Engraved on the Heart

by Tara Johnson

  “Micah talked to you? About me?”

  Ma took a sip of her tea and grinned. “Ain’t never seen a man so besotted over a woman in my life.”

  Taking a slow breath, Keziah sat still. Micah besotted—over her? “You must be mistaken. Micah only considers me a friend.”

  “Ha!” The loud bark of laughter nearly made Keziah jump from the chair. Ma pounded her hands on the table as if it were the best joke she’d ever heard. “Girlie, you need to open your eyes. That man is head over heels in love with you.”

  Keziah’s heart thudded. Warmth spread from her chest, radiating out until it consumed every part of her. Her breath hitched. “But he’s never said so.”

  “Can’t. He’s got some fool notion in his head that he’s bad for you. He thinks if you’re with him, your life is in danger. He’s made himself nearly sick trying to keep you safe. Meanwhile you’re trying to keep him safe, and now you’re bossing me, afraid I’ll get hurt too.” She leaned forward. “When are you two gonna let almighty God do the protecting and get on with your life?”

  All this time . . . If Ma Linnie was correct, Micah loved her after all. Heat bloomed on her face.

  Ma murmured, “Poor lamb, ain’t much we can do about your family. Not tonight, anyways. You can stay with me for as long as you like. But the doc? We can do something for him. Are you up for it?”

  Keziah stood. “I’ll do anything.”

  Micah tried not to groan as the prison lackeys dropped him unceremoniously in the packed earth of the jail’s dead house.

  Faking his own death had been easier than he’d thought. Early in the afternoon, he’d complained of a pounding headache to the guard on duty, requesting a visit to the sick bay.

  The guard, one Micah hadn’t seen before, had smirked, stating medicinal powders were only for patriots, not traitors. He’d muttered that Micah would be doing them all a favor if he just died.

  So he did.

  When the evening guard had discovered him unresponsive in his cell, their examination had been a kick in the middle to see if he moved. He took the blow with quiet limpness. He had held his breath while they checked him, thankful the growth of his beard would hide the thrum of life pulsing in his neck. They wasted little time loading him on a litter and dumping him in the dead house. No wonder coffin alarms were all the rage. If the average fellow was buried after an examination similar to the one he received, graveyards were filled with more living than dead.

  Once he heard the slam of the outside door and the heavy footfalls die away, he relaxed a fraction, trying not to shiver in the icy darkness. Slitting one eye open, he looked straight up, seeing nothing but blackness. He turned his head and spied a shaft of pewter from a single window high overhead, illuminating the vacant eyes of a corpse staring back at him.

  Micah steeled his jaw, tried to force himself to breathe in and out slowly. He would have to wait several more hours in the cold tomb, completely silent and unmoving. When Brothers had brought bread late in the afternoon, he’d whispered terse commands. Failure to stay utterly still might mean capture, especially if the prison lackeys were required to bring in another dead body during their watch.

  He had to remain like this until midnight. No movement. No sound. Only breathing.

  Judging by the odor seeping through the air, they would be shallow breaths at that.

  “Are you sure about this?” Keziah glanced around the darkened streets as Ma handled the reins of the horses jerkily dragging the hack behind them. Her nerves were stretched thin, but next to her, Ma sat perched atop the driver’s bench as if she were doing nothing more than visiting a friend for supper. Could anyone hear them approaching?

  Keziah couldn’t repress another leery whisper. “I feel like everyone is watching us.”

  “Pshaw! You worry too much. We’re not trying to hide, remember? We approach our enemies with bravado. They’ll be less suspicious that way. Besides, I took care of Washington’s and Jefferson’s hooves, didn’t I?”

  The older woman certainly had. Wrapping burlap around the horses’ hooves and legs had been nothing short of genius. It dulled the clip-clops against Savannah’s stony roads. Still, marching up to the prison bold as brass edged on insanity. Keziah shot Ma a sideways glance and clutched the driver’s bench with white-knuckle fingers as the monstrosity dipped and swayed side to side.

  Ma Linnie was crazier than a loon. She must be to have come up with such a plan.

