I worked like the dickens to remove the dust at the door, all the while keeping my hearing cocked to the conversation.
Miss McCracken folded her fingers in front of her. She said, “Lowell, please begin.”
Now I was listening hard. There was a troubling silence. Then I heard Lowell take a breath. A full deep breath. He spoke slow and steady.
“Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow . . .”
Lowell stopped suddenly. I cut my eyes in his direction. He caught the sight of me. I pushed my chin at him. Keep going.
Lowell tugged nervously at the loose threads of Miss McCrackens shawl, which still hung from his shoulders. He started in again, finishing this time.
“. . . and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end. . . .”
Another silence filled the room. Parnell sat unmoved. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn I was looking at a man made of stone. A clean-shaven, slick-haired statue, staring into nothingness.
Lowell pulled his arms back around himself.
“That was quite fine, Lowell, quite fine,” Miss McCracken said.
Shoot, if that had been my pa sitting there, giving me the dodge, I’d have left that room quick as flint But Lowell just stood, front-and-center to his pa, like he was waiting for something.
Finally, Miss McCracken put her hands on both Lowell’s shoulders. It looked to me like she was trying to lead him away. At first, it seemed maybe Lowell thought his teacher wanted her shawl back, because rather than follow Miss McCracken’s lead, Lowell stayed by his pa’s chair.
Then he did something that made me blink. He peeled off Miss McCracken’s shawl, draped it around his pa, and backed away.
As Lowell and Miss McCracken were leaving the study, I saw a tiny smile on Lowell’s lips, something I ain’t never seen come from that boy. It was a smile of self-satisfaction.
19
Summer
December 8, 1862
THE SIGHT OF WALNUT FLARING up in a quick, hot spark had been haunting me fierce. My sweet little Walnut. My baby-doll friend. Gone. Gone to ash.
Outside, it was snowing, steady white. But all I saw was fire. The fire that ripped at Walnuts dress and arms. The fire in Mama’s eyes.
I felt fire, too. A fire that had been burning in me from that cold, gray morning to this pale snowy day.
Thea and I were beating the small, braided rug that sat at the foot of the grand bed in the guest quarters. With the snow falling like it was, we were stuck to beating the rug in the storeroom, a cramped room at the side of the house where the Parnells stored brooms and buckets, washrags and wipplesticks.
“How come we’re back to doing rugs?” I wanted to know. “Missy’s society meetings are long over. And besides, this ain’t even a parlor rug.”
Thea nodded. “Tuesday last, Missy Claire got a letter from her brother, Thomas Farnsworth, down in Louisiana. He’ll be here soon to see how things is getting on since the master was struck with the heart-shock. He’s gonna help manage Parnell’s place for a spell.”
I picked at the straw in my wipplestick.
“Come to think of it, Missy’s embroidering a wedding pillow for the sister of Thomas Farnsworth’s wife, who’s set to marry, come June. You know how them cotton-country Southern folk is. They got a love for summer weddings. Every itty-bitty thing has got to be perfect. And they start puttin’ it all together way soon ahead. Missy wants to show the pillow sham pattern to her brother when he comes, wants to get his opinion before she does any more stitching.”
Thea adjusted the rug. She didn’t bother looking at me when she spoke. “It’s a custom in cotton country to give the bride an embroidered piece that celebrates her marrying season.”
Those words from Missy’s sampler danced in my memory.
Summer . . . flower . . . blossoming.
Just the thought of them pretty stitches making words put a hum up in me. “I seen that sampler, Thea. Sure is fine,” I said.
Thea picked up her wipplestick and started on the rug with three steady whacks. “Thomas Farnsworth will be here in time for the Hobbs Hollow Christmas cotillion.” She sucked at her teeth. “Folks is talkin ’bout that gewgaw party like it’s the coming of Baby Jesus,” she said. “This year the cotillion will be held on Christmas Eve at the home of Doc Bates. Seeing as Master Parnell ain’t in no condition to be gallivanting about town, Thomas Farnsworth is gonna escort Missy Claire.” Thea shook her head. “Whether Missy Claire will step out for a night of merrymakin’, that remains to be seen.”
