The Candle Star

by Michelle Isenhoff

  She lifted her chin defiantly. “Can’t you guess? You’re the one who told me we’re just alike.”

  After a tense moment, Isaac’s chuckle dropped softly around them. “Fool girl,” he muttered. “I ought to take a hickory stick to your backside. When we get home, you scoot in that house and change, and don’t you dare tell Shannon what you’ve been up to. She’d fillet us both.”

  Malachi jumped out of the wagon, squinting downriver, and Emily let the silence run on. Finally she spoke. “I don’t think Shannon would care.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Emily shifted uncomfortably on the seat. “I’ve been pretty awful to her.”

  Isaac pursed his lips and nodded. “Yes, you have. But she loves you. Give her a chance.”

  Malachi’s shout broke the moment. “There! Do you see it?”

  “See what?” Emily craned her neck.

  “The lights on the steamer. It’s moving out into the river.”

  “I see it!”

  “They made it! They’re all safe!”

  “How can you tell?”

  “See the red light up on top of the ship? That’s the signal that everyone is accounted for. Mr. deBaptiste will cross to Canada before heading down to Cleveland.”

  They watched the lights on the ship grow smaller. Then Isaac twitched the reins. “Let’s get on home. I intend to be sitting in my office when Burrows comes in the door madder than a bear with consumption.”

  Chapter 20

  Emily waited at the foot of the hotel steps, wearing her second-best gown and holding a tremendous bouquet of roses. Shannon’s sister stood beside her, and the lobby swarmed with red-haired nieces and nephews mixed in among the dark faces of Julia, Malachi, and Zeke.

  Dressed in his best suit with his riot of curls neatly combed, Isaac sat at the piano. He played once through an old hymn, and as he moved smoothly into “Moonlight Sonata,” the bride appeared at the top of the stairs. She floated down to the beautiful melody, eyes shining, hair falling in ringlets onto a soft blue gown. Isaac couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Shannon had been overjoyed when Emily finally pruned off the last of her pride and abolished the uneasy truce. Then it hadn’t taken much effort for the young woman to talk Emily into staying for the wedding.

  After the ceremony they would feast on Julia’s delicious cooking, and that afternoon Emily’s train would leave for home. But for now Emily stood contentedly within the circle of her patchwork family, blooming like the roses in Shannon’s garden.

  ~

  Emily changed into her new traveling suit and laid one last petticoat on the pile overflowing the top of her trunk. She couldn’t imagine how she was going to close the lid. Why was it that on returning a trunk always seemed smaller?

  Only a few items remained on her bed, and most of these she shoved into her handbag. That left only a stained strip of white linen—Rachel’s bandage.

  The cloth had been laundered, and now Emily rolled it into a tight ball and shoved it into a corner of her trunk. It would serve as a reminder to look for “little things” on the plantation. She did not want to forget the color of blood.

  A knock sounded at the door and Isaac peeked in. “Almost ready?”

  She nodded. “But it will take a miracle to latch this trunk.”

  “You don’t weigh enough,” he told her. “Allow me.”

  He sat on the lid, and when it closed with a groan she fastened the lock.

  “Now let’s pray the catch doesn’t spring open and litter the compartment with ladies’ undergarments,” he joked.

  She laughed, thinking such a scene could be entertaining on the long train ride.

  “If you’re all set, there’s something I’d like to show you before you leave.”

  Emily gave the latch one final inspection before following him into his office. The top of the Dutch door was firmly closed.

  Isaac sat at his desk and pressed a small panel. The secret compartment popped open, and he removed the journal with the star embossed on its cover.

  “Only Julia, Shannon, and Malachi know the contents of this book, but as the newest conductor at this station, and as my most trusted niece—”

  “I’m your only niece.”

  “Not anymore,” he grinned.

  “—descended from the same dubious lineage, the niece most like me in thought and temperament, I assumed you might like to know exactly where the Milford family fortune went.”

