by Ginny Dye
Marianne looked at her for a long moment. “I would prefer you not get too bad of an impression until you have been here longer.”
“I’m here for the long haul,” Rose responded. “My people need me.” She paused. “I would prefer to know the truth.”
“Yes,” Marianne nodded. “The truth is always best.” She took a deep breath. “It could be worse, I suppose...” She shook her head. “I’m afraid the government is not being particularly prompt about paying the refugees for their work.”
“They’re not getting paid at all, are they?” Rose asked, anger darkening her eyes.
“Oh, they’re getting paid something, at irregular intervals.” Marianne’s voice was heavy. “Reverend Lockwood is trying to do something about it, but I’m afraid…”
“That the North doesn’t do a much better job of seeing the blacks as humans than the Southerners do?” Rose asked tensely. “It sounds to me like being a contraband is not too different from being a slave.”
“Things will get better, Rose,” Marianne protested. “It takes time to change people’s attitudes. Many of the soldiers show great respect and appreciation for the contrabands. And things are different. At least the slaves are free to learn. They are free to build their own homes.”
“So the Northerners can have free labor,” Rose stated flatly. “How noble of them!” She fought to control her anger. Were things never going to be any different for her people?
“I’m sorry,” Marianne said softly. “We’re not too far from your quarters. You’ll need to get settled in.”
Rage seethed in Rose’s heart as she followed Marianne and Teresa. Suddenly she remembered something Aunt Abby had said before she left when she was talking about women’s rights. Women had been concerned for a long time with changing the conditions of their life but had not been particularly concerned about having the vote. Now they were realizing that until they had the vote - had the power to legislate change for themselves - life was going to remain much the same. Slowly the anger raging through her steeled into determination as she realized true change was not going to occur until black people were free. Until they had the ability to make decisions and changes for themselves.
Of course, the Federal government had the idea they owned the contrabands. Without the protection of the government, most of them would have been captured and returned to their owners. But someday... someday they would all be free. Then things would be different. A slight smile played on Rose’s lips. She knew why she was here. Just as she had prepared the Cromwell slaves for freedom before they escaped, she would do her best to prepare her students for the freedom waiting below the horizon. When it finally appeared and beckoned them all forward, it would be those with education and knowledge who would know best how to embrace it - how to cultivate change for their whole race.
Moses pushed aside the bushes and peered out - torn by indecision. His resolve to rescue his mama and Sadie was wavering. All he knew about them was that they were sold to a man named Johnson who lived on the James River, one hundred miles north of the city at the base of the mountains. That was precious little information to go on, with so little time to accomplish his mission.
Moses had been on foot for two days now. Captain Jones had offered him a horse, but he had refused. It was going to be hard enough to stay out of sight on foot; riding a horse would have made it impossible. Not to mention the suspicion it would have aroused to see a black man on a well-cared for horse. It would have taken only seconds for someone to realize he had no papers and then the gig would be up. He had no intention of landing in a rebel prison.
Moses sank back into the bushes and pondered his situation. He could just make out the tallest steeples protruding above the trees surrounding the city. Even if he were able to get past Richmond, he would have to take a wide circuitous route north of the city. Proceeding up the river was out of the question. He knew it would be well guarded, not to mention, clogged with naval boats. Besides, it would be next to impossible to get past the rapids. No, if he were to go to his mama, he would have to go around the city.
His eyes darkened as he considered his options. Even if he were able to maneuver his way around Richmond and head north, it would take him at least a week to go a hundred miles. And what would he do once he rescued them? His mama was too old, and Sadie too crippled to make it back to Fort Monroe. He could possibly take them far enough north to reach sympathetic people who would take them on to freedom, but if he did he would never have time to make it back to Fort Monroe and rejoin his unit. He had promised Captain Jones he would return in five weeks.
Tears filled his eyes as he once more relived the last day he had seen his mama and seventeen-year-old Sadie. Their eyes, wide with terror, had begged him to save them, to keep the family together. All he could do was watch, seething at his own impotency, as his mama and sister were led away from the auction block. He had vowed that day to find them and set them free. His mind turned to fifteen-year-old June. Eighteen, he corrected himself, trying to imagine his little sister a grown woman. He had been forced to watch as she was sold off to a man named Saunders who lived south of the city. He had no idea how far south. He thought he had overheard someone say Saunders had a plantation on the river, but he wasn’t certain.
Quiet sobs shook Moses’ broad shoulders as he made his decision. It was better to save one than none. “I’ll be back, mama,” he whispered. Tears streamed down his face as he turned south and began to walk swiftly.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rose’s heart was beating fast with excitement as she accompanied Marianne and Teresa down the road. She had spent a very restful night in her tiny room, pleasantly surprised by her quarters. The image of Carter standing in front of her dilapidated shack had hit her hard when she saw the stately old mansion she was to share with ten other teachers. It bore the scars of the recent fire, but remarkably it was still standing. Days of hard work by the refugees had made it livable. The room she was sharing was small by any standards - having been made by partitioning a larger room - but it was quite sufficient. Rose hadn’t imagined it would have been much more than a place to sleep.
