The Freedom Star Part 15

The sergeant centered himself on the platoon. "Captain said to brief everybody. We has us a mission." The clock tower chimed eleven.

"General says the Yankees aim to use Hampton to billet their troops this winter. There's talk they might be housing runaway slaves here too." The sergeant paused and rubbed his hand over his face as if he didn't want to continue. "Our orders is to burn the town."

A murmur rumbled through the formation.

"What about the folks what live here?" One soldier asked.

"Hey, they's been good to us . . ." said another.

"Hampton's a southern town," a soldier called from the rear rank. "What Yankee-loving p.e.c.k.e.rwood come up with that crazy idea?"

The sergeant waved his arms. "Hush up and listen. You go on back to them houses that put you up. You tell them folks living there they got one half hour to gather their belongings. One half hour-no more." He paused, then added, "Tell them General Magruder sends his deepest regrets. Dismissed."

The platoon stood in place. Not a soldier moved.

Captain Claiborne strolled up the street and stopped in front of the sergeant. "Is there a problem, sergeant?"

"No sir."

"Very well. Carry out your orders."

The sergeant saluted, then did an about face and again hollered, "Dismissed."

The platoon slowly dispersed and soldiers returned to their temporary homes. Henry glanced at Townsend. "You want to tell her?"

"h.e.l.l no. You were a corporal once, leadership material, I recall you saying. Sounds like a situation that calls for leadership."

"Thanks, buddy." Henry dropped his pack and climbed the steps. He knocked on the door and waited, then knocked again. The light of a candle flickered through the window.

Mrs. Nelson opened the door, holding her candle aloft. She wore a light floor length nightgown with full sleeves. Gray hair cascaded over her shoulders. "Yes? Do you boys need something? More tea, perhaps?"

Henry pulled off his kepi. "Ma'am, we've been ordered . . . I mean, well, I got some bad news." Her eyes filled with antic.i.p.ation. "What I mean is, we've been ordered to evacuate the town. You have thirty minutes to get dressed and gather whatever you need."

"Them Yankees coming again?" She said. "I put up with *em before, I'll manage."

"No, ma'am," Henry replied. "The town's to be burned. You have to leave."

"No Yankee's going to burn our town as long as you sons of Virginia are here defending us. You boys give *em h.e.l.l." She smiled and shook her fist.

Henry ran a hand through his hair and shot a glance at Townsend. "Mrs. Nelson, ma'am, General Magruder has ordered the town burned so the Yankees can't use it for billeting. We'll be laying the torch to your home in thirty minutes."

Her chin dropped and her green eyes opened wide. She locked Henry in an icy stare and set her jaw, then stepped inside and slammed the door.

Henry gathered his belongings and scuffled to the street where the platoon would reform. He stared at Mrs. Nelson's tidy little home. It wasn't right, Virginia boys burning out their own folks. This wasn't how a war was to be fought. How could he write home about such terrible deeds? And when the news did reach South Boston, how could the Fourteenth ever march those streets again with flags unfurled and heads held high?

Mrs. Nelson stepped onto the porch wearing a tattered blue housecoat over her nightgown and carrying a small valise and a daguerreotype of a young man in uniform. She placed her belongings on the rocking chair, then turned and pulled the door closed, stooping to straighten the rug in front of the door. She gathered her belongings and walked to the street. Her gaze met Henry's; tossing back her head, she quickly looked away and stormed up the street.

By midnight the Fourteenth had shifted to the south side of the city to defend against Union interference from Newport News. With their backs to Hampton, the company manned the picket line, searching the darkness for Yankee activity, while to their rear, a diabolical firestorm roared through tinder-dry wooden structures. One by one, soldiers turned, as if drawn to the inferno, but Henry stood his post. If he refused to acknowledge the fiery maelstrom, perhaps he could deny the guilt that swelled within him. Yet, even as he looked away, he couldn't escape the conflagration reflected in the tears of his fellow soldiers.

Chapter Twenty-two.

September 1861 Morgan reined in the dappled mare at the edge of a muddy field where slaves hunched over rows of yellow-green tobacco. The men split stalks and cut the plants while women and children hung the cut tobacco over six-foot long wooden sticks. When the sticks were full, slaves loaded them on wagons and drove them to the drying barns where they hung in the heat of hardwood curing fires.

"Sean, a moment of your time, please." Morgan motioned to his Irish immigrant overseer.

Sean straightened, rubbing the small of his back as he sheathed his knife. "Aye, Mr. McConnell?" He wiped his brow and made his way through the tobacco to Morgan.

