium and morphine were prescribed regularly, but the hand of Providence proved to be the only determinate of survivors. Morbidly, he hoped such trials and conditions plagued the Confederates as well.

  "'Scuse me, doc, don' mean a disturb you, but you seen dat Private Edmonds anywhare?"

  With little interest, Dr. Hillman turned to the colored man. Though glad for the extra pair of hands the free coloreds occasionally provided around the hospital, Dr. Hillman held little regard for the race. Aside from when he gave them orders, he rarely looked them in the eye. He could not fathom why people, southern or not, would consent to having such creatures work and clean in their homes.

  "No, boy, Edmonds hasn't been around today. There's no telling where he may be, but since you're here, why don't you make yourself useful and empty the patients' bedpans."

  Dr. Hillman looked up from his writing tablet when the young colored did not dart off with his new assignment. He dared not to stand too close, fearing that nappy head nested ticks and lice, but he thought he detected the scent of lye soap.

  The boy looked at him pleasantly, with a wide, foolish smile stretched across his face.

  "Is there something wrong with your hearing, boy?"

  "No, sir, it be fine."

  "Then run along. I gave you an order."

  The boy snickered before taking off, leaving Dr. Hillman dismayed and irritated.

  ****

  Avoiding bedpans, the colored boy made his way to Eleanor's house and slipped in the back door.

  "Well?" Eleanor asked.

  "It worked! He didn't suspect a thing." Emma removed the wig and twirled it with her hand. "You were right about washing it. I think that made all the difference." Emma hugged Eleanor, and they hopped around the kitchen celebrating their success. "We did it."

  Eleanor's glee quickly faded. "Oh, I'm afraid fooling Dr. Hillman is a small step, compared to what's ahead of you." Worries bombarded Eleanor, but she pursed her lips together. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

  Emma nodded. "They're counting on me." She hoped her voice disguised her fears as well as the tattered clothes and nitrate solution masked her gender and ethnicity. It was too late, she decided, to court apprehensions. "I leave tonight."

  Eleanor sighed and then grinned supportively. "In that case, we had best get you fed and ready."

  Emma doubted that she could stomach anything besides a dose of courage, but when she glimpsed the tears in Eleanor's eyes, she knew she had to be strong for her friend's sake.

  ****

  As darkness settled, Emma, in full disguise and escorted by Colonel Reed, slipped through the Union's picket line and took off into the night. Her mission, as outlined by General McClellan, was simple: observe every aspect of the Rebels' fortification, deem every detail as vital.

  A small knife, matches, two apples, and a pocket of pine nuts tallied her supplies. She also tucked a bottle of the solution inside her sock for touch ups. Without a canteen, Emma would have to hunt for fresh water sources, but that didn't bother her as much as leaving the Colt behind. She knew if a slave was discovered with such a weapon, execution would precede questions.

  As a precaution, Emma had covered her entire body with the silver nitrate. Eleanor had touched up areas around her neck, but Emma had saturated her skin in the solution. Holes in her shirt presented a minor threat of exposure anyway.

  She headed toward the train depot outside of Washington. To cover the hundred and fifty miles to Yorktown, she and the colonel had decided her best option for travel was stealing rides on the railway. Emma was petrified but convinced herself it was the least of her worries. She hunched behind a tree as a southbound train began to chug out of the station. When the conductor had finished inspecting for stowaways, Emma dashed for the train's last car. With effort, she made it. She quickly moved through the car and onto a flatbed section of the train, where a stack of lumber was covered with canvas. Emma ducked under the canvas, settled herself in, and appreciated the extra cover, since her clothing offered no defense against the chill and the light snow that began falling. At some point, Emma even managed bits of sleep.