A burst of wool dander had puffed out from the rug and was settling to the floor. “They may have to bring the cotillion to Missy’s parlor,” she said with a chuckle.
Now Thea was full into beating the rug. She went at it with a whole mess of muscle. Five full blows, one after the other. “I’ve never seen Missy Claire turn down a party, though,” Thea said. “I know that woman sure as I know how to handle this wipplestick.”
I smacked the rug once at its center. “Is there anything you don’t know, Thea?”
Thea stepped back from the rug. “No,” she said.
“Then you know about Mama taking my book. And you know about my dolly.”
Thea leaned her wipplestick along the doorjamb. She gazed at me with kindness in her eyes. “I do,” she said gently.
That fire was still burning up in me. It lurched when I talked about Walnut.
“You got every reason to feel the heat that’s rising in you, Summer. But you listen good to your Thea, now. Your dolly’s in a new place, Walnut is. She’s in Serendipity.”
I set my wipplestick next to Thea’s. This was the first time we beat a rug together that Thea let me slack. “Where’s Serendipity?”
“That’s the place all the broken-headed china dolls and the stuffing’s-all-gone rag babies go when they ain’t no more use to the children that owns them.”
Like always, I had to let Thea’s words settle for a moment.
“What about dolls that been burned up by their young’uns’ mamas?”
“Serendipity’s for them too. And, oh, believe me, child, when I tell you that Serendipity is beautiful.” Thea’s eyes got wide. She looked toward heaven when she spoke. “In Serendipity there ain’t no pain. There ain’t no masters. And there sure ain’t no fires. And all them china-headed dolls and rag babies play real good together. Ain’t no fighting or hatred in Serendipity, neither.”
I lifted my wipplestick. I slapped it to the rug a second time. “This sounds like what you sing about at services, Thea. Sounds like the promised land.”
“Call it whatever you want. All’s I know is, Walnut’s there right now, eatin’ tea cakes with some china-faced sweetheart who’s praising her for how smart she is.”
Sometimes I think being a seer has messed with Thea’s head. Lots of days, she’s full of crazy seer-talk. Made-up stories and strange ways of putting things. This was one of those days, and I didn’t have the wherewithal to put up with such foolishness. I couldn’t tell if Serendipity was real, or just a bunch of hogwash. Walnut was cinders now. That I knew for true.
I paid no more mind to Thea’s Serendipity. I had more important things prodding at me. “My mama hates me, don’t she,” I blurted.
“Your mama hates what she can’t have. The power you’ve taken in finding letters is just one piece of what she can’t have. But your mama’s wanting in other ways, too,” Thea said.
Thea was fraying my nerves. I couldn’t help but tell her about herself. “You’re always spinning double-talk—talking riddles and folly. It’s enough to make a person loony!”
Thea rested a hand on her hip. “There ain’t no riddle to what I’m sayin’, child. I only speak in truths.”
“Truths only you can understand.”
“Truths you’ll c
ome to know by speaking to your mama.”
“How can I talk to Mama if Mama don’t hardly talk to me, come lately?”
“In a logjam it don’t matter how strong the stream’s current is. One of the logs has got to budge first, else the jam stays a jam.”
I bit the underside of my lip. Seer-talk. Riddles and folly.
When we’d finished in the storeroom, we rolled the rug and carried it back to the guest quarters. As we passed the small window at the first landing of the main staircase, I took a hard look at the snow outside. It had spread its petticoat over every inch of Parnell land. It was a sugar-snow, white and sparkly. But I struggled to find its beauty. I still had a fire churning up inside my belly.
20
Rosco
December 15, 1862
IT’S TIME FOR ANOTHER LOOK-SEE in the master’s study. Another birthday, when Gideon Parnell calls me in and pays me some attention. Usually he does most of the talking. But this time I’m the one who’s saying the most. I want something from my master, and the only way to get it is to ask.