"What's our progress, Sean?"

"Well, ye know, sir, the second barn's *most half full. We've made up valuable time since the ending of the rains. With a wee bit o' luck, we should have the harvest under cover on the morrow, Friday at the latest."

"Look at that sky." Morgan pointed, then rubbed the tingling in his arm. "Weather's coming from the south. Set out torches and work them through the night. I can't afford to get caught with leaf in the fields if we get another storm like last year's-that hurricane cost me one fourth of my crop."

"Aye sir, that I'll do, and I'll have Florence make up some *pone so's we can be feeding the nigras here in the fields-it'll save us some time, ye know. Don't ye be worrying none, Mr. McConnell."

"I know you'll pull us through, Sean. You always do." Morgan turned the horse toward the main house.

"Afternoon, Ma.s.sa McConnell. The leaf be looking mighty fine this year." Mamma Rose smiled, revealing a gap where a front tooth used to be. She held a stick of tobacco.

"Yes, it is, Mamma Rose, mighty good, and you're looking right pretty yourself this fine day." He touched the brim of his hat and smiled at her laughter, then continued his ride up the lane.

Morgan dismounted by the side porch, handing the reins to Joseph. "Rub her down real good, boy, then turn her to pasture."

Joseph nodded and led the horse to the barn.

Ella looked up from her knitting when he entered the front parlor. "How is the harvest, dear?"

"Rain's coming. I told Sean to work them through the night. We have to get the leaf in the barns. Where's Patrick?"

"He rode out two hours ago; said he had business over at the Johnston place." Ella lay her knitting on her lap and folded her hands. "Is there a problem?"

"I'll need him this evening. Sean's been in the fields since before dawn and once the weather arrives, we'll be pushed to keep the fires burning in the drying barns." Morgan eased into his wing-backed chair and rubbed his arm.

"Sarah Johnston came by earlier," Ella said. "She'd been to town and picked up a letter for you at the post office. I left it there on your side table."

Morgan put on his spectacles and opened the envelope.

August 22, 1861 Dear Sir, I trust this letter finds you in good health. Please forgive my intrusion. I am most embarra.s.sed to have to bring to your attention a situation regarding your slave, Isaac. To be blunt, I must report that he is missing. I entrusted one of my horses and a wagon to Isaac two weeks past. I also provided him a pa.s.s for the afternoon. However, as the necessity of this letter attests, his return has been delayed. I have been in touch with the owner of the farm where he was visiting, and he a.s.sures me that Isaac departed his place on schedule to return to our home before the sun set. He also shared that Isaac seemed in a rational and sober state at the time.

As Isaac is a tireless, capable worker, and a bright young lad, this would appear to be very much out of his character. I cannot discern a reason for him to absent himself. He showed exceptional progress with his carpentry, and he appeared quite satisfied in these, his most recent surroundings.

Sir, as he was entrusted to my care, I must take full responsibility and will, of course, reimburse you for your loss, should he not return.

My fear is that Isaac has befallen some mishap not of his own doing. Please know that I will spare no effort in uncovering his fate. I will continue to correspond as events warrant.

Your humble servant, Thomas Day, Jr.

Morgan lifted his gla.s.ses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He slowly shook his head.

"What seems to be the matter, dear?"

"Letter's from that Tom Day fella, down in Milton. He says Isaac's gone."

"Gone?" Ella covered her mouth as if to stifle a gasp. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Run off."

"Not our Isaac, he wouldn't run. He's such a good boy . . ."

"Day doesn't think he ran away. Could be he's fallen victim to some rogue or highwayman. Day will keep us informed."

_____.

"You's too young." Florence threw the rag on the table and stared at Tempie. She took a deep breath. This day had been coming for some time, but it might have waited another year. "I seen how you's filling out them dresses in a womanly way, but that don't mean you's old enough to be getting serious about no man."

"But Mama, he's sweet on me. Look, he brung me flowers." Tempie paused from the dough she was kneading and pointed to the jar by the window. Yellow buds opened toward the sun.

"If'n that boy wants to risk sneaking over here to meet you down by the quarters, that's fine, but if I hears of you sneaking over to Johnston's farm again, I'll . . ." She wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n and shook her head. "It's too dangerous, baby. Everybody knows them pattyrollers is out and about most nights now. Is you disremembering how your brother tangled with that Clancy fella last year?"

"Seems like Isaac come off pretty good. He weren't the one got kilt."

"You hush. Your brother didn't have nothing to do with that. The poor boy got throwed off his horse, and that's all."

