Engraved on the Heart

by Tara Johnson

  If only time would stop and freeze the horrors of war. Stop long enough to let them grieve their losses without marching on, scrambling to catch their breath. Stop its dreaded ticking that counted down her year of mourning until she would be wed.

  She replaced the now-functioning clock with a gentle thud and turned. Mother was finally emerging from the recesses of her gloom, spending less time in solitary weeping. Even now she was in the parlor taking tea. Perhaps she could coax Mother out into the spring sunshine later. It would do Keziah good as well. With her middle-of-the-night conducting excursions becoming more frequent of late, the ominous signs of fatigue signaled that another spell of illness might befall her soon.

  She could not afford any more convulsions while transporting passengers through the streets of Savannah. It had already happened once. Once was one time too many when lives hung in the balance.

  Her stomach ached as she descended the stairs, her cousin’s animated chatter drifting from the parlor.

  “It seems like traitors are all around us, Auntie. Only last week one of Savannah’s most elite newspaper editors was arrested for passing military information to Union troops.”

  Wincing, Keziah prayed Jennie would not plunge Mother’s fragile spirits into further melancholy with her talk of war.

  She entered the parlor, and Mother’s eyes latched on to hers with a grateful wisp of a smile. “There she is, Jennie. Now our tea is complete.”

  Jennie sipped daintily from her delicate rose-trimmed cup. “I was just catching Auntie up on all the latest gossip.”

  Keziah seated herself on the settee and reached for the last cup, avoiding Jennie’s gaze. Her cousin’s brash ways and glib tongue were beginning to wear her thin. “Nothing too dismal, I pray.”

  Jennie tittered. “In the middle of war? Nothing but, I’m afraid.” Nibbling on the edge of a tea biscuit, she shook her glossy red head as if ashamed of the state of the world, but Keziah knew she thrilled to every dramatic detail. “Thanks to the Vigilance Committee, traitors to our Confederacy are being turned over faster than Stonewall Jackson can cut down a blue wool coat.”

  “I suppose I’ve not heard all the fracas then, but I would prefer Mother not be bombarded with discouraging news.”

  Mother sighed, her face more drawn and weary than Keziah had ever seen it. “You don’t need to protect me, darling. In such a time as this, there is little else consuming minds and hearts.”

  “Quite right.” Jennie leaned forward. “It really is scandalous what is going on in our city. Widow Simmons was here only two days ago. She lives near Wright Square, you know. She was telling me how, a couple weeks ago, she watched the sheriff and a passel of men drag an abolitionist into the jail. Poor fellow had been beaten black-and-blue.”

  “Do tell. Did she know his identity?” Mother asked.

  Jennie grunted softly. “She wasn’t sure but thought he looked like someone named Greyson. Kept prattling on about how he had gone to Philadelphia for his education.”

  Keziah almost dropped her cup. Warm tea splashed over the edge. She caught it before it careened to the rug-covered floor.

  Please, God, no . . .

  Mother turned to Keziah, eyes gentle. “You remember him, don’t you, dear? He was at the Ballinger house the night you were ill, and then—” she coughed lightly, cheeks blushing—“arrived several days later and argued with your father.”

  Her heart constricted so hard, it nearly choked her of breath. “I—yes, Mother. I remember.”

  Jennie sniffed. “Of course, Mrs. Simmons wasn’t sure it was him. In the condition that fellow was in, it was likely hard to tell.”

  Mother frowned. “What are his charges? Did Mrs. Simmons know?”

  “No, but if it’s Greyson, his father was an abolitionist—so any number of things would make him a suspect of wrongdoing. Especially during this war.”

  The stays of Keziah’s corset felt as if they were shrinking, robbing her of precious air. Not Micah. Please, God, not Micah.

  With a smirk, Jennie took another sip of tea. “If he’s an abolitionist, good riddance, I say. The last thing our city needs, with all the trouble on our doorstep, is Yankee sympathizers roaming the streets and stirring up hornets’ nests of havoc.”

