by Ann Rinaldi
What would she say? "I can't forgive you for keeping me in bondage. I can't marry you, Gabe."
"Take care of her," Gabe admonished me when his holiday furlough was over and he left for Fort Belknap.
If he didn't have to wait for the circuit preacher to come through, would he have wed her before he left? I recollected how antsy my sister got waiting for that preacher before she married in December of 1863.
Now it would be at least two months until Gabe came home again. If he could get away. And who knew when, after that.
AS IT TURNED out, it was March when he again came home. The end was coming. Soon General Lee's line at the James River at Petersburg and Richmond would have to be abandoned.
"He doesn't have enough troops to hold off Sherman in the Carolinas," Gabe told us. "I've asked to be sent to help, but it turns out our frontier here would be abandoned to the Indians, and I'm afraid they don't care who wins the war. They just insist on being a threat."
Mama was distraught. She hugged him. Who was worse, she tried to decide, the Kickapoos or the Yankees?
With Gabe home, Sis Goose once again was coming up to the room long after I had gone to bed. I would lie there waiting for her, wondering just when it was that things had changed between her and Gabe. And what would become of it.
The night before he left again for Fort Belknap, Sis Goose came in especially late. Actually, it was near morning. Where had they been?
Late the next morning, Gabe saddled up and bid good-bye to us all, telling me to take care of Sis Goose, who stood to the side with tears in her eyes.
That afternoon I went, as I did most days, to take a plate of supper to Edom in the log house that Grandpa had built.
"Nice warm fire," he said, stoking it with a poker. "Burned all night long. He kept it burning."
"Who?" I asked. But I knew instantly, even before he answered.
"That young brother of yourn. Gabe. In here with that woman of his near the whole night."
So. This is where they had stayed. How stupid of me. Of course. All the privacy they wanted here. Edom slept in the back room.
GABE WAS back at Fort Belknap when the war ended. We kept the ending from the slaves as well as we could.
The vegetable and flower gardens were planted. All the fences were mended. Fertilizer was put in the fields. But it wasn't enough.
The cotton must be planted. So must the wheat and corn.
All the slaves were set to work. Pa, usually a wonderful host, deliberately cut off contact with anyone on the outside. He wanted no news of war's end, no hint of freedom to reach our slaves until he absolutely had to tell them.
Was it right? We didn't discuss it. Did they suspect? They had no outside information, not even in the slave grapevine, because Pa forbade the visiting back and forth to other plantations, even by men or women who had wives or husbands there. And they had Sam the overseer's cooperation.
We became a country unto ourselves. Did it matter? we asked ourselves. Who would be hurt with a couple of more months in bondage?
I am sure God has that question written down in a dark book in gold print somewhere.
CHAPTER TWELVE
PA HEARD, through his own connections, which he did not even tell Mama about and which she didn't ask him, that the Yankees were finally coming in June.
We think he had something to do with the commission of men sent to New Orleans by Governor Pendleton Murrah to make peace terms with the Yankees.
The men asked if the slaves could remain on their plantations until the crops were gathered. The Yankee officials said no.
On June 19, 1865, General Gordon Granger issued the Emancipation Proclamation for Texas. Exactly two years and five months after the slaves back in the states heard of it.
"Sir." Sam the overseer, faithful to Pa up until then, came to the big house to see him. "Sir, I can't hold out no longer. They's bound to find out and if'n you doan tell 'em soon, I'm afeared they'll all walk off from you. If'n you do tell 'em and ask nice, I think you got a good chance of havin' many of 'em stay. With some agreement, of course."
Pa trusted Sam and agreed. And so he stayed locked in his study all day and would take no vittles. Nor would he answer the knocks on the door. Mama finally got Sis Goose, whom I suspected he favored as much as me, to knock on the door and call in, "Mister Holcomb, sir? I have your coffee. Just the way you like it. And some ham and biscuits."