  ****

  Yorktown, Virginia

  November, 1861

  After successfully train jumping her way to Fredericksburg, Bowling Green, and Coldwater, Emma knew it would be best for her to walk the rest of the way, though she still had a chunk of distance to cover if she hoped to reach the Rebel boarder by early nightfall. She kept a brisk pace, avoided the main roadways, and hid whenever she heard or suspected someone else coming. Everyone proved a threat to Emma in her current outfit. Soldiers, Union and Confederate alike, would seize her as a prisoner or potential worker for their camp. Plus, there was the possibility a deranged bandit or suspicious property owner could shoot her on sight.

  When darkness fell, though, Emma had not reached the enemy line. Wary of continuing her approach at night, she made a small fire to warm her hands. With a deliberate slowness, she ate her last apple. Afterward, she huddled under a bush and covered herself with branches torn from an evergreen. The branches served well for protection and added warmth. Hunger lulled her to a disquieting sleep and prayers were her only comfort.

  At dawn, she gradually resumed her pace, having to work out the stiffness in her muscles. Bright sunshine made the patches of snow sparkle. Lightheartedness struck Emma, since she'd made it through the night, but a sudden clamor sent her ducking into the trees. Peeking from around a tree trunk, she saw a Confederate officer on horseback. Emma took it as an indication that she was close to the Rebel camp.

  She continued a cautious advance, until a musket barrel in her face stopped her cold.

  "Where do you think you're sneaking off to, coon?"

  Emma threw up her hands. "No-nowheres. I's jus—" Well aware of how the slaves on her family's plantation spoke, Emma was careful to pattern her speech in a similar dialect.

  "Get back with the others. Now!" The Confederate soldier used the end of his gun like a prod and shoved Emma in the chest.

  Emma fell but scrambled back to her feet. Several yards ahead, she caught sight of a small group of colored men carrying buckets and wads of cloth. She deduced that she must have crossed into Rebel territory. As Emma neared the men, they turned and greeted her with amused, curious faces. One man, the tallest and largest of them all, pushed through the others. An angry scowl covered his face.

  "Who de hell are you?"

  Taken aback by the address, Emma felt painfully self-conscious of her masquerade.

  "Name's Cuff," she replied. "I's headin' north, but dem Rebs got me. I's shore need some food."

  The man came and stood toe-to-toe with her. He was twice as broad as Emma and close to six inches taller. His shirt was too small and missing buttons. Long, lean muscles covered his body, as did an offensive odor.

  "Ain't no food here for you, jigaboo."

  His baritone voice made Emma's insides clench. "I's can work."

  "Don' look to me like you can drag a shovel."

  Emma avoided the man's eyes. She had known fear and faced danger, but the man in front of her made her quake more than a charging Rebel or a tomahawk-wielding Indian. Back on the plantation, she'd never heard of or seen such aggression displayed among the slaves.

  "Put me to work," Emma said. "I's show you."

  "Oh, you gonna work." He pointed in Emma's face. "But you even think of scootin' off, I'll come 'n crack you in the head."

  Without another word, and with stolen glances fr
om his cohorts, the man took the lead of the group and set a quick pace. Emma drifted toward the back, unsure what the others were thinking of her — and pondered whether or not it would be best to abort the mission. If this man was already set against her, Emma knew having an evil eye watch over her would only increase the likelihood for trouble.

  "Dat's Big Sam," whispered one of the men from the group. "Stay outta his way if you can."

  "Yeah, I's knowed dat's right." Emma checked to see if Big Sam had heard her. "Why he so mean?"

  Emma's new friend shrugged. "Dunno. He been through a lot, I'spect. Don' want dem soljas down on him. Deys beat him twice since wes been here."

  "Where's yous from?"

  "Alabamy. Bunch of us ran 'way when wes heard 'bout de fightin', but it ain't no good."

  "Whut ain't?"

  "Bein' free. Been pickin' cotton my 'hole life, don' knowed nothin' else."

