The Freedom Star Part 2

Footfalls crunched the dirt floor behind him as Isaac scooped another pile. He shoved the fork into the barrow and turned. Abraham stood in the doorway, satchel in hand.

"Morning, Pa."

"Anybody ask about them cuts?" He pointed to Isaac's arms.

"No. I been careful, like you said. What about them two we helped? You hear anything?"

"Ma.s.sa Johnston's boy got kilt."

"He what?" Isaac dropped the pitchfork.

"One of Johnston's nigras come by the cabins last night with some corn squeezings. He said Johnston's oldest boy was with them pattyrollers the other night and got throwed off his horse."

"Getting throwed ain't getting killed . . ."

"Snapped his neck like a spring chicken." Abraham pointed to the wagon. "Hitch that jacka.s.s, boy."

"Dead? You sure?"

"Weren't none of your doing. He fell off'n his d.a.m.ned horse. That white boy never could ride no how."

Isaac slumped to the bench and rested his head in his hands. He'd killed a man, a white man. They'd hang him for sure.

"Boy, you pay heed. That Clancy fella is madder than a nest of copperheads. His whip comes out for no reason, none a' tall, and pray mercy for the poor soul what gets in his way." Abraham rocked the bench with his foot. "You hear me? Hitch that wagon."

"Sorry." Isaac reached for the harness. "Where's you headed?"

"Ma.s.sa McConnell hired me out to fix some furniture for a fella over by Danville."

"You be gone long?"

"Week, maybe two." Abraham heaved his canvas tool bag into the wagon. "They done busted the leg off their breakfront, so I's making a replacement, then fixing some tools and such."

Isaac finished buckling the bellyband around the mule. He hesitated, then turned. "They'll be watching, Pa. Maybe it's time I headed north, followed that drinking gourd."

"Ain't n.o.body looking for you, boy, not as long as you keeps them cuts covered. Ain't n.o.body suspecting you was out there."

"Just the same, if'n I was free, I could head on up to Philadelphia now and get me a job."

Abraham looked him over then pointed to a wooden bench against the wall. "Set on down." He set a foot on the bench and rested on his knee. "Me and your mama, we been on this farm many a year, and Ma.s.sa McConnell, mostly he done right by us-"

Isaac nodded. "He's a good owner, but-"

Abraham held up his hand. "Ain't no such thing as a good slave owner. We don't get no whippings, and Ma.s.sa, he don't sell our children away, but any man what's keeping another in bondage be doing the devil's work."

"I reckon," Isaac said. "Still, whenever we's helping them that's running, I get to thinking on when it will be my turn."

"Your day's coming, boy. I has me a plan." Abraham bit off the end of a tobacco plug. "We'll all be getting to that Promised Land in good time-and we ain't needing no underground railroad."

"How's that?"

"In time, boy, you'll be learning in time." He spit a stream of brown juice into the corner of the stall.

"When I gets to Pennsylvania, I'm starting my own furniture business, and I'll get me a fancy coat too, one with pockets." Isaac hooked his thumbs in the front of his shirt and leaned back. "I'll be walking down that street free and proper, just like the white folk."

"White folk up north look at you and all they'll see is a n.i.g.g.e.r, same as old Clancy do."

"But, if'n I has me a shop-"

"Boy, nigras down here owns their own businesses, like that Mr. Day over the river there in Carolina." He spit, then wiped his chin. "White or black, he's the best carpenter south of Baltimore."

"But Pa, you once said folks down there, they treats him fine."

"The man makes good money, gives folk jobs. They respects him to his face, but they still calls him *n.i.g.g.e.r' behind his back, and they'll call him the same up in Pennsylvania."

Isaac finished hitching the mule. "So how come Mr. Day gets to keep his money, but you does the same work and Ma.s.sa McConnell takes everything you earn?"

"Mr. Day was born to a free woman. Law says that makes him free." Abraham patted the mule's rump. "As for Ma.s.sa McConnell, him and me, we has an understanding about the money I earns. Someday you'll be finding out about that, but for now, you just be patient and don't go crossing none of them white folks-not even Mr. Sean."

Isaac started to speak, but Abraham held up a hand and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small rectangle of wood strung on a rawhide cord. "Your jubilation day's coming, boy, maybe soon. I made this here to remind you of that." He hung the medallion around Isaac's neck. "You wear this knowing that someday you'll be following that freedom star. Now hop up here and keep company with your old pa down to the post road."

Isaac climbed on board for the ride through harvested tobacco fields to the road connecting South Boston with Danville. The wagon bounced along the rutted path as Isaac studied the carved pine medallion. On one side, Abraham had burned in the seven stars of the Big Dipper. Isaac turned it over. Carved in relief was a single five-pointed star.

It had been a moonless winter night ten, possibly twelve years ago . . . Isaac could almost feel his pa's arm on his shoulder and hear the words he'd spoken. "Them two stars yonder on the end of that drinking gourd, them's the pointers. They points to the polar star. You follow that'n, you goes north, to freedom." Isaac squeezed the medallion, then tucked it under his shirt and rode on in silence.