  Mother placed her cup gently in its saucer with a soft clink. “Still, I hate to judge the man unfairly. Just because his father made poor choices does not necessarily speak ill of the son.” Her face lined with regret. “I pray he’s not guilty of treason. Despite our family’s differences, I always found him to be a kind fellow.”

  Warmth curled around Keziah’s heart at Mother’s praise of Micah. She had certainly never voiced any in Father’s presence.

  Jennie frowned. “There’s nothing more dangerous than a traitor with a deceptive tongue and a handsome face.”

  “True, but I still choose to think the best of the man. After all, if found guilty, he’ll likely be hanged, and that’s a fate I take no delight in, no matter the offense.”

  Hands trembling, Keziah set her untouched tea back on the silver service platter.

  “Darling, are you quite all right?” Mother fretted. “You look frightful. Pale as rice powder. Are you about to have another of your spells?”

  Panic clawed her throat, but she managed to stand on shaking legs. “I—I fear I’m not feeling well. Pardon my leave.” She grasped the excuse of her illness like a lifeline. “I’d like to retire to my room, if it’s all right. If I do succumb to my illness, I’d prefer to be in the comfort of my own bed.”

  “Of course, darling. I’ll call Hiriam to escort you up the stairs. We want no accidents.”

  Nodding dumbly, she waited for Mother to find Hiriam and willed the black spots dancing before her eyes to dissipate. She felt Jennie’s gaze fix on her as she fled the suffocating parlor and waited for Hiriam in the blessed quiet of the hallway.

  She must go to Micah without delay.

  CHAPTER 23

  “I DON’T LIKE THIS, MISSY. Not one bit.”

  Keziah grimaced at the stubborn set of Hiriam’s whiskered jaw as he stared at the imposing Chatham County Jail. It had taken two full days of begging before he’d finally relented to drive her, though his acquiescence did not stop him from muttering under his breath the entire carriage ride over.

  Now, as she stared up at the imposing towers and fortresslike structure, her courage nearly fled. They had timed their visit for when the rest of the household was occupied. Mother was locked in the library, penning letters to family, and Jennie was abed with a spring cold. Still, Keziah wore an oversize brimmed bonnet to hide her features from curious eyes.

  “I wish they would let me accompany you inside.”

  Though she’d never admit it, she wished Hiriam could escort her as well. She shot a glance toward the stern-faced guard standing watch at the outer door.

  The man narrowed his eyes at their conversation. “No Negroes.”

  She offered Hiriam a reassuring smile, trying to ignore her nerves, and patted him on the arm. “I’ll be fine. Wait here. I shan’t be long.”

  Mustering her grit, she walked into the prison. Her insides quivered like jelly.

  The surly-faced guard muttered under his breath. “You sure you want to see this traitor?”

  She did her utmost to ignore the leers of the prisoners as she walked behind the barrel of a guard, her footfalls echoing loudly in the grimy hallway. The clanging sounds and scraping of chairs against stone floors tangled her nerves in knots. Splotchy black dots of mold clung to the stone walls and coated the rows of bars she passed. And the stench—the acrid odor of urine and unwashed bodies nearly robbed her of breath.

  They walked so long, she was dizzy from exertion when the guard paused before a cell near the end of a long hallway. His bark nearly caused her to shriek in alarm.

  “Doc! You got company!”

  A rustling sounded from the far corner of the cell. The giant of a man nodded curtly. “You got ten minutes. I’ll be at the
other end of the hallway if you think better of talking to this trash.”

  As he slunk away, she turned to see Micah staring at her, his mouth slack with wonder. At the sight of his bruised face, she could not repress the cry of horror that escaped her lips.

  “Kizzie?” He stared at her as if she were an apparition. “Am I dreaming?”

  She rushed to the bars and curled her fingers around their cold grittiness. “No, you’re not dreaming. I’m here.”

  He moved slowly toward her and wrapped his fingers around hers despite the unrelenting iron keeping them apart. She noted his evident exhaustion, the stubble darkening his strong jaw. One of his eyes was circled by fading bruises. Cuts marred his hairline. The telltale signs of a split lip snagged her attention. What had he endured?

