by Ginny Dye
“That’s the one,” Carrie agreed. “His father was the one who killed Robert’s father.” Her words hung in the air as Hobbs’ eyes widened. She had his full attention now. “He is also running Cromwell Plantation, and he and Robert have become like brothers.”
“That ain’t likely,” Hobbs said dubiously. “Robert may have changed some about how he thinks of niggers, but he ain’t changed that much. You don’t forgive something like that.”
“He forgave,” Carrie said firmly. “Moses and Rose live in the main house with everyone else. My father made Moses half owner of the plantation.”
Hobbs narrowed his eyes. “Your father didn’t tell me that.”
“Would it matter? They have given you a job and a place to live.” When Hobb’s eyes took on a calculating look, Carrie felt a surge of panic. What had she done? Had she put Moses and Rose in more danger by revealing the true state of affairs on the plantation? “Hobbs, Robert had the same hatred in his heart that you do. He finally realized there was a better way to live, and he understood it wasn’t right to blame an entire race of people for something they weren’t responsible for.” Her voice gentled as she saw the confusion reappear in Hobbs’ eyes. “The only way any of us can bring the South back to life is to take responsibility for making our own lives better – not by hatred and violence. You can spend all your life blaming someone else, or you can use your energy to change your life. Everybody in this country has lost something because of the war. It will take all of us working together to find a way to create a country that can rebuild everyone’s lives.”
Hobbs glared at her for a long moment before he seemed to deflate before her eyes. The anger melted away from his face, leaving behind an aching confusion that pulled at her heart. “I’m mad because I know you’re right,” Hobbs muttered. He turned back to stare into the flames for a long moment before he swung back to her. “It’s gonna get real bad, Carrie.”
Carrie felt her heart catch at what she saw on his face. “What do you mean?” she asked in an even voice, determined to stay calm.
“They’re gearing up,” Hobbs said flatly. He hesitated, reached into his pocket, and then handed her a folded sheet of paper.
Carrie’s blood froze when she unfolded it and read the stark, bold print.
Negro women shall be employed only by white persons. Negroes meeting in cabins to themselves shall suffer the penalty. All white men found with negroes in secret places shall be dealt with… For the first offense is one-hundred lashes; the second is looking up a sapling. White man and negro, I am everywhere; I have friends in every place; do your duty and I will have little to do.
Carrie read it silently, and then read it again – her horror growing. “Where did you get this?” she asked hoarsely.
“I got it off a tree when I was on my way here.”
Carrie knew he was lying, but she decided to not press the issue. Learning the source was far more important. “Who wrote this?”
“His name is Ellis Harper. He leads a group of men up in Tennessee and Kentucky,” Hobbs said hesitantly, fear stamped on his face. He took a deep breath. “He’s done some real bad things. He’s killed a lot of people. Or had them killed,” he added.
Carrie felt bile rise in her throat. “Why are you telling me this?”
Hobbs shrugged. “Because some of what you said makes sense. I still don’t feel right about what is happening in our country, but ain’t everybody like these men,” he said in a more insistent voice. “There’s lots of fellows who came home from the war who just want to go on with their lives. They ain’t got nothing against black folks. They just want to rebuild their own lives and take care of their families, but there’s a lot of other folks out there who want to stir things up.”
“Who are the vigilantes?” Carrie asked, not able to take her eyes off the sheet of paper she was holding.
Hobbs seemed willing to talk now. “A lot of them are men who used to be part of the slave patrols. The rest of them are veterans.”
Carrie closed her eyes for a moment. Her first thought was of Ike Adams, but she knew all the slave patrols were made up of ruthless, heartless men who killed easily. They had an engrained hatred and bitterness toward the blacks, and blamed them for their current circumstances. She also knew there were a lot of them who had been left adrift after the war. The idea of an army of such men should strike terror into the heart of any thinking, reasoning person.
