The Freedom Star Part 17

"That's good, Ma.s.sa McConnell. I seen your fingers wiggle some. Try again."

Lord G.o.d, please . . . . He studied Florence's eyes as she watched his hand. Anger? No, more like disappointment. His fingers hadn't moved.

"Now, we's gonna work that arm, get them big muscles moving." Florence pushed his arm until it bent at the elbow, then pulled it fully extended. She repeated the motion again and again. "Gonna take some time, but you's gonna use this here hand. Ain't no apoplexy keeping you down."

Apoplexy? Oh G.o.d, was he going to die?

"Florence!"

Morgan turned his eyes toward the angry voice. Patrick stepped into view. Good, he'll tell him what happened. Had they gotten the crops in? What day was this, anyway?

"I told you, none of your potions or cures," Patrick said. "You just clean him up twice a day and feed him as best you can." Patrick looked down at Morgan as though studying a curiosity.

"But Ma.s.sa Patrick, the doctor said exercising was good for your pa. It'll make him strong again, and-"

Patrick yanked Florence away from the bed. "For the last time, do as you're told. No doctoring, he's beyond that. His dying will be a mercy. Now, get out."

Her rapid footsteps faded down the center hall. The back door opened, then slammed closed.

What was wrong with that boy? Patrick knew they didn't treat their nigras that way. He'd have to have a talk with him . . .

Patrick stared at Morgan, then reached down and drew the blanket around Morgan's neck, tucking it under his shoulders. "You'd best stay warm, Father. Doc Blackman says there's a small chance you might recover, but I expect the farm is mine to run for now, and I plan on a few changes. For one, the slaves will learn what it is to do an honest day's work. Now get some rest." He smiled and turned away. The heavy clomp of boots trailed down the center hall.

Small chance he might recover? He'd show him. It was still his farm, and Patrick couldn't change that.

_____.

"Sir, sir . . ." Isaac banged on the thick wooden door with the tin cup. "Ma.s.sa Branson, you out there? Isaac has to tell you something. I belongs to Ma.s.sa McConnell, up South Boston way. He loaned me to Mr. Day, there in Milton. Isaac ain't no runaway. Isaac don't never run." He dropped the cup and slumped against the door. "Ain't n.o.body out there. n.o.body listening. I beats on that door all the day long, gets nothing back but cussing and whipping. Dear G.o.d, don*t let Isaac be sold south. I can't be working no cotton fields. I has a family to care for, Raleigh too, if'n she'll have me."

Isaac slid to the floor and clutched his knees, rocking to and fro. "Please, Lord, I been a sinner, I knows. I kilt me a man up there in Virginia. Didn't mean him no harm, but he's dead, just the same. And me and Henry, we stealed them pies off the sill last summer, and Lord, I doesn't pray near often as I should, but I's real sorry. Please, don't let Isaac be sold south to no Mississippi cotton farm."

He collapsed against the wall, leaning his head on his knees. Maybe Mr. Jones was right. Maybe G.o.d didn't hear slave prayers.

Voices in the outer office caused Isaac to press an ear against the door.

"I don't answer to no n.i.g.g.e.r," Constable Branson said. "I don't care who you is, and I ain't got your n.i.g.g.e.r boy in this here jail no how."

"Then you won't mind opening the cell . . ."

"I'll be G.o.dd.a.m.ned if I'll open my jail for any d.a.m.ned n.i.g.g.e.r. You get on out of here right now or you'll see the inside of my cell, all right, and that's for sure."

"You are on notice, sir. My attorney shall be here within the day, and he will have an order from the county judge to open that door."

That voice-Thomas? Yes! "Mr. Day! Mr. Day!" Isaac banged on the cell door. "I's right here. This is Isaac. I's here, Mr. Day."

Isaac strained to listen. Had he heard?

The cell door flew open.

"I told you to be quiet, you G.o.dd.a.m.ned n.i.g.g.e.r . . ."

The whip sliced Isaac's face and arm. He rolled away, but the leather cut into his back.

"I'll have you sold south before any d.a.m.ned lawyer can see a judge. This here's Friday. Court's closed *til Monday. Come Sunday, I'll have folding money in my pocket and you'll be no more'n a bad memory headed to that land of tall cotton."