  The admission hit Emma much the same way as Tilda's words had several months ago. With Tilda, Emma could not understand her willingness to stay in a situation that compromised her freedom — and that had cost her a son. Now, after living a life far different from what she knew, Emma understood the fear of uncertainty. Change was daunting and demanding, but she still believed the transition would be worth the turmoil, once the war was over.

  Big Sam led the men to an area of the camp under construction, where more black men were already assembled and working. The amount of activity astounded Emma. Through the slaves' efforts, a mound of earth had been shaped into a parapet to provide soldiers protection from incoming fire. Presently, the men worked feverishly, digging trenches and gun pits, preparations for a lengthy battle.

  "Spook!" called Big Sam to Emma. "You over dere." He pointed to a group of men shoveling and filling a wheelbarrow with gravel. Once the wheelbarrow was full, a man maneuvered it up an incline and dumped the ballast between stakes in the ground. Confederate soldiers, cradling their rifles, amused themselves by insulting the workers. If a man appeared tired or slow, a soldier was quick to ping the man in the head with a rock.

  Emma had to ignore her anger toward both Big Sam and the soldiers. She found a shovel and joined the men without questions or further instruction. Neither the men nor the soldiers paid any attention to the addition of another darkie. Emma considered her infiltration a minor success. Soon, the day carved out a difficult pattern that involved her shoveling gravel into a wheelbarrow and forcing the load up the incline. Once, when others were not paying attention, Big Sam yanked the side of the wheelbarrow, causing it to fall over the side of the inclined plank.

  "Watch what you're doing!" one of the soldiers shouted at Emma.

  She darted a perturbed scowl at Big Sam, who enjoyed a muffled laugh.

  ****

  Late that night, worries burdened Emma. Having worked the entire day at the construction area, she had not been able to learn much about the Rebel encampment. Now, her every muscle throbbed in painful exhaustion, and broken blisters covered her hands. She wouldn't be able to put in another day of such brutal labor, and with Big Sam sneaking in his irksome jabs, Emma again considered the notion of abandoning her assignment.

  Sitting on the cold ground with the other slaves and huddled next to a weak campfire, supper made its rounds. Gruel, dried beef, and acorn coffee. When it was Emma's turn to receive a bowl, Big Sam intervened.

  "Don' waste no food on dat coon." He slapped the bowl away. Gruel splattered onto Emma, but most was lost to the ground. Big Sam enjoyed another chortle at her expense.

  Emma reacted. She snapped a kick into Big Sam's gut, causing him to bend at the waist. She followed up by bringing Big Sam's face to her knee. Blood appeared. At the sight of his own blood Big Sam retaliated. He grabbed Emma and slammed her onto her back. Shock and pain radiated through her. Air left her and she feared she couldn't move. Big Sam reached down and took a handful of Emma's shirt. Attempting to hoist her up, Big Sam caused the shirt to rip apart. Most of the material ended up in Big Sam's fist while Emma thumped to the ground and landed on her stomach.

  The linen wrap she kept around her chest had fallen loose. Emma clasped her arms over her front and wobbled to her feet. Hunched forward, she considered dashing for the woods but felt too weak. This was it. The end. She was about to be exposed as a woman. There would be no more Cuff. No Tom. No escape now. Even at the hands of contraband slaves, Emma expected no mercy. But when she checked the faces of the gathered crowd, Emma felt as astonished as they looked. Solemn, sympathetic countenances stared back at her. Even Big Sam suddenly appeared sober.

  Emma didn't know what was going on. Had the scuffle rubbed off some of the solution? She peeked over her shoulder at her torn shirt. In the flickering firelight, she realized her scars from the George Napier beating were exposed.

  A colored woman came through the crowd and stood in front of Big Sam.

  "Dat's enuff!" she said.

  Big Sam shifted his eyes from the woman to Emma. He smeared the blood from his lip and looked down at it. His eyes darted back to Emma then to the staring colored men and women. Big Sam cast an expression of indifference at Emma before he walked away.