Abraham reined the mule as they approached the junction. Another wagon headed down the old post road from the east carrying two white men. They were laughing and talking, but as they drew even, the nearest rider glanced at Isaac, then shifted a shotgun on his lap, pointing the barrels at Isaac.

Isaac froze. Did they about the Johnston boy?

As the strangers pa.s.sed, Isaac studied the bundle lashed in the rear of their wagon. "Look Pa," he whispered, "it's Rebecca."

The girl they had helped a few nights before sat bound and trussed like a hog on her way to market. Bruises covered her pretty young face. Her lips quivered as she stared at Isaac through tear filled eyes.

Chapter Four.

October 1860 Henry pulled his chair next to the dormitory window and shook several drops of gun oil onto a rag. Working the rag over the lock plate of his musket, he removed the last vestiges of rust. "It was bad enough we had to walk our punishment tours in the rain. If these here muskets rust up, we'll be pulling guard duty forever."

Edward reached for the oil. "Hey, did you hear about the election?"

"What election?"

"Some boys from South Carolina hung a ballot box down on the first floor and pa.s.sed the word for cadets to go and vote for the president, just like in the real election."

"What in tarnation for?" Henry asked, rubbing linseed oil into the musket's walnut stock.

"Not sure," Edward replied. "Some say it's just a civics exercise-"

"Civics be d.a.m.ned." Henry waved his cleaning rag. "We're soldiers, not politicians."

"Well, if you'd let me finish, McConnell, some was saying that the boys who've been talking up secession want to find out who's with them and who's against them. Word is, they'll be studying the handwriting on those ballots."

"Then they're fools. All they'll discover is that the entire corps of cadets is against them. No American is going to turn his back on the stars and stripes. If South Carolina secedes, she'll stand alone." Henry aimed his musket out the window and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on an empty breech.

"You been paying any mind to the world beyond these walls?" Edward pointed outside. "Mr. Lincoln's got your southern boys running scared. h.e.l.l, you're a slaveholder, how'd you feel if Lincoln was to be elected?"

"Last I heard, Mr. Lincoln said we can keep our slaves in Virginia, so I don't see that there's a problem, but my family's backing John Bell."

"McConnell, you're a fool." Edward ran a dry patch down the barrel. "Back in Wisconsin, we don't much hold with your notions of slavery, but at least I can abide our differences. But there's some around here," he said, shaking the ramrod at Henry, "they'd as soon hang you as not, and most of your southern boys are no better as to their affections for those Black Republicans."

Henry gave his roommate a dismissive wave and returned to cleaning his musket.

"Henry, you'd best start paying heed or you'll find yourself with a blanket thrown over your head and an abolitionist mob beating in your thick southern skull."

_____.

Henry awoke with a start at the first trumpeted note of reveille. The pre-dawn air held an icy chill. He stumbled out of bed, splashed cold water on his face, brushed off his uniform, and hurried to get dressed. Another tardy meant more demerits. Grabbing his books, he rushed to formation.

Morning cla.s.ses began with algebra. Once in the cla.s.sroom, Henry raced to his a.s.signed desk and stood at attention. On command, he and the other students took their seats in the small room. Four large windows illuminated blackboards on the other three walls.

Many of his cla.s.smates were already pulling a.s.signments from their notebooks. He glanced at his own scribbled notes. Although barely a month into the academic year, Henry was already behind.

The professor commanded, "Take boards."

All cadets rose and went to their a.s.signed portion of the blackboard. Henry's heart raced as he copied the homework problem onto the blackboard. The instructor required all work to be shown, but Henry wasn't sure how he'd arrived at his answers. The cadet beside him finished with a confident flourish of his chalk.

"Mr. McConnell, recite the lesson, if you please." Professor Robertson, a distinguished gentleman with flowing white hair touching his shoulders, stood before Henry. He stroked his beard as he stared with apparent curiosity at Henry's solution.

Henry snapped to attention. "Sir, the cadet is not prepared." Beads of sweat moistened his brow.

"Very well." Professor Robertson nodded at Henry, then strolled between the desks and centered himself on another blackboard. "Mr. Wheatley, would you be so kind?"

"Yes sir!" Cadet Wheatley tapped his chalk on the boards as he explained each step in his solution. ". . . and finally, subtracting forty-five from each side leaves us with x equals minus twenty-two. Are there any questions?" The New York cadet turned toward Henry with a sneer.

"Very well, Mr. Wheatley." Professor Robertson nodded, then turned to the cla.s.s. "Will everyone please continue with the next problem?" He glanced at Henry as he returned to his desk.

Henry slowly erased all evidence of his first problem, then turned a page in his composition book and pretended to study his notes. Eventually, he scratched the second equation on the board in handwriting so small as to make it undecipherable from more than a few feet away.

Finally, the minute hand on the clock above the door stood straight up. Professor Robertson rose from his chair, tapping the blackboard with a wooden pointer. "Copy the problems from the blackboard and come to cla.s.s tomorrow prepared to recite your solutions. Dismissed."

The cla.s.s snapped to attention, then rushed for the door. As Henry walked past the instructor's desk, Professor Robertson waved him aside. "Mr. McConnell, a moment, if you please."

