by Tara Johnson
Why had Micah Greyson been there? She hadn’t seen him in years. Not since his father had died, forcing him to leave the school they’d both attended.
She had always admired his outgoing nature and quick wit, a stark contrast to her own painful shyness. While the other boys teased her, calling her “Little Mouse” or “Shadow,” Micah had been kind. When he’d teased, it had been with gentle affection, like a brother.
He had drawn her out with animated conversation or silly questions. His sky-blue eyes would light up and he’d pepper her with questions and dares.
“Say, Kizzie, would you rather be a happy Indian living on the plains or a cranky miser in a mansion?”
“What do you think the fastest animal on earth is?”
“I bet I can run faster than you.”
The memories tugged her lips into a curve. As quickly as the smile came, it siphoned away. Five years since she’d seen him, and he’d found her in the most mortifying condition possible. Heat flushed her body, a heat she could not blame on the steaming tea in her hands.
Why had he been hovering over her?
The meager contents in her stomach soured and she placed her tea on the table in front of her chair, abandoning it the way she longed to abandon her shame.
A knock sounded on the front door, followed by the stiff rustle of skirts as Elizabeth, the house servant, shuffled past to answer. Likely one of Father’s business associates coming to call. Keziah leaned back in her chair and watched a bird blithely hop on a limb outside the window.
A masculine voice drifted through the vestibule, followed by Elizabeth’s warm tones in response.
“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery are away at the moment and Miss Montgomery is indisposed.”
“Forgive me. I’m the physician who attended to Miss Montgomery last evening. I merely wanted to check her condition once more.”
Keziah’s ears pricked. Physician? She rubbed her temple. She remembered a man in the Ballingers’ guest room, but the only face she recalled belonged to Micah.
Their voices dropped to indecipherable murmurs before a man’s footfalls clicked against the polished wood floor outside the parlor.
Elizabeth’s ebony face appeared, her expression apologetic. “Pardon me, miss, but you have a caller.”
Elizabeth disappeared and a man’s strong presence appeared in the doorway. With a slight breath, Keziah stiffened her spine.
Tall, trim, but broad-shouldered. Dark hair and piercing eyes that stared back at her with an unreadable expression.
Micah.
He was no longer her childhood companion. No longer a boy but a man. Her fingers trembled, though why, she couldn’t say.
Rising to her feet, she clasped her hands together and studied the handsome planes of his face carefully, unwilling to show any signs of weakness on her part. She would not be a helpless female again in his presence.
Elizabeth’s soft voice jolted. “Would you prefer I stay, Miss Montgomery?”
Keziah swallowed. The thought of her entertaining a gentleman alone would have sent Father into an apoplexy, but this was not just any gentleman. It was Micah.
“We’ll be fine, Elizabeth. You may leave the parlor door open and bring some tea if our guest would enjoy it.”
Micah smiled. “Thank you, no. This is a business call, but I appreciate your hospitality.”
The servant bobbed her head and slipped from the room, her skirts swishing behind her.
Keziah finally greeted him. “Dr. Greyson.”
He crossed the distance between them, clutching his medical bag in one hand and his hat in the other. “Please, we’re old friends. Call me Micah.”
Dodging the familiarity, she offered a teasing grin, the awkwardness melting away as it always had in his presence. “But then what would you call me?”
Tiny lines crinkled around his blue eyes. “Why, Kizzie, of course.”
She felt her cheeks heat at the childhood nickname. She remembered the day the moniker had been coined. Billy Strauss and Charlie Holliday had teased Micah for treating “the shy mouse” with such tenderness.
Gap-toothed Charlie had called to Micah, “Sweet on Keziah Montgomery, are you? Kissy, kissy!”
Micah had turned and roughed Charlie up good before offering to carry her lunch pail with a wink. “Pay no mind to what they say. They just wish they had the privilege of walking you home . . . Kizzie.”
She swallowed, the memory evoking a bittersweet angst. “No one has called me Kizzie since childhood.”