Maybe he was just starved. Maybe he'd lost track of time, drawing up the freedom order to be read to the slaves. He let Sis Goose in. And he kept her with him the whole afternoon, asking her how the order read, sounding it off her. Then he said, "And where will you stand when the order is read, child?"
He knew what he was asking. "With my people, if you wish," she answered.
"Your people are us. Will you stand with us?"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you wear that blue cloak and stand beside my daughter when she wears hers?"
"It's warm for a cloak," she said.
"Just the same," he asked.
She could refuse him nothing. She said yes and repeated the conversation to me while we were dressing and putting on our twin blue cloaks. "He sees me as one of you," she said wonderingly.
"And why not? Aren't you practically wed to Gabe?"
She sobered.
"I know you spent the last night of his leave in March with him in the log house," I told her. "Edom told me."
She bit her lower lip. "There are some things I can't tell you, though you are my sister," she said. "Please understand that. There will always be secrets between Gabe and me."
I nodded. "Are there more, then?" I asked.
"I've told you all I can for now," she promised.
I believed her.
I AND MAMA and Sis Goose stood with Pa on the front steps of the big house and all the slaves, summoned by Sam, came to stand in the drive below.
Pa read the freedom papers. Sis Goose held my hand, and I saw some of their eyes go over us in the identical blue coats. Mercy Love was one of these. Her eyes saw us standing there and her eyes saw all.
They knew Sis Goose, knew she lived in the house with us, was tutored with me, was indeed one of us. But they still seemed surprised that she was not standing with them.
I saw what Pa was doing, placing her with us, showing us as sisters. He was telling them how well she'd been treated, reminding them of how well he'd treated them all. Good food, adequate clothing, no whippings, care when they were sick, all of it. He hoped they'd remember.
Pa told them they were free. General Gorden Granger had said so. He had marched into Galveston yesterday, the nineteenth, to establish the sovereignty of the United States and the Yankee troops marching into Texas over the defeated Confederates.
Our slaves drowned out his other words with their whoops and hollers and hugs. They jumped up and down. They danced, they held each other. They pulled up grass and threw stones, they yelled in the air, much the same as Grandpa Holcomb had done when he claimed his property.
"Hallelujah! Hallelujah!" they yelled. They knelt down on the ground and thanked the Lord. Finally they quieted down.
"I don't know what plans you have, but I see that some of you were prepared for this announcement," Pa said, pointing at old carpetbags and bundles of things some of them had at their feet. "I see some of you are planning to leave. But think. Where will you go? I have no more financial responsibility for you. But if you wish to stay on, if this place has become your home, and if you will agree to continue working for us, I'll continue to give you shelter, food, clothing, everything you've always had, plus either a share of the crops or a small wage. I'll bring in a tutor to educate you, so you can read and write. That's the best I can do for now."
Pa's voice broke. He turned to go into the house. Mercy Love raised a hand and gestured toward Pa.
I prayed she would say nothing about knowing they'd been free for over two years now. She didn't. "Bless you, sir," she yelled to Pa. "I's be st
ayin'."
A few others called out the same thing. They moved together, to the side, in one group. I noticed, thankfully, that Old Pepper Apron, the white-haired buxom cook, was one of them. "Nobody gettin' in my kitchen," she said.
A group of field hands moved forward and murmured that they would stay. "Leastways 'til the crops is in, boss," one said. And the others agreed in a chorus of "yeahs."
By the time Pa went through the front door, he was weeping.
The Yankees came two days later.
WE FIRST SAW them as if in a dream, Sis Goose and I. We had just returned from doing a tour of the ranch, something the boys did when they were home, to inform Pa if there were any fences down, any trees in need of tending, and even how the wild buffalo clover was in abundance as were other colorful flowers. That the creeks were full and flowing, that there seemed to be no pestilence in the planted crops.
We saw them in a cloud of dust that soon cleared and showed a whole bevy of fine-looking horses and blue-uniformed men with shiny brass buttons.
