The Freedom Star Part 18

He wrestled her to the ground, tugging at her dress. "I aim to have me some fun, so quit your fighting . . ."

Tempie clawed his face.

He slapped her with the back of his hand. "You little b.i.t.c.h, if you do that again I'll slice you up and feed you to the dogs-and I'll cut that little brother of yours too. Now, you settle back and just enjoy."

She struggled, but his weight pinned her against the damp leaves. She stifled her cries. He was talking crazy. Said he was gonna kill Joseph? Oh, G.o.d, make him stop . . . Cato? Where was Cato ?

He shoved a calloused hand down the front of her dress, fondling her small breast.

G.o.d, he smelled-cigars and . . . and whiskey?

"P-please, mister, please stop . . ."

Beard stubble sc.r.a.ped against her chest. A hand reached under her dress, groping, touching . . .

"No, stop . . . oh G.o.d, no . . ."

His weight dropped heavily on her. Something dangled in her face-a trinket around his neck?

He forced her legs apart and pushed into her.

"G.o.d, it hurts, hurts so bad . . ."

Bare branches overhead, fleeting clouds, stars dotting the winter sky-all faded into a swirling fog. His animal grunts became distant, no longer a part of her world. She floated above the forest.

_____.

A voice . . . calling her name?

"Mama . . . ?" Her eyes opened.

The night held only silence wrapped in a mottled blanket of shadows. She lay still. A wintery sky slowly came into focus above. Twigs and leaves p.r.i.c.ked her bare legs. Why was she there? What had happened? Cato . . . ?

A dream? She moved her leg. "Oh G.o.d, hurts so bad . . ." The stench came back-sweat, tobacco, whiskey. "Lord, no . . ." Tempie rolled on her side and pulled her legs up, curling into a ball. Her sobs broke the silence.

"Mama? Please, Mama . . ." She touched the sc.r.a.pes on her cheek from his rough beard. She couldn't tell her mama. Couldn't tell anyone. Lord, what had he done?

She reached down to where it hurt, then jerked her hand away. What was that? Tempie yanked a fern growing along the path. Ignoring the pain, she took the leaves and scrubbed herself dry, then pushed to her knees and took a deep breath. "I's clean now, won't n.o.body know." She stood on wobbly legs smoothing the wrinkles on the front of her dress. "Can't tell n.o.body . . ."

Tempie steadied herself against a tree. Slowly, the ringing in her ears faded. She brushed back her hair and stumbled down the path toward the McConnell farm.

Chapter Twenty-six.

December 1861 "Ma.s.sa McConnell," Florence said. "I has to talk with you. I been praying and asking the good Lord to tell Florence what to do."

Morgan opened his eyes. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, filling the room with a warm glow. Morning? Yes, and a good one. Coffee on the porch, then riding down by the creek. He had to get up . . .

His legs, his arms . . . nothing moved, and then the bed sagged. Florence was sitting beside him, brushing his hair.

"Ma.s.sa McConnell, the Lord tells Florence she has to be a good woman, and the Lord knows she tries. You remembers that preacher man what come out from that white folk's church down South Boston to say words over poor ol' July?"

Sure. It was the least he could do for old July . . .

Florence turned down the blanket and began to change Morgan's diaper. "Well, he said the Lord expects us nigras to be obedient, and that's what Florence tries to be. Preachers all the time saying, *Nigras, you has to obey your masters if'n you wants to go to heaven.'"

How he hated having others tending to his private needs-so d.a.m.ned humiliating . . . but what the h.e.l.l was bothering her? He searched her eyes. Wasn't fear . . . what then? Get on with it, woman. d.a.m.n, he wished he could talk . . .

"Anyways, you remembers when Ma.s.sa Patrick tells Florence no more remedies and no more exercising them ol' muscles? Well I goes to the Lord and I prays, *cause Florence, she wants to be obedient, but she knows her remedies. Lord say, *Florence, why you ask me this question? You know what's right.' I says, *Lord, I's scared I makes you angry if'n I ain't obedient.' And you know what the Lord says?" She stopped her cleaning and looked into Morgan's eyes. "Lord says, *Florence, you obey your heart.' Well, Florence's heart tells her Ma.s.sa ain't getting no better, lessen he has remedies and exercise, so we's gonna keep that up. It'll be our secret."

Patrick had blocked his recuperation? Of course. Now it was beginning to make sense.

She pulled the blanket under his arms and began ma.s.saging the fingers on his left hand. Sunlight danced off her black hair, a glow encircled her head, silhouetting her face and hiding her expression. Morgan strained for a better look, but he couldn't move his head. Finally, she bent to adjust a pillow and her profile came into view. She wore a gentle, but determined smile.