“You’ll always be Kizzie to me.”
Her mouth dry, she offered him a seat in the rococo chair directly across from hers, thankful the tea table separated them. She suddenly felt as nervous as a frog on a hot rock. As he settled in, she took a deep breath. It was only Micah, yet her insides quivered like preserves all the same.
Smoothing the fabric of her green gown, she studied the bristle shading his angular jaw. “Tell me . . . where have you been the past several years? It feels like ages since I’ve seen you.”
He sighed, regretful. “School in Philadelphia. I only recently returned to Savannah to begin practicing medicine and be near to my mother.”
Keziah swallowed the hard knot in her throat. “Is she ill?”
He hesitated, the somber lines around his eyes deepening. “She is well overall, though not as strong as she once was. Her heart pains her from time to time.”
“I should visit her. It’s been far too long. When you said you needed to be near her, I feared her to be bedfast or suffering some serious malady.”
He shook his head. “Nothing so dreadful as that. I was long overdue, however. And I’ve enjoyed reacquainting myself with my old chums.” His eyes twinkled. “Like you.”
Fumbling past the warmth in her cheeks, she laughed lightly. “Do you remember Lucy Kent? She married Daniel Lovelace last summer.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“I assume you’ve found Oliver King.”
His white teeth flashed. “Indeed. In fact, he was the one who convinced me to attend the dance at the Ballingers’ last evening.”
The happy banter fled as Micah’s eyes roved over her, concern flickering in his face. She felt exposed, knowing she could not hide what she was desperate to cover from his experienced gaze.
“Tell me truly, Kizzie, how are you feeling? Tired?”
She picked at imaginary lint clinging to her gown. “Some, yes. I’ll be fine.”
He sighed, his voice low. “How long have you been dealing with these episodes?”
She would give anything for an interruption to keep from having to answer his direct questions. It was too humiliating.
“I had them when I was just a child. By the age of ten they had all but disappeared, save for a few rare exceptions.” Several of which she had hid from her parents. “That is, until I came down with a fever several years ago. They reappeared not long after.”
Micah grunted under his breath and stroked his chin. “How often?”
“Every few months or so.”
He nodded slowly. “Have you sought treatment?”
“Father called in our family physician. Dr. Kelsie told me not to read or exert myself to do anything beyond feminine pursuits like needlepoint or charitable endeavors.”
“Rubbish, although I concede receiving enough rest is important. What else did he say?”
She stood, turning away from his probing stare to look through the sunlight-dappled window, hearing the pleading in her own voice. “Micah, I beg you, don’t ask me anything more. It’s something I’ve come to accept.”
He moved to her side and forced her to look into his face. “But there are treatments that can address the symptoms. I promise I could help you.”
Fearing he could see the despondency cloaking her, she shook her head. “Every time I have another episode, Father rants and raves about my inability to control myself. I shame him and Mother until I’m loath to leave the house.”
“Try to understand—they do love me. Truly. You know how most people view epileptic illness. Some would say I should be moved to an asylum and locked away.” She forced a smile. “Mother and Father would rather cut off their arms than do such a thing.” Emitting a tight laugh, she faced him once more. “I’m sure there are plenty of tongues wagging about my illness last evening as it is, even with the declaration of war.”
His sudden chuckle startled her. “Indeed, but not the way you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“From what I’ve heard, the ladies and gentlemen who attended think you’re gifted, especially since news of the war reached the party ten minutes after your collapse.”
She gasped.
“They are saying your moment of . . . discomfort was a glimmer of foreboding. A prophetic gift of some sort.”
“I’ll swan,” Keziah said under her breath, amazement chasing away her shame. “It’s rubbish, but at least I’m not being labeled a lunatic.”
“Far from it, and I daresay anyone who would label you as such never knew you at all.”
His compliment warmed her middle. She studied him, noting the serious glimmer behind his sweet concern and gentle humor. “What will you do, Micah, since war has been declared? Will you join and fight?”