“They don’t just hate the blacks, Carrie,” Hobbs warned. “They hate the whites who are helping them even more.” He hesitated, his voice deepening with intensity as he continued. “They hate the Yankees, but they seem to have an even worse rage for Southern whites who help the blacks.” His eyes met Carrie’s squarely, his voice clearly imparting a warning. “They go after all of them.”
Chapter Eight
Carrie, exhausted after a long night of conversation with her father and Abby following Hobbs’ revelations, was up bright and early to meet Dr. Hobson.
“Looks like you could use some hot coffee, Miss Carrie.”
Carrie reached gratefully for the steaming mug May held out to her. “Thank you,” she breathed, hoping the hot liquid would melt her fatigue. She sank down in the rocking chair in front of the kitchen fireplace, thankful for the warmth that reached out to embrace her, but it still failed to relax her.
“That Hobbs fellow upset you,” May muttered as she rolled biscuit dough on the floured cutting board. Her knowing eyes were locked on Carrie.
Carrie didn’t see any reason to deny it. Everyone must feel the tension his presence brought to the house. She had shown her father and Abby the flyer Hobbs had given her. They had reacted, just as she had, with horror and grim anger. Carrie hesitated a moment, and then handed the flyer to the housekeeper. It was only fair that May and Micah were forewarned.
May gave her a curious look, dusted the flour from her hands, and then reached for the paper. Silence filled the kitchen as she read it, her face hardening with a mixture of anger and resignation. She finally handed it back to Carrie. “Nothing we didn’t already know about.”
“What do you know?” Carrie asked keenly.
“You don’t need to hear the stories,” May muttered, turning back to her biscuits.
“So you think hiding it from me will change things?” Carrie demanded. “Do you know who Ellis Harper is?”
“The man who wrote that paper? We get stories from people passing through.”
Carrie gazed at her stoic face. “You mean people running away?”
May sighed. “That would be the truth of it. Things ain’t good anywhere, but there be places it’s worse. Ellis Harper’s territory be one of the worst. Lots of folks leaving there, hoping that getting away will keep ‘em alive.”
“Running away is their only choice?”
May looked up, fury etched in the crevices of her face. “What else can they do?” she demanded. “All them soldiers spent years fighting the North. Now they got nothing to do but terrorize and kill black folks. What’s the use of trying to fight back? Leaving is better than windin’ up dead!” Her rage dissolved as sadness filled her eyes. “A woman came through Richmond a couple weeks back. Some friends of mine put her up for a few days before she kept goin’. She was up there in Ellis Harper’s area. Her baby girl died of sickness. While her husband was digging her grave, a bunch of Harper’s men rode by…” her voice trailed off as she fought for control. “They done shot her husband to death while he was digging her child’s grave. She tried to run to him, but they drove her off, saying they would be happy to kill her, too.” May clenched her fists as she turned away. “She says now that she wishes she had let ‘em. The pain done be eating her up.”
Carrie remained silent, knowing there was simply nothing to say in response to such atrocity. When May finally looked at her, Carrie met her eyes levelly, trusting the sorrow she felt was radiating on her face.
May let out her breath and went back to rolling biscuits. “That woman wen
t on down to family in Georgia. I don’t know she be any safer there, but at least she won’t be alone. Only time can heal that kind of misery.”
Carrie gripped her coffee cup. “There must be something that can be done to stop this. It can’t just be allowed to happen. The slaves are free now.”
May shrugged but the tension radiating from her said there was nothing casual about her reaction. “We all gots to do the best we can. My Spencer tells me the best way to survive this is to work together.” Her face softened as she thought of her new husband. “Ain’t many bad things happening in Richmond right now—at least not as much as is happening other places. We got plans to fight for more rights here.”
Carrie felt a flash of alarm. “What if it puts you in danger?”
May smiled slightly. “We in danger just because we be breathing, Miss Carrie. Oh, lots of us hope things will be better when the government sends more soldiers down here, but it might make those vigilantes so angry it will only make things worse. Only time gonna tell us that. Black folks done learned how to survive a long time ago. We’ll keep right on doing that, hoping someday things will truly get better.” She finished rolling the biscuits and then turned to take a tray of golden ones out of the oven. “Here, Miss Carrie. You gots to eat something so you can go meet that fancy homeopathic doctor Miss Abby told me about. You ain’t gonna solve any of this today, so you might as well get on with what you’re here for.”