Patrick had her scared to beat all, yet she was sticking her neck out for him. He'd have to work with her . . . he strained to push with the arm she pumped back and forth.

"That one side of your face still be drooping, Ma.s.sa McConnell," Florence said as she touched his cheek. The doctor says one's got more damage than the other. We'd best exercise both sides. First, you drink this here."

No, not that snake oil . . .

She held a cup to his lips. "Florence mixed this special, just for you. Leaves from the maidenhair tree, a little garlic, a pinch of catnip . . . there, you drink it on down. It'll make you better." She poured the liquid into his mouth.

He gagged, fighting to swallow before he choked. A shiver ran through his body. Lord, that was the most G.o.d-awful concoction he'd ever imagined.

"That's good, Ma.s.sa. You's making faces. Them muscles be finding theyselves again. Now, let Florence get back to working that arm."

Hands strong from a lifetime of kneading dough worked the muscles of his forearms. "I shouldn't be bothering you none with Florence's troubles, but you knows my boy, Isaac? He been missing now since before harvest. Ain't like him. He's a good boy. He wouldn't never run. I's worried, Ma.s.sa, I truly is." Her hands ma.s.saged his bicep.

"Morning, Papa. Morning, Florence." Polly's cheerful voice filled the room. "You seen Tempie?"

Florence stopped ma.s.saging Morgan's arm but continued to hold it in her grip. "She went off after breakfast. That child's been acting strange. I *spect she's worrying about her brother, same as all of us."

"What's that you're doing, Florence?"

"The apoplexy done took your papa's muscles. This here exercising might just bring them back."

"Can I help?"

"You sure enough can, child. Just do like I shows you-up and down. There, that's good . . . now, tight, got to squeeze tight to get the blood moving."

"This is easy." She smiled at Florence, then Morgan. "Papa, can you feel this?"

Yes, he could, and G.o.d bless her.

"One thing, Missy Polly," Florence said. "Your brother, Ma.s.sa Patrick, he don't hold none with Florence's remedies. He'll be getting angry, if'n he sees Florence-or Miss Polly-exercising on Ma.s.sa McConnell."

"Patrick thinks he's the boss now, but he can't tell me what to do," Polly replied. "If I want to help Papa, he can't stop me."

"Just the same, child, you'd best keep this our secret. Morning and night, every day, even if Florence can't be here, you has to make him move-like this here." Florence took his jaw in her hand and opened and closed his mouth, rotating the jaw as she moved it.

"Don't worry, Florence. I won't tell a soul."

Greenery draped the mantle behind Polly. Could it be Christmas already? Where had the time gone? He didn't reckon he had much to celebrate.

_____.

Florence hung the pot on a blackened iron hook and swung it over the fire, then turned to Abraham, who was seated at the table. "I don't know what's wrong with that child, she's so quiet, *cept this morning, when I hears her retching out back. You suppose she's taken ill?"

"Could be," Abraham said. "But I reckon she's just suffering from growing up worries. She still seeing that boy from over at the Johnston's place?"

"Cato? She ain't said nothing about him for days. Might be that child's just worrying herself sick over love."

Abraham walked behind Florence and wrapped his arm around her waist. "I 'spect you's right, Flo. It could be our baby's feeling her first broken heart. In time, she'll be back to her ol' self-playing with Polly, filling up this here cabin with all her laughter. . ."

She turned into the shelter of his arms. "Lord, I prays it ain't nothing more. That child just ain't been herself." Florence gazed into Abraham's eyes. "I worries more about Isaac. You hearing any news down by the quarters?"

"n.o.body's heard nothing," Abraham said. "If he was running, we'd a known by now."

"Lord," she whispered. "I prays the Lord will watch over that boy. I can't be having two of my childrens in trouble all at once." She buried her face in Abraham's chest. He held her close and smoothed her hair.

_____.

"Morgan, dear," Ella said. "We have a letter from Henry." She pulled a chair beside his bed and leaned forward. "I feel silly, talking like this to an invalid. I don't even know if you can hear me, and if you do, that you understand anything I'm saying. Patrick said the doctor doesn't think you're in control of your faculties, but I expect that reading to you can't do any harm." She patted his shoulder and gave a small laugh.

Morgan stared into his wife's face. Lord, Patrick had her believing too. She figured him for an idiot, nothing more than a potted plant that required occasional watering.