He dropped his gaze and clasped his hands behind his back. “I—I’m not sure.”
“Surely you know what people will say if you don’t.”
He took his turn staring out the window, though she knew he didn’t truly see the flowers dancing in the gentle tug of the morning breeze.
“When this life is over, it is not my peers I’ll stand before, is it?”
She offered no argument. He was correct.
Turning, he caught her gaze with his piercing blue one. “Come with me.”
Her stomach flipped. “Where?”
“To a meeting. On Tuesday, three days from now, at the church on Brighton Street. Eight o’clock in the evening.”
Words stalled on her tongue as she groped for a reply. “Why? What kind of meeting?”
His fingers grazed hers, and the breath thinned in her lungs when he squeezed ever so gently. His low voice coaxed her until she was helpless to refuse. “Please, Kizzie.”
Father and Mother would never agree to such a thing, letting her leave the house unchaperoned with a gentleman, but she trusted Micah completely. An idea niggled. The Ladies’ Aid Society would be meeting at her family’s church on Tuesday evening. Her parents would think nothing of her absence from home if they believed her to be attending the regular charity meeting. And she wouldn’t tell them a falsehood, exactly. She would be at a church.
She nodded, unsure of what had just happened or what she had agreed to. He released her hand and she shivered against the loss of his warmth.
Scooping up his hat and bag, he smiled gently, his look communicating more than his words. “Eight o’clock. Meet me round the corner at half past seven.”
She remained silent as he let himself out the front door and shut it behind him with a soft click.
Easing down onto the stiff cushion of her chair, she couldn’t stop the smile curving her lips.
CHAPTER 3
APRIL 16, 1861
Keziah cast a wary glance around the dim basement of the church, Micah at her side on the unforgiving bench. Soft murmurs and terse chatter filled the dank space as the small crowd waited for the meeting to begin. Did anyone recognize her? She prayed not. She needed no talebearers reporting her whereabouts to Father.
A mousy-looking man with a huge mustache and a spindly neck walked up and down the scant rows, handing out papers of some sort, as a beefy fellow hurriedly lit all the oil lamps lining the room. Within moments, the room brightened until she could read the paper thrust into her hand.
A CALL TO ARMS!
“Find out just what any people will quietly submit to and you have found out the exact measure of injustice and wrong which will be imposed upon them.”—Frederick Douglass
THE GREAT MORAL FIGHT CALLING TO ALL THOSE WHO CHERISH THE GOD-GIVEN RIGHTS OF EVERY MAN: ABOLITION OF SLAVERY
“I feel now that the time is come when even a woman or a child who can speak a word for freedom and humanity is bound to speak. . . . I hope every woman who can write will not be silent.”—Harriet Beecher Stowe
Keziah blinked and snapped her eyes to Micah’s, only to find him watching her intently, hopeful, if perhaps sheepish.
Never so aware of listening ears, she hissed, “An abolitionist meeting?”
Micah reddened ever so slightly but rushed ahead. “Just keep an open mind, Kizzie.”
She glanced back to the stiff paper clenched between her fingers. If Mother or Father discovered she’d attended . . .
He leaned close, the scent of bay rum wrapping around her like an embrace. “Have you read Mrs. Stowe’s story Uncle Tom’s Cabin?”
She shook her head. “You know it’s banned here. I wouldn’t even know where to find a copy. Not that it would matter. Mother forbade me to read it, proclaiming it dangerous libel.”
“More’s the pity. A thought-provoking piece of literature.”
Biting her lip, she braved a question. “Do you have a copy?”
He smiled slowly and gave a nod.
“I said Mother forbade it. I didn’t say I would obey.”
Micah chuckled. “If you’re certain, I’ll lend you mine.”
She cast a furtive glance around the basement. There were no familiar faces staring back at her. No one who would wag their tongue at her presence. Lifting her chin, she reminded herself that she’d done nothing wrong. It was only a meeting. Still, with the Confederate fervor pulsing through Savannah, news of an abolition meeting could be the spark that started an inferno.