********
Carrie stepped down from the carriage, steadied by Spencer’s strong arm. He had wanted to turn back to the house when an icy rain started falling, but she had come too far not to fulfill her mission. Spencer had scowled his disapproval before handing her more blankets to provide protection, as well as giving her the umbrella he kept under the driver’s seat. The sun had been peeking through the clouds when they left the house, but within moments the wind had started blowing, the sun had been gobbled by thick gray, and rain had turned into ice pellets.
“Don’t you stay in there real long, Miss Carrie,” Spencer ordered. “The last couple days of spring-like weather weren’t nothing but a tease. Winter ain’t done with Richmond yet.” He cast a practiced eye on the clouds. “It’s gonna spit ice for a while, but then it’s gonna turn to snow. I’m going to get you back to your daddy’s before the roads get real bad.”
Before Carrie could answer, the door to the office building they had stopped in front of swung open. She looked up as a tall, vibrant man with thick brown hair and a flowing beard peppered with gray strode easily down the walkway.
“Mrs. Borden?”
Carrie smiled and stepped forward to accept his outstretched hand. “Dr. Hobson. It is so wonderful to meet you.”
“And I feel the same. Your mother has many wonderful things to say about you.”
“That’s to be expected, don’t you think?” Carrie asked with a laugh.
Dr. Hobson threw back his head as he joined in her laughter. His entire being radiated health and life. “Well, yes, but since the recommendation comes from someone with the reputation of Abigail Cromwell, it carries a bit more weight.” He turned to Spencer. “I have a barn in the back. You can pull the carriage around, stable your horse, and then come into the office to escape this beastly weather.”
“Thank you, sir,” Spencer said gratefully. He leapt onto the wagon seat, picked up the reins, and urged the horse forward.
“Come, Mrs. Borden. We will be happier inside as well.”
Carrie smiled when she entered his office. His waiting room looked like a comfortable living room, with a fire crackling within a brick hearth. A stunning picture of the Virginia countryside reigned over the room from its lofty perch above the fireplace. “This is wonderful,” she exclaimed.
“Thank you. I want people to feel at home when they come here. I can best determine how to help them if they are relaxed and comfortable.” Dr. Hobson led his way into his office. Other than an imposing desk stationed in front of the window, it looked much the same as the waiting room. Two high-backed chairs were pulled in front of another roaring fire, while lanterns filled the room with a glowing light.
Carrie sank down in one of the chairs, relieved when she heard Spencer come in the back door. She knew he would be comfortable while he waited.
“I have no patients coming until this afternoon, though I suspect the foul weather will keep them away. I adjusted my schedule so I could devote all my attention to you, Mrs. Borden.”
Carrie flushed. “I’m honored.”
Dr. Hobson smiled. “I suspect I should be the one honored,” he replied. “Abigail’s recommendation would have been quite enough for me, but then I received a letter from Dr. Strikener just a few days ago. He told me of your work with cholera patients last summer in Philadelphia. He assured me I would find a kindred spirit in my decision to put aside traditional medicine for homeopathic medicine.”
“Oh, yes!” Carrie responded eagerly. “Once I understood how effective homeopathy truly is, I knew I could not, in good conscience, recommend any other course of treatment. Other than herbal medications,” she added. “I find the combination of the two practices enables me to treat most patients.”
“Yes,” Dr. Hobson said thoughtfully. “I spoke with Dr. Wild this week, as well.”
“Dr. Wild is still in Richmond? I thought he had left. Oh, how I would love to see him.”
“I’m afraid he was only here for a few days on business. He and I attended a meeting together. I mentioned in passing that I was meeting a young lady named Carrie Borden. He filled my ears with stories of your exploits during the war.”
Carrie blushed. “I would hardly call them exploits,” she murmured.