"What kind of soldiers have brass buttons so shiny?" I asked Sis Goose.
"I don't know. But we're too close to them if you can see that," she returned. "Let's go tell your pa they're here."
We galloped back toward the house and I wondered how Pa had known they were coming. More secret connections, I supposed. Anyway, the last time Granville was home, which had been the end of May, before Granger came to Texas with his announcement of freedom for the slaves, Pa had sent a wagonload of goods back with my brother, to be shipped by boat to Bagdad, Mexico.
Mama's good silverware, tea set, and dinnerware went. So did her crystal punch bowl, her beautiful rugs, and some very special gowns and jewelry she'd been saving. A goodly portion of Pa's and the boys' books and Pa's genuine Brown Bess rifle from the Revolutionary War, along with some of his other prize guns, were loaded up.
Three good Thoroughbred horses had been tethered along the back of the wagon. Family portraits were inside it. And some special mirrors, carefully wrapped.
Mama had looked like she was about to cry, overseeing the loading of the loot, but she didn't. Granville had promised to see it all to a warehouse in Bagdad himself. The jewelry and dresses he would consign to the wife of a good friend of his in that town.
Yes, Pa had known they were coming. It was just a matter of when.
We wondered about Glen Eden and Aunt Sophie and Uncle Garland and how they would fare. But they were away in Europe, this time with my sister Amelia and her husband. "Don't worry about Glen Eden," Aunt Sophie had told Pa when he paid her a visit before she left. "Our negroes are all faithful and I've given instructions to the household women that the Yankees are to be wined and dined. A good social atmosphere does wonders. We still are all human beings," she told Pa. "And they're away from home."
Pa grumbled and told her she was daft. "They'll sit at your table and eat your meat," he told her. "Then they'll muddy your carpets, shoot your Thoroughbreds, and rip your draperies from the windows."
She would not listen, so he gave up on her.
"The only trouble," Pa concluded, "is that she's got my daughter and my fool son-in-law thinking just like her."
"PA, THE YANKEES are here!" We burst in on his study without knocking.
He did not seem surprised. "All right. We'll greet them on the porch. You girls run and put on your blue cloaks."
He sure was fixated on those cloaks, like they could work some magic. But he was determined to put a good face on things.
We followed him outside. There were about twenty of them. Was that all it took? They carried their colors, the old Stars and Stripes, and a regimental flag.
On a closer look, their leader, looking up at us from his horse, was dusty and worn looking. "Name's Lieutenant Colonel Jeffrey N. Heffernan III," he said. "I and my men here aim to occupy this land for a while. Who's in charge?"
"I'm the owner," Pa said. "This here's my wife and daughters."
I saw Heffernan's gaze go over Sis Goose. His smile was a sneer, nothing less.
"My men are thirsty and hungry. You have anybody who can rustle them up some grub?"
"My servants are in the kitchen now," Pa said. "My wife'll see to it."
Heffernan dismounted and handed his reins to a slave boy. He looked at the boy, then at Old Pepper Apron in the doorway, her turbaned head, her spotless white apron. He looked into other dark faces that peered up at him.
"You free your slaves yet?" he asked Pa.
"Yes," Pa said. "These you see here chose to stay."
"You payin' 'em?"
"In accordance with government law," Pa told him. "I am."
He shot several other questions at Pa, who answered them without getting ruffled. Then he took off his gloves, slapped them against his thigh, and came up the stairs to the house. Again he looked around at the porch, the grounds, the cool interior that must have beckoned. "This'll do," he said.
"For what?" Pa asked.
Heffernan looked at Pa as if he'd taken leave of his senses. "For living," he said. "Me and my men will, henceforth, occupy this house. You and your family can move into the log house out there." He gestured across the yard. "Looks accommodating enough. You have any problems with that?"
Pa knew when to speak and when to hold a still tongue in his head. "No, my father built that house. Likely it's stronger than this one."