When I appear in his doorway, Gideon says, “Don’t be scared, I don’t bite.” He’s leaning full back in his armchair, holding his spectacles in one hand.
I say, “I ain’t scared.” But I’m feeling afraid. Still, I let the master know what’s on my mind. “I need to speak to you about something.”
Gideon nods, gives me the go-’head to keep on talking.
“I’m lookin’to marry—to get hitched with the Union army,” I say.
Parnell puts on his specs. Peers at me for what seems like a long time. Scratches his chin. He’s thinking on something. Finally he says, “Tell me why you want to hook up with this Union army. The Union army ain’t good for boys like you. She’ll fill your head with all kinds of foolery.”
I start to tell Parnell that the Union is good for me, and for everybody who wants freedom. And, I’m thinking I should tell him, too, that the Union army wants me. Wants me badly. Wants me to come fight.
But before I can even get the words out, I notice a crack in the floorboard that’s opening up under my feet. Out from the crack pokes the head of a strange, black snake, a kind of snake I can’t name.
Soon the snake is slithering out fast. It grows longer and longer, curling and twisting its ugly black body through and around my ankles.
When the snake ties itself into a knot at my shins, I come to see this is no snake at all. It’s the overseer’s whip, come to life, squeezing the living wits out of me, and roping me down to the master’s floor.
“The Union can,’t take you so soon” Master Gideon says with a little laugh. “I won’t allow it.”
With that snake still at my shins, somebody was prodding me to wakefulness. “Ros! Wake up!”
Had Mama come to comfort me?
“Ros! Ros!” When the voice came a second time, it wasn’t Mama’s.
“Wake up, Ros!”
I shuddered. Except for the glowing coals in the pit at the center of the quarters, the room was black. A heavy hand nudged me. “Clem, that you?”
“Throw your britches on, Ros! Move quick, ’else we gonna miss it!”
My mind was a jumble. It was telling me two things at once.
Hurry up! Hold back!
I scrambled for my britches. Clem came into view. His face was a shadowy form, lit blue-brown by the coals. He was poking at my shoulder. I could hear the town hall clock striking in the distance—nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . . twelve. . . .
Midnight.
“What is it, Clem? What is it?” I was talking as loud as a person fully awake. I heard Mama stir on her pallet.
Clem pressed two fingers to his lips. “Shhh.” He tugged at my sleeve. He motioned to the door of the quarters. “Just come on,” he whispered.
Without a lick of good sense, I followed Clem down the plantation entry road. The moon was out, spreading its cream over Parnell’s land. I could see clear to the far fields, where haycocks stood like hunchbacked giants. It was unusually warm for a December night. We’d had a snowfall a few days back. It had covered everything but had melted the very next day. There were leftover patches of white, though, clinging to tree roots and the roof of the toolshed.
Before we were even halfway to the end of the entry road, I saw why Clem had pulled me from my pallet. There was a night vigil winding along the lane at the edge of Parnell’s property.
Clem and I made our way to the low stone wall that separates the plantation from the lane. We stayed low, crouching just enough to see over the top of the hedge. We had a clean view. A slow, quiet parade passed in front of us. There were whispers and whimpers floating out from the group. But their eyes stayed ahead. They each held a burning candle, piercing the dark with a flickering ribbon of light.
“Where they goin’?” I asked.
“To the church for a midnight service. Three Confederate soldiers from Hobbs Hollow were killed two days ago, fighting in the Battle of Fredericksburg, just south from here. Them nightwalkers are going to pray for the souls of the soldiers.”
“How come they’re taking to the lane so late at night?”
“To keep watch over the bodies,” Clem explained. “There’s been a pack of body-robbers round these parts, people stealing the dead before they’re even rested in their graves, and selling ’em to the medical college in Winchester, for those that’s learning to be doctors. The body-robbers strike in the deepest nighttime. When the vigil gets to the church, the townsfolk will sit till daybreak, till it’s safe to leave the fallen soldiers.”