“I don’t know how else you could define it when your knowledge of herbal medicines and the teams of women you trained to go into the woods to collect much-needed plants was the only thing that provided treatment for thousands of soldiers during the blockade.”
Carrie smiled. “I owe my knowledge to one of my father’s slaves. She taught me so much. I was grateful to have the information when it was needed.”
“I suspect I could learn much about herbal remedies from you,” Dr. Hobson replied, “but you are here today because you believe I can be of service. How can I best help you?”
“I would be honored if you would be my mentor,” Carrie answered immediately. “I have begun my studies of homeopathy, but I have chosen to delay my formal education for a time.”
“While you have a child,” Dr. Hobson said, eyeing her astutely.
“Yes,” Carrie said quickly, and then pressed on because she knew the weather had shortened her time with him. She was determined to learn what she had come for. “I am running a clinic near the plantation. I find the people out there are not overly concerned with whether I have a degree yet.”
“They simply want to know you can help them,” Dr. Hobson agreed, a knowing twinkle in his amber eyes.
“I’m able to treat most of them, but there are a few that my remedies don’t help, and the homeopathic treatments I have with me don’t seem to offer relief either.”
“Such as?” Dr. Hobson asked.
Carrie felt a surge of relief and anticipation. It wasn’t just the knowledge that she would be able to help her patients; she had missed the intense discussions with other students and homeopathic physicians. “I have several patients who are Confederate veterans. They lost limbs during the war.”
Dr. Hobson listened carefully. “And they are experiencing severe pain, just as if the missing limb is still there.”
“Yes!” Carrie exclaimed. “I have tried several different herbal remedies for pain, but since there is nothing actually there to create pain, I am at a loss. Putting the remedies on the stumps seems to have no effect.” Her heart caught at the thought of the agony and pain the men were in.
Dr. Hobson nodded. “We call it phantom pain. It seems to affect sixty to seventy percent of all amputees. Some don’t feel it right away. It can take as much as a year
for it to develop.”
“I have seen that to be true,” Carrie agreed.
“Over time, it can become less frequent and severe,” Dr. Hobson continued, “but as many as forty percent of those that suffer will continue to do so for a long time, or for the rest of their lives.”
“Surely there must be a way to help them! All that is being done for most of these men is giving them doses of morphine and alcohol.” She scowled. “It’s doing nothing to ease the pain, but it’s wreaking havoc in other areas of their life.”
“Traditional medicine can certainly do nothing to help them,” Dr. Hobson concurred. “I’m happy to tell you there are several homeopathic remedies that can produce relief.”
Carrie leaned forward eagerly.
“Belladonna is the remedy to use if they are experiencing severe pain and have a lot of heat from the area.”
“And a temperature?” Carrie asked, thinking of her patient who had lost a leg at the thigh during the battle at Gettysburg. When he had come in to see her because of the pain, he had also been running a high fever.
“Exactly,” Dr. Hobson replied. “As long as there is intense pain, you will want to use the highest potency you can mix.” He held up a hand when Carrie opened her mouth to interrupt. “And, yes, you can get the remedy from me,” he added with a smile.
Carrie sank back in her chair, relieved beyond measure. She could hardly wait to get home and let her patients know she had a way to help them.
“Hypericum is another excellent remedy,” Dr. Hobson continued. “It works well for any kind of nerve pain. For those patients who have extreme pain along the actual incision area, I use Staphysagria.”
Carrie absorbed the information eagerly. “Two of my patients had bone damage with their amputation, Dr. Hobson.”
The physician tightened his lips. “Mid-femur amputations?” he guessed. She nodded. “Give them Symphytum.” He stood and walked to his desk, selected a pamphlet, and handed it to her. “This information is just what you need. It has been created by the Union Army to help their veterans. It was added to by homeopathic physicians. Now, you make the best choice of a remedy based on your observations of the patient. If you do not see some improvement with the pain after four doses, you should consider a different remedy. Sometimes the only way to find the right solution is through trial and error.”