  It was well past midnight and Keziah was nearly sick with fear that something had happened to delay Mr. Brothers. Was it her own terrified concern or Providence trying to warn her?

  Peering through the streets, she sucked in a sharp breath. A cluster of dark shapes scattered around the square. The watery moonlight illuminated long shadows. Weapons. And soldiers. A whole passel of them.

  Breath freezing in her lungs, she shook Ma Linnie’s elbow and hissed, “Turn around.”

  Ma frowned. “Why?”

  “Soldiers. Just up ahead.”

  Ma chuckled. “I see them. Let me do the talking.”

  But the woman made no motion to turn Washington and Jefferson around. Keziah nearly retched.

  Another minute passed before a harsh voice barked a command. “Halt there!”

  Ma jerked on the reins. “Whoa, boys. Hold up a spell.” The cranky horses made no protests and immediately stopped as if disgruntled that they were out at such an hour to begin with.

  A soldier approached, his steps forbidding. Even in the faint moonlight, Keziah could see the suspicion in his hard face.

  “What are you doing out in the dead of night?”

  “Heading over to the Chatham County Jail. Funny you should word it like that. We’re the pickup wagon for the dead.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “In the middle of the night?”

  “Not usually. Most times the undertaker has us wait till morning, but there was some poor feller that died day afore yesterday and his family is wanting him buried at home, all proper-like. Gonna be a long drive, and time’s a-wasting.”

  The soldier shifted his firearm. “Lady, don’t you know Yankee devils are at our doorstep?”

  Ma sniffed as if insulted. “’Course I do! That’s why I’m in a hurry to get the job done. I don’t figure the Yankees are gonna bury him all proper-like, do you?”

  The man fell silent. Keziah held her breath.

  He nodded in her direction. “And who is she?”

  Keziah dropped her gaze to her lap and prayed her trembling didn’t show.

  Ma patted her knee. “This here’s my daughter. She’s a good girl. Always helps me with the pickups and whatnot.”

  The soldier studied Keziah, and she resisted the urge to squirm. “Can’t you speak for yourself, girl?”

  Ma clucked her tongue. “Ah, poor girl won’t be able to answer you nary a peep. She’s a mute. Swallowed a brick of lye soap when she was just a wee thing. I don’t know if you can tell, dark as it is, but she’s real pretty. Good cook too. Say—” her voice rose as if a brilliant idea had just struck—“you lookin’ for a wife? My girl would do you proud.”

  Flustered, the soldier stepped back, clearly uncomfortable with how the conversation was proceeding. “I—uh—”

  “Give it a think. With your comeliness and her being so pretty, you’d have a pack of good-looking young’uns.”

  Keziah’s body flushed hot with mortification. Ma was insane, plain and simple.

  Even in the moonlight, it was evident the soldier paled as he pulled at his collar. “She’s a beauty to be sure, ma’am, but I—”

  Ma slumped as if disappointed. “I understand. Bad time to be takin’ a wife, I reckon, what with you brave boys fighting off Yanks.”

  He heaved a sigh of relief. “Yes, ma’am.” With a tip of his gray kepi, he took another step away, ready to flee her matchmaking noose. “You ladies be careful. If our men don’t hold Fort Pulaski, Yankee vermin will be crawling everywhere.”

  Ma batted her eyes. “We�
��re in good hands with you fighting for us.”

  The soldier cleared his throat and moved aside, letting them resume their rickety journey. Ma snapped the reins with a “Giddyap,” and the old horses sluggishly obeyed.

  Once they were past the square, Keziah shook her head slowly. “I don’t know whether you’re touched or brilliant.”

  Ma cackled. “Sorry for giving you such a start. But it worked, didn’t it?”

  A smile curved Keziah’s lips. The older woman wasn’t a loon after all. She was a wily fox. “Still, did you have to go on about what our potential children would look like? It was humiliating.”

  Ma snapped the reins again, snickering. “Reckon so. But then again, it got him so flustered, he didn’t even think to ask why the horses’ hooves are wrapped up.”