  He opened the journal to a random page and held it open for her to see. Dated March 14, 1855, it looked just like all the other entries she remembered. She read through the list, “Joe, Solomon, six sacks of apples, three hundred pounds seed corn, three plows, twenty spades, twenty hoes, woolen cloth, fourteen buckets.”

  The next entry, dated two weeks later, looked much the same. “Anna, Thomas, Daniel, five lanterns, fifteen gallons kerosene, oxen yoke.”

  Emily took the book and thumbed through several more pages. Some entries had names and no items, others listed just materials, but still she could make no sense of the notations.

  “You still don’t understand?” He turned to the very last entry. Dated a few weeks before, it read, “Rachel, Abraham, four axes, ten hammers, one crosscut saw, twenty sacks feed.”

  The light finally dawned. Emily flipped to the beginning. It was dated fifteen years before. She gawked at her uncle. “Is this why you moved to the North?”

  He nodded. “I had an uncle who was a very wise man. He saw what I was becoming and offered to take me under his wing for a time. My father readily agreed. So I spent two tough years learning to work and gaining a new perspective on life.

  “It was my uncle who first introduced me to the Underground Railroad. Together we helped more than forty runaways pass right under my father’s nose.

  “When my parents died I inherited the estate, and my first act as the new master was to free every slave. Then I sold out. Of course, much of the value of the estate was in slaves, and my father had several creditors. So most folks, including your father, assumed I was foolish and broke.”

  “But you had enough to buy this hotel,” Emily figured.

  “And some left over, which I have put to use outfitting former slaves when they settle in Canada. With the help of many individuals, both black and white, supplies are collected and transported across the river.”

  “And you did this while Mr. Burrows boarded in your house?”

  Isaac laughed. “He’d be proud to know how many black families he’s financed!”

  “Does my mama know what you’re doing up here?”

  He smiled gently. “Do you think she would have let you come? No, she thinks I’m a misplaced Southern gentleman with no eye for business, but she did recognize the changes wrought by my uncle’s hand. And I think she’ll be very proud of you.”

  He closed the book and replaced it in its hiding place. “I’ll see to your trunk.”

  ~

  Emily sat in the window seat and faced the cinnamon-colored depot. She had exchanged a dozen final hugs, accepted a huge basket of food from Julia, and promised Malachi she would send for his books immediately. Then Isaac slipped her a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Just a little something to remember us by,” he winked.

  The train let out a sharp whistle and lurched into motion like a beast awakened from slumber. Emily waved to her family until the train inched around the curve and the bustling waterfront was lost to sight.

  As the train picked up speed, Emily opened her gift. Inside she found a small book of Longfellow’s poetry. She laughed out loud and held the volume up for Zeke to see. But the old man had already fallen asleep, his gray hair resting against the back of his seat, his mouth open slightly.

  Emily smiled fondly at him and lost herself in the beauty of cadence and rhyme.

  ****

  An appeal to my readers…

  It’s tough for an independently published author to gain recognition without the support of a
publishing house. It’s even more difficult to earn the respect of the literary community when so many indies produce substandard work.

  I’ve made every effort to ensure a quality product. If you found the results satisfactory, please consider leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads, even if it’s just a sentence or two. A like on my Facebook page is also appreciated. Thanks so much. And thanks for reading!

  For notice of new releases only, sign up for my email list.

  Want to read more about Emily?

  Due to reader demand, I’ve continued Emily’s story. Ella Wood, the first of a trilogy of young adult fiction, just released in May. Emily is now sixteen, standing at the edge of war and struggling with questions of morality, purpose, and love.

  Charleston, South Carolina, 1860

  Though she left Charleston a spoiled daughter of the South, Emily returns from her stay in the North a changed young woman. Her assumptions about slavery have been shattered, and her secret dream of attending university has blossomed into fierce ambition. As the passions sweeping North and South toward war threaten to envelop the city she loves, Emily must battle her father's traditional expectations in her own bid for freedom. Meanwhile, the real fight may lie within her heart, which stubbornly refuses to accept that a choice for independence must be a choice against love.