The cell door clanged shut.

Chapter Twenty-five.

December 1861 Winter gusts rattled the brittle corn stalks. Tempie pulled her thin coat close. A tapestry of stars sparkled throughout the moonless sky. She hurried across the wagon path and slipped into the woods. Ahead lay the clearing and the stone chimney. She crept behind a large oak and watched. Without the moon, the clearing became a confusing pool of shadows. Was Cato there?

She waited.

Movement? Yes, there, near the chimney . . .

"Cato?" she whispered.

No answer.

She ducked behind the tree. Mama was right, she shouldn't be out there. The next time that boy wanted to see her, he'd best come on down to the quarters.

"Cato?" She called, peeking around the tree.

A dark, indistinct, figure stepped from the shadows.

"Cato, is that you?" Her voice trembled. Lord, it had better be-or she was fixing to take off running.

"Tempie?" Cato whispered. "Where was you? I been setting here most of the evening."

"Boy, you had me scared out of my wits," Tempie said, patting her heart as she walked toward him. "Why didn't you answer?"

"I wasn't sure it was you."

"Can't stay long," Tempie said. "Besides, it's cold out here. Didn't you say you was gonna light a fire?"

Cato put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. "Come over by the chimney, I set a small fire and I brung this here blanket to set on." He held up a threadbare cotton rag. "You'll be warm soon enough."

Tempie smiled. That arm around her shoulders was warming her just fine.

Cato spread the small blanket on a bed of pine straw, then knelt, striking a piece of flint with the back of his knife. Sparks caught in a nest of cedar bark shavings. He cupped the fuzzy ball of dried bark, held it close, and blew gently. A spark glowed, faint at first, then blossomed into a small flame. He set the burning wad under a teepee of dried twigs. The growing flames revealed Cato's broad smile.

"How you been, girl?"

Tempie nestled next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. It was sure better than fussing with Aunt Lilly or Mama Rose and all their carrying on down at the quarters. Here they had their own fire and no one watching.

"You mad or something?" Cato said.

"What?" Tempie responded. "'Course I ain't mad. Why'd you say that?" She lifted her head and looked at him.

"I asked you a question but you pretended like I weren't here."

"I was just enjoying the fire. Ask me again." She returned her head to his shoulder.

"I said, how is you? And Ma.s.sa McConnell, how's he doing? He still having troubles? And what's they saying about Isaac?"

Tempie rolled her eyes. "Ma.s.sa had a letter from Mr. Day, down North Carolina. I heard Polly reading it to him, even though Miss Ella says Ma.s.sa McConnell can't hear none. Letter said he thinks Isaac was caught up by the pattyrollers. They's checking the jails and such, but no sign of him yet."

"You warm enough?" He pulled her closer.

"I'm doing right fine." Tempie smiled. Somewhere in the next woodlot, an owl's low, mournful cry drifted on the breeze. A warm glow flickered from the firebox. Was this the right time to ask how he felt? It seemed like he was all the time talking about everybody else. Maybe, just this once, he could put his mind on her.

"Cato, you ever think about me, I mean, when you's working the fields and such?"

"Course I does. I thinks on you all the time."

"It don't seem like you do. You only ever ask about Isaac, or Ma.s.sa McConnell, or how does I like the weather . . ."

He scowled. "That ain't so. I asks about you all the time. I just now said how is you, but you wasn't listening."

Tempie c.o.c.ked her head. "Ask me again."

He seemed to hesitate, then mumbled, "H-how is you?"

"I's pleased to be here. How about you?"

Cato smiled. "I *spect I's pleased too." His arm tensed as he flexed the fingers resting on her shoulder. "Tempie, I . . . I doesn't know much about courting and such. Truth is, I gets . . . scared, well, maybe not scared, just shook up a mite. You know what I mean?"

"You ever kiss a girl?"

Cato stared at the ground and shook his head.

"I ain't never kissed no boy neither." Tempie searched his face. The muscles around his mouth quivered, as though he wasn't sure what to do. Tempie put her hand behind his neck and pulled him to her, closing her eyes. Their lips touched, then slowly he pulled away. She opened her eyes.