"Good. Have the servants move your family out today. From here on, this place is under the command of the federal government. Go on, get moving, old man."
I started forward, toward Heffernan. To do what, I didn't know. My anger would tell me. Pa grabbed my arm just in time, but Heffernan saw my actions and gave that sneering grin of his. "What's this? A fiery little piece, I see. What's your name, little cutie?"
"Trouble," I told him. "And don't call my pa old man."
"Luli, mind yourself," Pa said. Then to Heffernan, "I ask that you respect my daughters."
Heffernan looked from me to Sis Goose. "And this little missy? She your daughter, too?" He emphasized the word daughter.
"She's our adopted daughter, yes. Been with us since a babe."
"A high-yellow beauty, I'd say. What can she do in the house?"
"She helps my wife all the time," Pa said.
"Good. Then she can become part of my household. My personal servant. What did you say your name is, sweetie?"
"I didn't," Sis Goose said.
"I do love the accents," Heffernan told us. "What's her name?" He looked at me.
"Rose," I said.
"Come on. I know they all have nicknames. You people have an absolute talent for giving your negroes nicknames."
"She isn't our negro," I protested. "She belongs to the family."
"Exactly. Belongs is the word we need. I said, what's her name?"
Sis Goose saw we were at each other's throats and interrupted. "They call me Sis Goose," she told him. "My pa named me that."
"Your pa, hey? He allow you to call him that?" he questioned.
"Her father's a steamboat captain," I told him. "And he'd kill you on sight if he knew you were making advances to his daughter. And if you hurt her in any way, I'll tell him and he'll come and kill you. Yes he will!"
I was crying by then and ashamed of myself for breaking down. The idea of this filthy Yankee living in our house tore into me.
"Men!" he called out. "Help these people move their things. You." And he pointed to Old Pepper Apron. "You're the cook. I've been on enough of these plantations to know that by now. Get in the kitchen and rustle up some grub for me and my men. Half a dozen chickens should do. And a side of beef. Potatoes and corn and whatever sweet you got on this place." He lowered his voice. "Besides these sweet little girls, that is. Sis-whatever-they-call-you, come with me. I'm in need of some drink and fruit and cheese."
He looked at Pa, who stood there helplessly. How I wished I had my gun, but it was hidden by the corn crib. Why did Pa stand for it so? How I wished Gabe and Granville
were here.
"Remember," he said to us as he went through the front door. "The war is over. You're all my prisoners. The South is on its knees. See that you imitate her posture."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THOUGH I'D brought many a meal to Edom in the log house, I never thought about what it would mean to live there. Always it had seemed so empty, so echoing, with its bare wood floors and fireplaces of native stone.
It was made of cottonwood logs, hewn as smooth as glass, with round holes every so often to shoot a rifle out of at attacking Indians. Downstairs was a large hallway, with two large rooms on either side. The back gallery connected to the kitchen. Upstairs were two more large rooms, and soon all the place was filled up with whatever furniture Colonel Heffernan allowed us to take out of the main house.
He would allow us women only one mirror, two mule chests, and each of us one bed. Edom, who had always lived in a small back room, walked around mumbling and talking to Grandpa Holcomb as if the man were still alive.
"Good thing you're dead, Gabriel," he said to Grandpa's ghost. "Or this would kill you fer sure."
But as old as he was, he was a help in moving Pa's books into one of the downstairs rooms, and in making a study come into being.
He was free now, with all the other slaves, Edom was. But for the last ten years he hadn't lifted a finger on the place, except to sit outside and tell stories to the little negro children. Pa had been caring for him all the while.
We had nothing to cook on but the old iron skillets and pots that hung in the hearth in the kitchen. Colonel Heffernan wouldn't allow us to have Mama's brass pans or kettles. As for servants, he allowed us only Melindy and Molly and kept Old Pepper Apron and others to cook and clean for him.