“This is it,” Marianne said proudly. “This is our school. We have close to three hundred students in just this building. They appear in shifts, of course, or we would never be able to fit them in. The day’s first class will be here in about thirty minutes. I wanted to show you everything before they get here.”
Rose stopped, unable to believe her eyes. She smiled even as tears streamed down her face.
“Rose? Are you all right?”
Rose nodded as Marianne’s worried face appeared in front of her. “Yes,” she murmured. She tried to explain what she was feeling. “I had a dream one time. In the dream I was free. Teaching black children eager to learn. My school was a simple white building with a small covered porch...”
Understanding dawned on Marianne’s face. “A building just like this one,” she said.
Rose nodded again and wiped her tears. “I’m sorry... it’s just...”
“It’s just that you’ve carried that dream a long time, not ever knowing if it could really come true.”
“Yes,” Rose whispered, appreciating Marianne’s understanding. Her voice strengthened. “And now that it’s come true, I reckon there is a lot of work to be done. We’d better get started. I don’t want to meet my students with swollen eyes,” she said cheerfully, joy replacing the tears as soon as they walked through the doors of the school.
Marianne had barely begun her tour of the small building when Rose heard a slight noise and looked up quickly. A tiny face peered around the door frame. Rose smiled and walked over. “Hello. What’s your name?” She knelt down to put herself on the same level with the little girl.
“My name be Pearl,” a shy voice whispered back.
Rose fought to control the emotion welling in her. She was meeting her first student as a free teacher. Love swelled in her for the little girl. Pearl could not have been m
ore than six years old, with little pigtails and huge, dark eyes. Her simple blue dress had holes in it, but it was clean. Her bare feet were caked with mud and dust from the road. “Hello, Pearl. My name is Rose.”
“Be you one of the new teachers?”
“Yes, I’m one of the new teachers.”
Pearl continued to gaze at her with a curious expression. “But you be black like me. I thought teachers be white.”
If Rose hadn’t already been sure she was right where she should be, all doubt would have been erased in that one moment. “No, Pearl. There are black teachers, too.” Then she remembered something. “Didn’t you ever meet Mrs. Mary Peake?”
“Pearl came after Mrs. Peake passed away,” Marianne said. “She’s never seen anything but white teachers; which is another reason I’m so glad you’re here.”
Rose nodded and turned back to Pearl. “Black people can be anything they want to be, Pearl.”
Pearl stared at her. “You mean I could be a teacher like you?” Hope lit her features for a minute, but then her eyes clouded with tears.
“What is it?” Rose asked, reaching out her hand to touch the little girl’s shoulder.
“Do you think I could maybe be a healer person one day - instead of a teacher? My big brother done got real sick...” Her voice choked. “He done went to be wid the Lord two days ago. There weren’t nobody to make him better.” Her voice faded away as tears racked her body. She dropped her head and stared at the floor.
Rose eased forward and took the sobbing girl in her arms. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She lifted the little girl’s face so she could look into her eyes. “But, yes, Pearl, one day you could be a doctor. Soon our people - blacks like you and me - are going to be free to do whatever we want. But we have to learn all we can now.”
Just then a commotion at the door caused her to look up. There was a small scuffling sound on the porch then a young boy dashed into the room. “Pearl! Mama be worried sick about you. What you run off for?”
Pearl drew her tiny frame up proudly and sniffed back her tears. “I didn’t do no running off!” she cried in her little girl voice, slightly muffled from her crying. “I come to school early to meet the new teachers.”
The little boy barely glanced at Rose then turned toward Marianne and Teresa. “How do, ma’ams?” he muttered. “I’m sorry to be running in here like this, but my mama sent me after my little sister.”
Rose hid her smile at the important look plastered on the little boy’s face. She guessed him to be eight years old. Then she sobered. For all she knew, the little boy had been protecting his family for a long time. If he still had a daddy, the man was probably working with the army.
“This here be a new teacher, too,” Pearl cried, surprising Rose by turning and throwing her arms around her neck. “Her name be Rose.”
A muffled cough behind her caused Rose to turn and look at Marianne. She read the look in her eyes instantly and turned to correct the little girl. “Yes, that’s right, Pearl. My name is Rose. But I think it would be better if you called me Miss Rose.” She knew Marianne wanted the children to call the teachers by their last name, but that was one of the things she and Moses had not gotten around to doing. Slaves never had last names of their own - they were simply given the name of their master. They had talked about choosing a new last name that would belong just to them, but they hadn’t done it yet.
“Okay, Miss Rose,” Pearl agreed brightly then turned to her brother. “This here be Gabriel. He be eight!” Pride for her big brother shone in her eyes.
Rose smiled and reached out a hand to the suddenly suspicious little boy. “Hello, Gabriel. It’s nice to meet you.”
Gabriel took her hand but continued to stare at her. Finally he found the courage to speak. “You be a real teacher?” When Rose nodded, he stood silently, apparently thinking hard. “You be one of them free blacks from up North that feel sorry for us?”