  “What are you doing here? You can’t be seen coming to visit me. It’s too dangerous.”

  She ignored his soft protests. “What happened? Why are you here?”

  He dropped his gaze, and a lock of dark hair fell over his brow. She longed to push it back but remained still.

  “I don’t know. When Sheriff Cole and his posse arrested me, a fisherman was with them. Said something about the Vigilance Committee contacting him. He thinks he saw me ushering Polly onto the boat.”

  With a groan, she slid her eyes shut. The soft touch of his fingers against her cheek popped her lids open once more. His gentle smile was a tonic to her aching heart.

  “Kizzie . . .” His whisper undid her completely, and she leaned into the roving graze of his fingertips. “You must leave. There is nothing I want more than to see you, but you mustn’t come again. It’s far too dangerous. You cannot taint your name by mingling it with mine.”

  “Hush.” Plucking her courage, she fought the tears that burned as she reached out and cupped his jaw in her hands. She heard his sharp inhale of breath as he relished her willing touch. “Don’t deny me this, Micah.”

  He traced the lines of her face with his eyes. Some kind of invisible thread bound them together, despite the bars separating them. “I mean it. You can’t come again.”

  She smiled wryly. “I’d think you would know me better than that by now.”

  “I’ll not have you hurt because of me. You already play with fire as it is.”

  She frowned. “Is there not a cause?”

  “Of course there is, but I know too well how hot emotions run right now. The memory of my father’s convictions has not been forgotten by this town. For years my mother lived in fear, afraid that the vigilantes who opposed John Brown would come after those who believed in his ideals. Father had his share of death threats. That’s the reason she sent me away to medical school after his death. Father’s reputation is likely what drew the Vigilance Committee’s attention in my direction. I’ll not see you sacrificed too.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  He pushed away from the bars with a huff and ran his fingers through his thick, wavy hair. “You need to forget about me.”

  “I will not!”

  Dropping his head, he muttered, “If you only knew . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If you knew everything about me, you’d understand why things must be the way they are.”

  “Don’t you think I should be the judge of that?” She wanted to shake him, knock some sense into his head. Couldn’t he see she loved him?

  Her breath froze, her pulse tripping. She loved Micah. She’d never admitted it to herself until now, but she did all the same.

  He glowered. “You don’t know who I really am.”

  “I know you’re brave and compassionate. You’re kind and intelligent. You love God and always think of others before you do yourself.”

  He stared at her, his body still. She couldn’t restrain the current of her feelings as they rushed from her lips.

  “You are a man of ideals and conviction. You saw the lonely little girl in school who desperately needed a friend. When all the other children saw a wallflower who was too scared to speak, you saw my need. You see beyond my weaknesses to the heart beating inside.”

  A warm tear escaped and trailed down her cheek. “I know you, Micah. I know you well. You would rather sacrifice yourself than see an imprisoned slave languish one more day in misery.” Her chin trembled. “You give of yourself over and over and over and ask nothing in return. You taught me what it means to live and to love.”

  He leaned his head against the bars and reached for her, weaving his fingers through her hair and tracing her features with his thumbs. She rested her forehead as close as she could to his. His warm breath fanned her cheek. Their lips were mere inches apart. If either of them were to move . . .

  “You don’t know my secret, Kizzie. If you did, it would change everything.”

  She shook her head, tasting the saltiness of tears on her lips. “No, it wouldn’t.”

  He smiled sadly. “Yes, darling, it would.” He swallowed, eyes flickering with pain.

  “Tell me.”

  He hesitated only a moment. “I—can’t.”

  “Say it!”

  “I’m part Negro.”

  The revelation hit her like a runaway horse. She gasped and could do little more than blink. “Wh-what?”

  His breath hitched. “My grandmother was a slave in Alabama, the product of a hardworking slave woman and—” he frowned—“her lustful owner.”

  Mind racing, Keziah’s gaze flickered over his features, his sky-blue eyes. “You don’t look part Negro.”