"Sir?" Henry centered himself before the professor's desk as the last of the cadets left the room.

"At ease, McConnell." Professor Robertson sat on the corner of his desk. "Now, tell me, son, how do you intend to master geometry and trigonometry when you can't even solve a simple equation?"

Henry snapped to attention. "Sir, the cadet must . . . the cadet will . . ." Henry lowered his head. "Sir, the cadet does not know."

"McConnell, do you know where I'm from?"

Henry looked up. "No, sir."

"Shenandoah Valley, not more than a hundred miles or so from that tobacco farm you call home. Do you know what my most difficult subject was?" The professor didn't wait for a response. "Algebra. I know what your upbringing gave you, same as most of the southern boys. Your momma served you heavy doses of Shakespeare, Homer, Byron, and Defoe, but you never had a need for higher numbers so you know little past the basic arithmetic. Am I correct?"

"Sir, the cadet can learn this, it . . . it just isn't anything he's ever studied before, least ways not anything he's paid any mind to."

Professor Robertson pointed to the blackboard that still held traces of Wheatley's homework. "The Cadet Wheatleys of the world would as soon see West Point become a northern academy. To them, Virginians and Carolinians are outsiders, throwbacks to a frontier lifestyle. It doesn't help that most of you southern boys come here ill-prepared for the rigors of the engineering curriculum."

Henry relaxed and looked at his instructor. "Professor Robertson, all of that may be true, but what does it have to do with me pa.s.sing algebra?"

"Nothing, if all you want is to go back to that Virginia arm and grow your tobacco."

"Papa's a long way from turning the farm over to me." Henry shook his head. "And when he does step aside, I reckon my brother's next in line to take over."

"Then you'd best pa.s.s your subjects or get used to the idea that you'll be working for your brother. Consider this, McConnell. Virginia needs strong cadets to represent her, both here at the academy, and later, in the army. When Lieutenant Colonel Robert Lee was superintendent there weren't issues with North-South politics. Now, the academy is being pulled apart by these elections and we cannot allow the genteel influences of our southern heritage to be lost to future generations of cadets. You and your southern friends must not only compete, you must excel."

Professor Robertson held out a small red book. "This primer is what most northern cadets would have seen in their preparatory schooling. Read it. Practice the problems. Come see me if you have any questions." The professor took his seat and pointed to Henry. "McConnell, you can learn this, just as I did, and it is important to Virginia that you do."

Henry quickly thumbed through the textbook and then he glanced at the clock and tucked the book under his arm. "Thank you, sir. I'll not disappoint you. By your leave, sir." Henry turned on his heel and raced out the doorway.

_____.

Henry held the reins and stroked the animal's muzzle as he stood in West Point's great riding hall. The horse nuzzled Henry's arm. The cavalry claimed the best riding stock. The nags that West Point used to train officers who would eventually lead that cavalry were leftovers. When not used for riding instruction, they were beasts of burden, harnessed to draw cannon and caissons about the Plain during weekly artillery drill.

"Forward, lean forward, man," The riding master, Sergeant Daniels of the dragoons, yelled at the hapless cadet whose turn it was to charge his steed through the saber course. "Extend your body, man. Make your saber sing through your enemy's hair." Sergeant Daniels threw up his arms and kicked at the dirt. "Mr. McConnell, kindly remount and demonstrate once again to this pathetic gaggle of mule drivers how the U.S. cavalry is supposed to attack."

Henry swung into the saddle, laid the reins across the horse's neck, and turned his mount. Nudging the horse with his boot, they galloped to the far end of the ring. Henry turned the animal and spurred it into a run straight for the ranks of straw figures staked out across the rink. He rose in his stirrups, flattened across the horse's neck and swung his saber left, then right, decapitating straw men on both sides.

"That, gentlemen, is a cavalry charge." Sergeant Daniels smiled and folded his arms.

Henry reined in his steed, slowing the animal to a trot as he rode to the center of the ring. Facing his cla.s.smates, he brought the hilt of his saber to his chin and, with a flourish, swept the blade down to his side in a flawless sword salute. As his cla.s.smates cheered, Henry bowed in feigned humility.

"Thank-you, Mr. McConnell. That will be all." Sergeant Daniels turned to the other cadets gathered in the riding hall. "Mr. Wheatley," he commanded. "Mount up and show us how they ride in the great metropolis of New York."

"They ride behind their horses, in the trolleys," someone called out in a southern drawl. The hall resounded with catcalls and whistles.

Sergeant Daniels ordered the cla.s.s to attention. "Gentlemen, and I take great liberties in using such a term in reference to you hooligans, you will now remain at attention until every cadet has successfully ridden the course. Should you speak, waver, or drop we will begin again. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Sergeant Daniels!" The cla.s.s responded in unison.

Cadet Wheatley mounted and rode to the far end of the rink. He brought his horse to a full gallop, leaned across the horse's neck and swung his blade. His aim was off. The impact of blade against the wooden post holding the straw figure unseated the cadet, sending him hard to the sawdust floor. Muted laughter echoed through the riding hall. Wheatley s.n.a.t.c.hed his saber from the ground and sat, arms across his knees, his face twisted in an angry scowl.