  Keziah’s angst unwound a slight degree as she sagged against the bobbing seat. “I shall never underestimate you again.” Laughing softly, she murmured, “And I’m relieved you’re on my side.”

  Ma stopped the horses just before they reached the corner of the jail. “We can’t go any farther than this. The warden will know I’m not a regular lackey for the undertaker. He’ll smell the lie a mile off.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “You need to find some place to hide. I’ll divert the guards’ attention someway while you sneak past. Find the dead house. If Micah is gone, well and good. If he’s not, you drag his sorry hide with you. We’ll drive like we’re heading out of the city and then circle back. The trees are so thick behind the prison no one will see either of you. There’s a secret cargo hold in the bottom of the hack. Micah can hide back there until it’s safe. He’s transported dozens of passengers the same way. He’ll know what to do.”

  Her heart fluttered like a dozen hummingbirds had taken hold inside. God above, help me.

  At least the dress she’d been wearing when she left home was black. No risk of detection from bright colors. With a thick gulp, she lifted the hem of her hoopless skirt and ducked into the tall bushes lining the road in front of the fortressed jail. She settled and waited.

  She could hear the wagon squeak back into motion and Ma’s none-too-quiet commands to the horses. She must have approached the front walkway, for the creaking wagon stopped and Keziah could hear her loud huff of impatience.

  “Foul horseflesh. Just when I need to be in a hurry . . .”

  Masculine voices drifted closer. The guards.

  “Something wrong, ma’am?”

  Keziah could almost see Ma’s glare at the horses as she fabricated her story. “Indeed. It’s this horse of mine. Washington here is in a foul mood tonight. He keeps stopping. Barn-sour old fellow.”

  She heard one of the men’s low chuckle. “He may have a bit more mule in him than horse, eh?”

  Ma snorted. “I should’ve named him Benedict Arnold instead.”

  Their laughter burst, then died away. “Why are their hooves tied up?”

  Keziah cringed, holding her breath as she crouched in the bramble. The perfumed scent of jonquils tickled her nose. Don’t sneeze . . .

  “Washington here has sensitive feet. Smithy told me that for light travel I should try wrapping his feet in burlap. Says it cushions the strain on his back legs.”

  “But why are the other one’s wrapped too?”

  Ma scoffed. “Well, you wouldn’t want Jefferson to be jealous of Washington’s new shoes, now would you?”

  The men laughed and asked her where she was headed. As she spun a wild yarn about getting ready to go to her daughter’s house the next county over because she was “scared of them cursed Yanks,” Keziah took a deep breath and crept across the black expanse of lawn, focused on the stone wall surrounding the property. With a final glance over her shoulder to ensure she wasn’t being watched, she jumped. Her fingers scraped against rough rock.

  She gasped for air, every muscle straining. The stones were uneven, providing plenty of places for her toes and fingers to grip. Even with that, stinging cuts broke across her fingers as she clawed for the top of the wall.

  There. Her hands curled around the cold rock as she pulled herself up and over the wall. She slid to the ground on the other side with a soft grunt, backside smarting from the impact, muscles burning from the exertion. Taking a moment to catch her breath, she squinted into the darkness, searching for the outbuildings behind the prison.

  Where would the dead house be? She crept past small buildings dotting the back property. That one? No. Tool shed. One structure lay directly behind the enormous jail, squatting in its massive shadow. Her pulse quickened.

  Keziah brushed her fingertips against the brick, moving slowly in the deep darkness. Feeling her way along the edges, she stopped when her hands rested on a cold iron handle. The door. Uttering a prayer it would be unlocked, she fought down her tremors and pulled the heavy door open.

  She slipped inside and set her jaw. Whatever this building was, it was cold. Very cold. The blackness was scattered only minimally by a thin shaft of moonlight from a window high above.

  With her hands held out before her, she crept through the building, groping for anything that might tell her where she was. Her hands brushed something that stung. She yanked her fingers back. Something fiery. And wet?

  Feeling again, she grazed the solid object before her. Not fiery. That snap of shock was from a huge block of ice packed in wet sawdust. With a groan, she turned back toward the door. It was the icehouse. Not the dead house.