The fever had only grown hotter since Confederates had fired the ominous shot at Fort Sumter. The entire town quivered with excitement. Each night she could hear the shouts of enthusiasm from the mobs of men crowding in clusters along Liberty Square. “God save the Confederacy!” Their shrieks of independence haunted her dreams, pounding like the dull thud of distant cannon fire. Yet she could not match their fervor. For some reason, she felt detached.
States’ rights were well and good, but when people like sweet Hiriam were given no choice . . .
Her turbulent thoughts scattered as the wiry man who had passed out the pamphlets stood before the assembly.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming to our meeting. Now, more than ever, the heaviness of the cause weighs upon us.” He swallowed loudly, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork on a pond. “War has only served to make the issue of freedom for all humanity a crucial tipping point. Some of you may be here from a zeal to serve. For some, it may be to understand the horrific plight of our Negro brothers and sisters.” His nervous glance skittered over the small, silent crowd. “For others, you may have come out of mere curiosity.”
Keziah squirmed in her seat, feeling as if he were singling her out somehow.
“Whatever the reason, we are delighted you’re here. I have a very special friend with me tonight. A man who has endured much. A man whose bravery is matched by our great forefathers, who knew the risk they took by resisting King George but faced down tyranny with a bold stare and resplendent courage. Please welcome my friend Amos.”
From the shadows hugging the walls, a large man stepped forward, his dark skin gleaming in the soft lights. His face was stern, his eyes hesitant yet unafraid. Moving to the orator’s side, he offered a somber nod.
“My friends, for Amos’s safety, I shall not tell you his last name nor where he has come from, but I can tell you this man was once a slave, shackled like a dog, whipped without mercy for the slightest infraction, and treated no better than an animal.”
Murmurs rippled through the room, yet Keziah found she could not tear her gaze from the man whose countenance held such si
lent pain.
The orator motioned for Amos to take a seat on a small stool. “Amos has come, knowing doing so could put him at peril but unwilling to sit idly by and watch his fellow man cruelly relegated to a life of bondage. He is a freedom fighter and wants to answer any questions you may have.”
The room was eerily silent, no one willing to be the first to speak. Finally Micah cleared his throat, his voice strong. “Thank you for being willing to share your story, Amos. How long were you in slavery?”
The man spoke softly. “Nigh unto thirty years, best I can figure. I was taken from my home across the seas when I was just a wee one, ripped straight from my mama’s arms while she screamed. A white man whipped her till she died for trying to protect me.”
Nausea curdled Keziah’s stomach at the thought of such horror.
“I’s put on a boat right after and sold to a plantation down South.”
Silence again. A voice drifted from the back of the room. “What were you bought to do?”
Amos’s eyes glinted. “Field slave. I’m big. They save the big men for planting, harvesting, and hard labor.”
“Were you ever treated with kindness?”
Amos stared hard, the intensity of it sending shivers down Keziah’s spine.
“No, sir. My massa was a bad man. Filled with hate. I know not every slave has it as bad as I did, but others have it even worse. No. There was times I wondered if Massa was the devil himself.”
A soft female voice flitted over the somber gathering. “What kind of things did he do?”
“We was half-starved most of the time. Ate nothing but cornmeal, sometimes coosh, and whatever we could manage to eke out of the dirt on our own. Weren’t much time to grow nothing, though. We worked from four in the morning until well after sundown each night. Every now and then I’d sneak some of the boiled corn they gave the hogs.”
“Were only the men forced to work that hard?”
“No’m. We was all worked that way. Women and chillun too. The babies was cared for by our oldest women, who were too bent over and aged to do much in the fields. Our overseer was a mean man himself. Not just with the whip.” Amos clenched his jaw, tightening his fists before visibly forcing himself to relax. “If he sensed we was resentful, overseer would bed our wives.”