  ****

  Fog hugged the ground early the next morning, and Emma sat under a tree, groggy from a fitful night of poor sleep, and examined her hands. Red, swollen, and dotted with broken blisters, she could hardly move them. Last night, after confronting Big Sam, the woman who had stepped forward aided Emma. After giving Emma a new shirt, she made strips out of the torn shirt, dipped the strips in cool water and gently wrapped Emma's hands. Her kindness reminded Emma of Tilda, but she was disappointed to find minimal improvement to her hands.

  She had to act. Aside from a violent illness, nothing would excuse her from work detail.

  Emma spoke with another slave and arranged to switch places with him for the day. Although meal duty still required the use of her hands, it was better than gripping a shovel. Emma determined to work through the pain. She had to. Her new task necessitated that she deliver meals to officers around the camp and to soldiers on picket duty.

  This was the break Emma needed. In a few short hours, she saw the layout of the entire camp. She took stock of the number of howitzers and battery wagons they possessed, the location and assortment of ammunition on hand, and even heard one officer reference an unfamiliar piece of artillery.

  "Quaker guns, did you say?" asked the officer. Emma handed him a lukewarm cup of coffee.

  She noticed the two men's collar badges. The man she'd just served coffee to had three stars, indicating his rank as a colonel, while the other man had one star, a major.

  "Yes, sir," said the major. "Essentially they are painted logs, positioned and intended to mimic canons, in case the bluecoats launch a surprise attack."

  "Painted logs?" asked the colonel. "Did you say painted logs?" A sour look crossed his face, and whether it was from the information or the weak coffee, Emma didn't know.

  "Sir," continued the colonel, "I do not understand this strategy. If you believe McClellan and his men are going to be fooled by decorated tree trunks, you will be gravely mistaken."

  "There are several sects of Quakers who live in the region, sir, and they refuse to take sides or to harbor any weapons to help us strengthen our defenses."

  "If painted logs are your idea of a defense, Major, then you should simply slaughter your men now, and save the Federals time and energy. We cannot rely on large sticks if we expect victory."

  Emma snickered at the bit of humor and both men looked her way.

  "You see there, Major, even a darkie finds your methods laughable." The colonel stepped close to the other officer. "Let me make this very clear, Major. I have spent my life and career serving my country and honoring the great state of Virginia. I am not about to allow you, or anyone else in this ragtag outfit, to put forth efforts that are bound to be shameful."

  "Then what do you suggest, Colonel Lee?"

  Emma almost dropped the coffee pot. Colonel Rob
ert E. Lee was infamous among military men. A graduate of West Point, his career had been legendary. Unfortunately for the Union, Lee remained loyal to Virginia, even though he did not support slavery and he considered secession an act of treachery against America's founding fathers.

  Lee finished his coffee and returned the cup to Emma before speaking.

  "If you're concerned about your defenses, Major, then I would suggest positioning soldiers in the outlying areas for an ambush, once you get word of the Federals' approach. Few tactics are as effective as a surprise attack."

  "I agree."

  "However, sir, I would also suggest that you do your damnedest to get these men in better shape for battle. Bull Run was a fluke. I wouldn't count on that happening again, and should McClellan make up his mind and decide to attack in the immediate future, I don't see that turning out well for your forces here."

  Lee walked off. The major turned to Emma and said through gritted teeth, "There something else you need, boy?"

  "No, sir."

  Emma scrambled off, grinning all the way and with adrenaline shooting through her. Her mind raced. She had to find a way out of the camp. Immediately. The information she had overheard from Colonel Lee would be precisely what McClellan would want to hear. Sneaking past the pickets, Emma knew, would be her main problem. Thanks to her morning rounds of delivering coffee and dried beef, she knew the position of each guard, and she knew they could shoot her before she made it ten yards.

  With her focus set on a hasty escape, it was no wonder she crashed into someone.

  "Wha' de hell you doin'?"

  Emma found herself clasped by Big Sam.