Crouching behind the stone wall was putting an ache to my knees. But I stayed low, watching and listening to Clem.
“When I went to town today to get a razor strop for the master’s shavin’ kit, the Battle of Fredericksburg was all the talk,” Clem told me. “I passed through Littleton Square, where folks was saying the fighting started when an army of Union soldiers came up along the Marye’s Heights hills. They came storming, trying to attack. But the Confederates, they held ’em off. Held ’em off, and killed ’em off at the same time. Folks in town was saying them Northern boys was fallin’ fast and hard. It was an ugly defeat for the Yanks, and a bloody one, too.”
The band of townspeople seemed to grow, bringing more light to the lane. The walkers were mostly women and young’uns.
“It was the North who lost the battle,” Clem said, “but it was Hobbs Hollow that lost some of its very own soldier boys.”
The sky above us was a clear, wide blanket of black, dappled with stars. It looked like heaven was having its own vigil of tiny lights. “Who from Hobbs Hollow went down in the attack?” I asked.
“There was Ben Stokes, whose pa, Travis, is a good friend of the master’s. There was Russell Appleton, that skinny, freckled boy who used to live over by near where Doc Bates’s plantation is. And there was Johnny Kane, Miss Rose McCracken’s beloved, who she was set to wed, come the harvest.”
No sooner had Clem spoken Miss McCracken’s name did I spot her among the mourners. Her head was lowered toward the sputtering wick of her candle. From what little I could see, it looked as if she was weeping.
I didn’t even know Rose McCracken had a beloved. She never once mentioned Johnny Kane’s name. Seeing her pass in a wash of sorrow filled me with an unspeakable sadness. I sure didn’t want the South to win the war. And I didn’t much care that friends of the master’s had lost boys in the fight. But I did care that Rose McCracken’s beloved had fallen. Rose didn’t deserve no kind of hurt. I watched her trudge along the lane with the rest of the grief-stricken group. Soon the sight of her was lost to me among the procession.
Clem said, “You know what this all means, don’t you?”
I shrugged. To me, all it meant was that a grim night had come to some white folks in Hobbs Hollow.
“The Union army needs us, Ros. They need us now, more than ever. Fredericksburg put the South on the one-up. Next time, it could be worse for the Union. And if the Confederates g
et to feeling too cocky, it’ll be harder for us to get North. The South’ll be spreading its Secesh pride by seeing how many escaped slaves it can round up and bring back to Southern sod. If we wait too much longer, we’ll end up like them dead soldiers, ’cept we’ll be dead before we even have the chance to become fightin’ men. And once Missy Claire’s brother brings his cotton-lovin’ self to Parnell’s, getting North is gonna be all the harder.”
The vigil had fully passed us now. Their candlelit march trailed off up the lane, closer to town. Clem and I were left alone under the light of the moon and stars.
“See that—the Diamond Eye. The North Star.” Clem pointed. “It’s showing us the way, Ros. The way to freedom.”
I let my gaze follow Clem’s finger to the brightest star in the sky. It truly was a diamond. A jewel nestled in a spread of black velvet.
Clem and I were silent for a long time. We each slipped into our own thoughts. The Diamond Eye watched us from above. I gave that star a long, hard look. That’s when it came to me: I was truly doubtful about running North.
Doubt is one of those things that creeps up slowly for days and days, then pounces. Tonight it had me pressed under its paws. And without me saying a single word, Clem knew it. “You backsliding, aren’t you, Ros—having second thoughts,” he said.
I didn’t even have to answer.
“Ros, you the one who told me you wanted to enlist.”
“You’re right, Clem. I ain’t denying it. But if I flee, I’ll be leaving all that I know—Summer, Mama, even Marlon, the master’s horse.” I didn’t mention Lowell or Miss McCracken. There were pieces of each of them that I was slow to leave behind, too. “Besides,” I said, “if Abraham Lincoln’s proclamation passes at the first of the year, like it’s supposed to, we got freedom coming soon. Real soon.”
Silent Thunder Page 9