Rose was curious as to what Gabriel meant by his question. What was he being told? She understood instantly that the only way to truly reach these children was to get to know their families. But right now she had to answer Gabriel’s question. “No, Gabriel, I don’t feel sorry for you. You have a whole exciting life of changes and opportunities ahead of you. My job is simply to help you do that. And yes, I am free. And yes, I came from the North - from Philadelphia.” She paused and smiled at him. “But until a year ago, I was a slave just like you and your family were until you ran away. I spent my whole life on a plantation fewer than one hundred miles from here.”
Suspicion faded from Gabriel’s face, replaced with the same wonder she had seen earlier on Pearl’s. “You done been a slave... and now you be a teacher?” Without warning, he turned to run out the door. “I’s got to tell my mama bout having a black lady for a teacher!” he cried over his shoulder, dodging through the swarm of children advancing toward the school.
Rose looked at Marianne apologetically. “I’m sorry. I seem to have messed up your schedule for the morning.”
“No apology needed,” Marianne responded with a warm smile. “What I have suspected all along is right. White teachers can make a big difference here, but your impact here will be far greater because the people won’t have to move beyond their suspicion. You will be one of them - able to understand them.”
Rose merely nodded, hoping she could live up to the trust God had bestowed on her.
The room quickly filled with children of all shapes, sizes, and ages. Excited chatter bounced off the rafters of the building until Marianne held up her hand for quiet. Instantly, all noise stopped. Rose was impressed. Marianne was obviously respected and loved.
“Good morning, school.”
“Good morning, Miss Lockins,” their voices chorused back.
“Why don’t we start the day with a song? Then we’ll meet our new teachers.”
In the back of the room, a boy about twelve, tall and lanky, stood up. He opened his mouth and began to sing, a pure tenor exploding from his vocal cords.
Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home
Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home.
I looked over Jordan
And what did I see
Coming for to carry me home
A band of angels coming after me
Coming for to carry me home.
Rose smiled, holding back her tears, as she raised her voice to sing along with the children. Images of Moses, tall and strong, filled her mind. That had been their song during the long months of escape. Many a time it had given them strength to carry on. Oh, how she wished she could share this moment with Moses. Where was he? What was he doing? When would she see him again?
Moses wiped the sweat from his face and swatted at the mosquitoes attacking the exposed parts of his body as he pushed through the overgrowth along the river. Even in the darkness, the murky humidity pulled at him, soaking and coaxing the life from his body. Tree limbs whipped his face and body while thorns pierced his flesh. His face was set with determination as he forged on.
Moses had not planned on traveling only at night, but it was the only way he felt safe. There were too many Confederate soldiers scouting the area. The first few days heading south he had spent hiding in the bushes, never knowing when a small scouting party would appear around a curve. So far he had been lucky. Whether it was the strike of a horseshoe against a rock or a muffled snort, he had always been able to duck from sight. The Rebels must be reconnoitering the area to determine McClellan’s next move. Captain Jones must have been right. The general was in no hurry to follow Lincoln’s order. Still, he would have to move his army soon. Moses wasn’t sure whether that would complicate his life or make it easier.
He was just as leery of running into Union troops. Like before, he had gotten rid of his Union identification. It was simply too dangerous to have on him. But there was no guarantee how the Federals would treat him either. His chances were better, but
he wasn’t interested in playing the odds. There was always the chance he would encounter Federal soldiers who didn’t like blacks any more than the Rebels did.
After three days of mostly hiding in the bushes, he realized he would have to limit his travel to night hours. His frustration mounted daily. His supply of hardtack had run out after a few days, and finding food at night was much more difficult. He had grown sick of blackberries.
Moses had no idea how much ground he had covered before the sun began to lighten the horizon. It would be time to find his hiding place for the day soon. Stretching his aching back and legs, he slid down the bank into the river while closing his eyes in ecstasy as the cool water closed over his body. He lay in the water quietly, allowing it to restore some of his energy.
The sun had pinkened the sky when he pulled himself onto a tree trunk stretching out over the water. He reached into his haversack, pulled out a tin cup, and filled it time and time again, drinking thirstily. Then he carefully filled his canteen. He might not have water again until dark. He would have to horde it. Moses turned toward the bank and then stopped, the spectacle before him rooting him in place.
As the sun slipped its way onto the painting of a new day, it spread its signature in bold strokes across the sky. Clouds were highlighted in orange and purple; the surrounding sky turned a bright azure blue. Low lying mist over the river caught the colors and threw them back at the sky, swirling in a dance of greeting for the sun. A soft breeze rippled the water while a chorus of birds sang greeting to a new day.
“Good morning to you, too, Lord,” Moses said quietly, reverence filling his heart. Along with the reverence came a fresh sense of peace. If God could create a painting such as the one he was looking at, then surely He could handle helping him find his little sister. His body relaxed as he stared at the sky. He didn’t move an inch until the colors began to fade.
A shout from down river caused him to stiffen and then move imperceptibly toward the bank. He had just slipped into the cover of the brush when the first boat appeared around the curve of the river. The sound of men’s voices floated clearly across the water.