"But I ain't helping no runaways, Mama, I'm just looking to spend some time with a fella."

"Then spend it on McConnell land," Florence said. "You's safe here. Can't say the same if'n you's sneaking off somewhere else." She pointed to the hearth. "Pull that oven out and check to see if'n it's hot enough."

Tempie wiped her hands, then grabbed an iron hook and swung the Dutch oven away from the fire. She lifted the lid and held her hand over the pot. The fat coating the inside of the oven glistened. Steam curled from the edges. "It's ready, Mama."

"Fine. Put them two birds in the pot and add that rice and sauce." Florence pointed to a bowl on the table.

Tempie added the chickens and rice, then swung the pot back over the fire and used tongs to place coals on the lid.

"Mama, mama," Joseph yelled, racing through the open doorway and knocking his sister aside. "Miss Ella says come quick. Ma.s.sa's having fits."

Florence grabbed her youngest by the shoulders. "Slow down boy; now what's all this about Ma.s.sa McConnell?"

"Miss Ella says he's dying, Mama, hurry . . ." Wide-eyed, Joseph pointed toward the big house.

"Tempie, pull that pot off the fire and come with me. Joseph, show me where."

They ran to the big house. Florence hurried down the center hall toward the parlor and Ella's wails. Morgan was slumped in his chair, his head tilted to one side. Ella knelt, hugging his knees.

"What happened, Miss Ella?" Florence grabbed Morgan's hand. Cold, damp. Eyes open, but not focused. One of his pupils appeared enlarged. He struggled to breathe.

She unb.u.t.toned his shirt and placed a hand on his chest. "His heart's beating, Miss Ella, but he got something serious wrong. Somebody needs to fetch Doc Blackman. Where's Ma.s.sa Patrick?"

Ella fought back a sob and shook her head. "I . . . I don't know. He went to the Johnston's. I don't know when he planned to return. Oh, G.o.d, don't take my Morgan."

"How about Miss Polly, she around?"

"On . . . on a buggy ride with some children from church." Ella sobbed again. "What ever shall we do?"

"Don't fret none, Miss Ella." Florence gently touched her shoulder. "Florence is gonna take good care of Ma.s.sa McConnell." She turned to Joseph. "Boy, go fetch your pa and tell him we needs Doc Blackman. If he ain't down by the quarters, go to the creek. He took his pole when he headed out this morning."

Florence motioned to Tempie. "Fetch my remedy bag-it's hanging beside the chimney over in the cookhouse-and get some water boiling, then fetch garlic from the herb garden." She pointed to Morgan. "Miss Ella, you has to help me get him to the sofa." The two women tugged and pulled on his arms until they raised him, then, with one under each arm, they dragged him to the sofa and laid him down.

"Oh G.o.d, Florence, tell me he will be all right." Ella hovered, fanning her husband with her folding fan. "I can't imagine losing my Morgan. Whatever would I do?"

His eyes seemed to follow Florence as she propped his head with a pillow. "Miss Ella, don't you worry. Abraham done gone to fetch the doctor and Florence is right here to take care of both of you *til he arrives."

Chapter Twenty-three.

September 1861 "On your feet," Constable Branson hollered. "Get your black hides out here where a body can get a good look at you." He slapped the whip across the soles of Isaac's feet.

Isaac brought his hand up to shade his eyes as sunlight from the outer office filled the cell door. The whip snapped across his arm and face, slicing into his flesh.

"Don't you be raising no hand at me," the constable said. "What's wrong with you, boy?"

Isaac clutched his bloodied wrist.

Constable Branson cracked his whip and herded Isaac and Perkins to the street.

Two men waited by a carriage in front of the jail. The taller of the two had a thin, drawn face and wore a light blue suit. A gold chain dangled across his front from watch pocket to waistcoat. Boots, blackened and polished to a high shine, glistened under white gaiters. A blue top hat partially hid oil-slicked, coal black hair. The man stroked his waxed mustache with a pale, bony hand as he studied Isaac. Henry had spoken of such men once. Dandies, he'd called them.

The shorter man wore faded denim Kentucky jeans and a homespun brown jacket over a plaid cotton shirt. His scuffed brogans looked no better than those on Isaac's own feet. The b.u.t.t of a pistol protruded from his belt.

The taller man paced, examining Isaac and Perkins. He placed the b.u.t.t of his buggy whip under Isaac's jaw and tilted back Isaac's head. "Open your mouth, boy. Let me see those teeth."

Isaac obeyed.

"Very well, and you?" He tapped Perkins on the head with the handle of the whip. Perkins opened his mouth.