  A strong arm encircled her waist, dragging her backward toward the opposite wall as a hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her scream. She grasped at the hand muting her cries for help, but to no avail. Solid warmth held her tight. So similar to that night long ago outside the church. The same arms . . .

  “Who are you?” The soft, masculine whisper held no malice, only urgency. The voice was familiar. Warmth spread through her. It wasn’t too late. Praise God, they weren’t too late.

  Keziah sucked in a cold whoosh of air as the fingers over her mouth slowly loosened. “A friend of a friend.” He would know the code words used by both escaping slaves and conductors alike.

  She heard his soft inhale. “Kizzie?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “What are you doing here?” His voice sounded angry. Afraid.

  “Getting you away from here.”

  She pulled out of his hold and lowered her hand until she gripped his cold—no, icy—fingers. How long had he been waiting?

  “Why didn’t Brothers come for you?”

  “I don’t know. He told me to be in the dead house before midnight and he would arrive soon after.”

  Unease came over her. “We’re in the dead house? I thought this was for ice.”

  She could hear the humor tinging his tone. “Corpses don’t smell as bad if the air is cold.”

  Shivering in revulsion, she drew him toward the door.

  He resisted. “Wait. Where are we going? Who’s helping you?”

  “Ma Linnie. She’ll soon be driving around the back. We must hurry.”

  He muttered something under his breath and she frowned. “She was my only option.”

  Covering her warm hand with his own, he moved forward, in the lead. “If that woman doesn’t get us shot, it’ll be a miracle.”

  Micah swayed unevenly on his feet but kept a tight grip on Kizzie’s slim fingers as they darted across the expanse of yard behind Chatham County Jail. The weeks of malnourishment had taken their toll.

  His heart pounded wildly, but he dared not stop. They were close. So very close.

  He caught Kizzie when she lurched forward unexpectedly, her boot snared by a rock or gnarled tree root. Slipping his arm around her waist, he heard her deep pulls of air as she kept pace with him.

  Her warm breath fanned his cheek in the night’s inky darkness. “Don’t—let me—slow—you down. Keep going.”

  “Not without you.” He half propelled her forward toward the stone wall. If she thought he could run and leav
e her abandoned, she didn’t know him at all.

  He tightened his grip on her slim waist, a lump of gratitude wedged in his throat. He owed her his life.

  The wall lay just ahead. Before she could protest, he hoisted her up, sure she had a good grip, and watched as she disappeared over the top. Glancing around for guards, he gritted his teeth and began climbing, his breath strained. Only when he dropped to the dirt safely on the other side did he dare inhale a full breath.

  Free.

  They plunged into the blanketed protection of the trees, both of them panting heavily. He braced his hands on his knees and breathed deeply. His legs burned. The sprint across the yard had been the only exercise he’d been afforded in weeks.

  Her soft whisper broke the silence. “Ma—should be coming—down this back road—any moment.”

  He nodded, though he knew she couldn’t see the motion. “With what?”

  “Two horses—and a wagon.”

  He frowned. “Won’t somebody hear the noise?”

  “Ma wrapped the horses’ hooves in burlap.” He heard the grin shaping her mouth and bit back a chuckle. Only Ma Linnie would have come up with such a tactic.

  A sudden rolling sound approached. He peered through the foliage and sighed with relief to see a wagon coming, its warped form outlined by faint traces of moonlight. A robust person sat on the driver’s seat. The horses’ hooves made little sound.

  The wagon slowed to a stop and he reached for Kizzie’s hand again. “That her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Emerging from the trees, they darted to the waiting conveyance. He lifted Kizzie into the driver’s seat, settling her next to Ma. He then climbed over the wagon’s edge and dropped into the bottom of the bed. Ma’s round face turned toward him with a sassy smirk.

  “Nice night for a drive.”

  Keeping silent, he smiled in return. As she clicked her tongue, the wagon lurched into motion. He shoved aside a roll of burlap and some scant supplies hiding the cargo hold. If he could find the latch, he’d drop inside and be safe from any surprises.