  His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Neither did my father. My grandmother escaped, thanks to the benevolence of conductors, and was able to pass herself off as white. She married a white man and had my father.”

  “And your mother?”

  He shook his head. “Father never told her. Despite her abolitionist sympathies, he feared her Southern heritage was far too ingrained. The knowledge would have scandalized her. He didn’t reveal it to me until mere months before his demise.” His expression hardened. “I suppose I should say Mother learned of it eventually, but . . .” His stare fixed on some place she could not see.

  “What?”

  Stark pain clouded his face. “The day she collapsed, she had found one of Father’s journals. It contained the truth of his heritage. Of mine. The book was still in her hand when Hattie found her crumpled on the floor.”

  Her throat cramped.

  Micah gripped the bars with white knuckles, his jaw tightening. “My own mother was so horrified by the truth, she suffered an apoplexy and died. What hope could there possibly be that I could ever be accepted by this society . . . or anyone, for that matter?”

  Sorrow for the burden he carried overwhelmed her. “No wonder your father was so devoted to the cause.”

  “Yes. And now you know why I am so passionate about the same.” Staring at her as if she were a glossy piece of porcelain he could not touch, he offered a small smile. “Now you know why you must stay away. Society would never accept our union if the truth were to come to light. I couldn’t put you through such an ordeal. I won’t.”

  She studied this man, her friend for as long as she could remember. Negro or white, imprisoned or free, it made no difference. Every piece of his history, his life, his struggles made him the man he was.

  Clutching his hands through the bars, she started to form a plan.

  She whispered, “Hear me well: your heritage and past make no difference to me.” A righteous fire began to burn in her middle, fanning out to consume her entire body. “I will fight for you and by your side with all I am, Micah Greyson. And I’ll find a way to get you out of this prison or die trying.”

  CHAPTER 24

  OVER THE NEXT DAY Keziah’s mind spun with plans to aid Micah’s escape. If she could conduct half-starved fugitives to freedom, conducting a physician from a prison should be no more difficult. And a trip to the First African Baptist Church would set things in motion.

  “Rose, I need your help.”

  The woman looked over her shoulder to ensur
e she and Keziah were alone inside the church. She motioned quickly. “Come.”

  Rose led Keziah down the musty stairs and turned to her when they were secure inside the depths of the church’s secret tunnel. “You feeling well, miss? What do you need?”

  “I’m fine. Listen, next time Smithy Brothers brings a load of passengers, I need you to give him this message.” Thrusting an envelope into her hands, Keziah searched her dark eyes. “Please. It’s vitally important.”

  “Yes’m.” Rose tucked the letter into her apron pocket with a frown. “Is it true what I hear? Was Dr. Greyson arrested?”

  “Yes, it’s true—but not for long. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  “Please let me know if there is something I can do to help.”

  “If you can deliver that message, you’ll be doing the most important thing imaginable to help Dr. Greyson.”

  “I see.” The woman’s lips curved into a faint smile. “He’s done a mighty lot of good. His papa, too. Why, it was his father that got Smithy Brothers working in the Railroad, and because of that work, Brothers heard about my plight, bought me, and then gave me my freedom.”

  Keziah blinked. “I had no idea.”

  Rose smiled, her expression tender. “Some days when I’m worn down and tempted to think my meager efforts are too small to make much difference, I remember Dr. Greyson and all the good that came from him igniting a spark in a single man. One person’s life can touch so many, can’t it?”

  Keziah’s eyes stung as she squeezed Rose’s hands. “Indeed it can. Thank you for the reminder, my friend.”

  “The tea and sugar are all gone, ma’am.”

  Keziah watched her mother’s face fall. “We have none left? Not even in the cellar?”

  Elizabeth shook her head, her lips pressed into a firm line. “No’m. Ain’t any to be had anywhere in Savannah, neither.”

  “How about the cornmeal and flour? Coffee?”

  “Coffee’s nearly gone. We still have plenty of flour and cornmeal, but it won’t last forever.”