  Parents of Tweens, please note: The Ella Wood series has a 14+ age recommendation. Slavery, dealt with so carefully in my series for young readers, is shown in a much harsher light, and some themes are adult in nature. A “clean” read, Ella Wood is nevertheless intended for an audience of some maturity.

  Now available on Amazon.

  Bonus Short

  The Flight of Ezra Jones

  1841

  Ezra Jones (Julia Watson’s brother and Malachi’s uncle) features in the middle Divided Decade title, Blood of Pioneers.

  “Ezra, stop!”

  The whisper barely feathered the air, but it held power enough to halt me in my tracks. Fear tightened every muscle. I crouched low, my breath coming in cloudy puffs. “You hear somethin’, Sarah?”

  “Thought I did.”

  I listened with my ears, with my hands, with my feet, but the night lay still all around us. Even in South Carolina the friendly murmur of frogs and crickets dies off in January. Least I reckoned that’s where we was.

  “Ain’t nothin’,” Sarah sighed. Her words tickled my cheek, relaxed my body, and the quiet patter of our feet resumed. We didn’t even feel the frost under ‘em no more. Move long enough and a body grows warm. We’d been moving right steady, staying off the road so’s our prints didn’t show.

  We traveled alone. Some said there’s safety in numbers. I said more bodies be easier to track. We didn’t carry nothin’ with us. Just the rags on our backs and the memory of five young’uns sold off God-knows-where. I vowed something better for the new life Sarah carried.

  “Reckon we oughta be dare soon,” Sarah breathed.

  It was her weariness talking. She weren’t huge yet, but she tired sooner’n usual. “Can’t be. Fella said seven miles pas’ de river. Ain’t been three yet.”

  “Dawn’s a’comin’.”

  “You need a res’?”

  “No time.”

  She was right. I set the pace as fast as my wife could handle. Daybreak meant eyes, and we had come too far to get caught now. Whispered instructions, a light in an attic window, a quilt left out to air—we moved by signs and codes. Step by step we’d come from Georgia. I didn’t wanna think about all the miles that lay ahead. We knew too well what followed.

  “Ezra, you know what we’s lookin’ fo’?”

  “Big place. Iron gate. Marble lions on both sides.”

  Sarah stopped abruptly. “Don’ sound like someplace we wanna go.”

  I tugged her onward. “Can’t judge a man by his house. ‘Sides, we go fifteen minutes pas’ and strike out into de woods. Huntin’ shack’s half mile back.”

  We moved on through the gloom. Mile after mile had passed in shades of black and gray, color long forgotten. We trudged through a never-ending twilight. An underworld. Were we dead? Seemed so, sometimes. Only aching muscles reminded us we still lived.

  And complaining bellies.

  “Sarah, any bread left?” I whispered.

  “We ate de las’ of it yes’erday evenin’.”

  “Be food ‘nough soon,” I assured her.

  She nodded.

  We paused to drink at a small stream. The water did little enough for our hunger, but it revived our spirits.

  “We should wade upstream. Throw dem houn’s off our scent,” I suggested.

  “Ain’t heard a houn’ in a week,” Sarah rejoined. “An’ we don’ have time. Gotta get ourselves under cover.”

  She was right. I could see silver lighting the sky in the east. And the water was bitter cold. We pressed on, every sense alert.

  Darkness may blind the eye, but it enhances all else. We could smell a village long before we approached it. Our ears caught the faintest rustle. We were like the wild ones, like hunted things. Though we faced north, we were always looking away south, over our shoulders.

  Black was fading into shades of pink and blue. We stepped up our pace, our breath coming in hazy pants, but we didn’t pass any iron gate. Sarah tugged my arm. I could see her clearly now, her chocolate skin shiny with sweat, bits of leaves flecking her hair. “Ezra, we can’t go on. We gotta fin’ someplace to hide.”

  I cringed, thinking of another day in the open. Folks traveled the road by day, and young boys roamed the woods and fields. But Sarah was right. “Come on,” I said, leading her deep into the trees. We holed up in brambles so thick only a rabbit could find us.