Cato lifted her face in his hands. "I . . . I *spect I needs more practice." He smiled, closing his eyes again. They kissed once more, pulling each other close. Cato eased her to the ground.

She reclined, draping her arms around his neck. "You's a mighty fast learner, for a fella what never done that before."

"You ain't mad? I mean, for kissing you again and . . ."

Tempie pulled him beside her, silencing him with another kiss, then cuddled into the crook of his arm. The pounding of his heart through his shirt sounded like a runaway horse. So, was that what love really felt like? Nice.

They lay together watching the clear ebony sky.

"Tempie, you remember when I asked did you ever think about running?"

"I remember."

Cato raised up on one elbow. "You said it would have to be with the right fella . . ."

She placed a finger on his lips. "Ain't ready for that talk yet, but when I is, I *spect you's one I'll be considering."

He settled back, apparently satisfied with her answer.

They lay together. The fire dwindled to a scattering of glowing coals. Tempie glanced at the stars. Orion, the great hunter, had moved a ways since their evening began, rotating around what Pa called the "Freedom" star.

"Evening's getting on. I best be on my way before Mama gets worried."

Cato sighed and stood, brushing leaves from his back. He helped Tempie to her feet, then pulled her into his arms. They kissed again. "I don't want to hear no nonsense about going down to the quarters no more," he said. "You meet me here next Sat.u.r.day?"

Tempie tilted her head and gazed into his eyes. She'd never thought of Cato as tall, but now he seemed to tower over her. "Next Sat.u.r.day? Maybe . . ." She smiled, taking a few steps toward the open field.

"No *maybe.' You be here for sure."

She blew him a kiss, then sashayed into the woods. Once away from the warmth of the fire and Cato's arms, the air felt cold again. She walked faster, wishing his arm was still around her. Maybe he didn't know much about kissing, but she sure enough liked how he did it.

Tempie hurried through the broken corn stalks to the wagon path, then skipped, slapping her arms to fend off the damp chill. On the inside, a glow warmed her in a way she'd never before known. He wasn't ignoring her, he'd just been shy. Once he got past that shyness, he was a right fine catch. But did he like her as much as she liked him? Maybe, someday, they'd run away together to New York City, or perhaps Boston. That would sure be fine.

Tempie followed the trail into the forest. Down along the creek bottom it soon became black as chimney soot. How could she see? If only that old moon would come out.

She picked her way along the narrow trail, glancing skyward, following the open s.p.a.ces where treetops stood apart and defined the trace of the path. At least it was too cold for snakes. Thank you Lord, for small blessings.

The path twisted, following the stream, then turned at a crossing. A row of stones served as a footbridge. She tried each stone with her foot, making certain of the hold before taking the next step. She lost her balance in mid-stream, thrust her arms to the side, then caught herself and hopped across the last two stones, dragging a foot in the frigid water, giggling as she found the dry ground on the far side.

"Well, well," a graveled voice snarled from the darkness. "What have we got here?"

She pulled up with a start.

"You a runaway?" A tall form appeared from the shadows. A match flickered, cupped in a large hand.

She shielded her eyes from the sudden glare. "Who's there?" She asked, trembling.

"I know you. You's the daughter of that cook on the McConnell place. I reckon you growed some since I last seen you." The match went out and a rough hand touched her shoulder. She brushed it away and pulled back.

"Hey, I ain't going to hurt you none. Just studying the merchandise. You's a fine young flower, ripe for the picking." He brushed the back of his hand across her breast.

"Leave me be." She slapped his hand. "I ain't no flower, and my ma.s.sa ain't gonna allow n.o.body to get on with one of his slaves."

"You're a feisty one, that's for sure." The man grabbed her shoulders and held her tight. "Your master's dying. He can't do nothing. Besides, if you tell him, or anybody, your mama, your papa, maybe even that little pickaninny brother you got, they're all gonna feel my blade."

What was he talking about? Tempie sobbed. Her shoulders heaved uncontrollably. Lord, make him stop. This couldn't be happening . . .