"Oh, Morgan, Henry's doing so well. They're still down by Newport News. Listen: Dearest Family, We are in winter quarters on Mulberry Island. The awful storms of this past autumn destroyed most of our tents, so we have taken to building small cabins of lumber and mud. I would dearly enjoy a winter in any of our slaves' quarters, as it would be quite an improvement over what our n.o.ble army has provided.

Mail service has been approximate. Tell Polly I received her letter of October 27th only last week. It had been delivered in error to someone in the Boydton Calvary. At least the fellow was kind enough to send it over by courier. I do look forward to your letters and packages, so please do not hesitate to write, even though results are not always as we would hope from the postal service. Maybe if you sent my mail via New York? I hear tell the Yankees get theirs delivered quite regularly.

Food continues to be a problem, as is disease. We have lost more good Virginia boys to fever and dyspepsia than could ever be accounted for by Yankee bullets. I am doing well, however, and I hope to be home for a few days this winter. The colonel has authorized seven days' leave for everyone, in their turn. The officers received the Christmas holiday. My time will be later. I hope you had a fine holiday celebration.

Yankee gunboats came up the Warwick River the other day and lobbed some sh.e.l.ls at our pickets. A terrible waste of ammunition, as they had no effect, other than to provide some much needed entertainment. All's quiet now, and looks to remain so. The Yankees do not appear eager for a fight.

Give my regards to Isaac. Tell him we'll do some hunting while I'm home on leave.

Your obedient son, Henry "I suppose he hasn't received any of our letters with all the latest news. Poor boy's living in squalor. We ought to write President Davis-southern boys oughtn't be treated that way." Ella placed a hand on his shoulder as she stood to leave. "You need your rest. You look peaked."

Henry was coming home? Thank G.o.d. Patrick didn't give a d.a.m.n that he was laid up-he seemed down right pleased to finally have control of the farm. Maybe Henry would sit and visit some. Polly was always good about that . . .

"Joseph! Abraham! Where's all our n.i.g.g.e.rs?" Patrick stormed up the center hall, doors slamming behind him. "Mother, where's Joseph?"

The voice reverberated in the hallway. Morgan strained to understand.

"Did you check the barn, or out by the woodpile? What seems to be the matter?" Ella replied.

"This letter here from that Day fella. Did you read it?"

"You know I don't read business mail. That's for you or your father."

"Day says his attorney has ascertained that the d.a.m.ned constable down in Yanceyville is holding Isaac and trying to sell him south. I have to send someone down there before that tin badge sells my slave and pockets the money. If you see Abraham or Joseph, tell them to get my horse saddled." Boots echoed on the hard floor. The back door slammed.

Chapter Twenty-seven.

December 1861 The cell door clanged open. "Get out here, boy. It's time you made me some money." Constable Branson kicked the sole of Isaac's boot.

Isaac crawled to his feet. The constable poked him with the b.u.t.t of his whip, shoving him through the door. Outside, the bright winter sun was blinding. Isaac winced and closed his eyes, but was careful not to raise his hands.

"Four hundred, and that's my last offer."

A familiar voice . . . Isaac blinked and turned to face the man who was speaking. Tall, skinny, light blue suit . . . the dandy.

"You know d.a.m.ned well this here n.i.g.g.e.r could sell for twice that amount in Alabama or Mississippi and n.o.body'd give it a thought," Constable Branson said.

"So take him to Mississippi," the dandy replied. "My offer is four hundred dollars in North Carolina, and I happen to know there's been a lawyer fella snooping around, so you can sell him to me or you can give him back to his owner."

"Dornhoffer, you ain't no better'n a d.a.m.ned crook. Why I ought to lock you-"

The dandy raised his hands in protest. "You, sir, have no room to be accusing anyone of larceny. You, who steal from your neighbors and sell their slaves on the secondary market. I am merely a businessman; it is you, sir, who are the thief."

Constable Branson tossed a key to the dandy. "Give me my money, then get my leg irons off that n.i.g.g.e.r."

The dandy reached inside his coat and withdrew a smooth, dark leather billfold. Isaac silently counted as the man peeled off bills: three hundred and eighty dollars.

"Four hundred. Done." He slammed the wad of money into the constable's hand. "It has been a pleasure, sir." The dandy unlocked the leg irons around Isaac's right ankle and reached for the left foot.

"Put them irons on his wrists, then stand aside."

Isaac turned at the gruff, familiar voice. Clancy sat atop a tall horse, a double-barreled shotgun resting on his saddle horn. What was he doing there?

"This nigra belongs to me, sir," the dandy said. "You have no right-"

"This here scattergun and Mr. Patrick McConnell of South Boston, Virginia says differently," Clancy replied. "Now, put them irons on his wrists before this thing goes off and sets you to bleeding all over that purty suit."