  The heat from our travels wore off quickly and we huddled together to stay warm. I must have slept, ’cause next thing I knew bright specks of sunlight filtered into our nest and the air had lost its bitter edge.

  The hours passed slowly. Sarah slept on, weary with the extra burden she carried. I hugged her close, wishing I could protect her. Wishing I could guarantee her safety. I’d sacrifice anything to see it done. But muscles that swelled with labor in the fields were nothing to chains, to guns, to laws. One man couldn’t stand against evil big as a continent.

  I snuggled closer to Sarah, listening to her even breaths and wondering how many others waited for night to fall. How many others burrowed under buildings, climbed inside smokehouses, tucked under haystacks? How many scrabbled forward in the dark, inching their way ever northward? More’n a few. Time comes when freedom outweighed all risks, when a man demanded to be human.

  Sarah awoke toward dusk. “Ezra, what time is it?”

  “Be dark soon.”

  “Heard anything?”

  “Nothin’.”

  She shifted, stretching. “We been lucky. Mos’ folks caught home within a week.”

  “Thank the good Lord and hope it don’ run out,” I murmured. But the moment I said it, the breeze brought a sound that froze our blood.

  “Houn’s!” Sarah gasped, her eyes brown pools of terror.

  “Might not be after us,” I said, but she didn’t believe it any more’n I did. I grabbed her arm and dragged her through the woods, shouldering aside scrub and scrambling over fallen logs.

  “Safe house can’t be far.” Sarah’s words came out half a wheeze, half a sob. I didn’t tell her it’d do no good to lead the dogs right to the door. “We gotta outwit ‘em,” I said instead and led the way back to the stream.

  The water was frigid. Though night had barely fallen, we didn’t take care to mask our noise. Survival now depended on speed, on staying as far ahead of the trackers as we could. We splashed down the middle of the streambed quick as we could run.

  We heard the houn’s again, closer this time.

  Sarah began to falter. “Come on, baby,” I urged. “Stay with me.”

  She tried. She gave everything she had, but our pace, the cold, lack of food, and the sodden weight of her dress proved too mu
ch. I guided her up the bank. “The road will be easier.”

  But the darkness had grown complete, and neither of us saw the rock in the dark. Sarah stumbled and went down, bone cracking like a dry branch. She moaned and writhed in the bracken, clutching her leg up near the hip. I knew she couldn’t walk. But neither could we stay. The voice of each dog had grown distinct. We were out of time.

  “I’m sorry, Sarah,” I whispered and scooped her up in my arms. She didn’t cry out, but the pain nearly knocked her out. And the uneven forest made for a rough ride.

  I struggled on, my breath growing ragged as the clothes I wore, and finally burst onto the road. Didn’t matter no more who saw my footprints. Each step bought us another second of freedom, another precious moment of life.

  Sarah’s voice drifted up to my ears, fragile as a vapor. “Ezra, listen.”

  I didn’t slow, but in a moment I, too, could hear the fall of hooves over the hammer blows of my heart. We were trapped. Chains before. Death behind.

  Then came the blessed sound of singing, like a corner of heaven torn open. It was a deep voice—mellow with toil, flavored with heartache—and it sang the anthem of the slave. “Swing low sweet chariot, comin’ forth to carry me home. Swing low sweet chariot, comin’ forth to carry me home.”

  I plunged onward. I could hear the pack of dogs crashing through the underbrush behind us.

  “Stop the cart, Zeke,” ordered a voice.

  “I see ‘em, Marse Isaac.”

  “Please,” I gasped as I reached the vehicle. On the driver’s bench perched an old gray-haired Negro. Behind him sat a white man, hardly more than a teenager. I held Sarah up desperately, pleading for pity. “Please!”

  “Get in. Quickly,” the boy instructed. I didn’t hesitate. “Zeke, go!”

  The driver lay on the whip and the cart shot down the road. Behind us, the houn’s bounded out of the woods and gathered in the road, sniffing for the lost scent. I melted into the side of the cart. Sarah had lost consciousness. “Bless you, sir,” I panted.