The Freedom Star Part 22

They moved silently, except for the occasional whimpers when Carter Louis stubbed his bare feet on roots or sharp twigs.

_____.

"It's been two days," Florence said. "Do you think he's safe?" She chopped off a chicken leg, rolled it in corn batter, and set it in the skillet. The oil sizzled.

"That boy knows them woods," Abraham replied. "He knows about running too-I learned him good." Abraham set his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands.

Florence studied her husband. The man was tired. Those eyes, they'd lost their sparkle. Was he blaming himself? It wasn't his doing. Isaac had made his own decision.

"The boy'll be fine," she said. She wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n, then kneaded Abraham's shoulders. "Let it go. He's off to Petersburg, or Hampton, maybe even Philadelphia. We'll get word by and by."

Tempie wandered in and took a seat by the fire. "Any word, Mama?" She poked the coals.

"No word," Florence said. "It means he's safe. The Lord will provide." That poor child wasn't back to her old self, at least not all the way, but she was coming around. Florence smiled. She must be over that Cato boy by now. It was about time.

"Pa?" Joseph dragged a stick behind him as he entered. He swatted the side of the door, then tapped the edge of the table before settling onto the bench. "Is dinner ready, Mama?"

"In a bit. You looking for you Pa?"

"Ma.s.sa Patrick, he said could Pa come see him. Something about business."

"Must be he's hired me out again," Abraham said. "He's been mighty quiet. You reckon he's over that fit he tied his self into?"

Florence shrugged and returned to her cooking.

Abraham stretched. "Well, I'd best go see what he wants, but I'll be thinking hard on that fried chicken." He pointed to the skillet and smiled. "I'm feeling mighty hungry."

That smile was the first she'd seen from him since their son departed.

"I'll be back shortly." He closed the door behind him.

"Joseph," Florence said, pointing to the bucket beside the door. "Take that pail and fetch me some water, then get more firewood."

Joseph grabbed the pail and skipped out the door.

"Tempie, you finish getting everything cleaned up at the big house?"

"Yes, Mama."

"Good, then check that *pone and tell me if'n it's done."

Something crashed on the porch, then Joseph rushed through the door, waving his arms. "Mama, Mama they has Pa, they has Pa!"

"Who has Pa? What's you talking about?" Florence wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n as she raced out the door. Two horses. .h.i.tched to a buckboard wagon stood beside the big house. Near the rear of the wagon, Abraham struggled with two men who were trying to hold him down. His hands were tied and Big Jim knelt trussing his feet. Patrick stood on the porch, hands on his hips.

Florence ran to her husband, grabbing at the men who held him. "Leave my man be."

One of the men turned and shoved her hard to the ground.

Clancy?

Abraham struggled, but he couldn't escape.

Joseph and Tempie rushed to Florence's side and huddled with her on the ground. She glared at Patrick. "What's this you's doing, Patrick McConnell?"

"Your husband has become what we refer to in business as a liability. It's time I cut my losses."

"Y-you's selling my Abraham? You can't do that, he belongs to Ma.s.sa McConnell." Florence started to rise, then Clancy c.o.c.ked his fist as though to strike her. She retreated, clutching her children as she dropped onto the hard-packed dirt.

"I'm sorry, Florence, but Abraham has caused me too many problems. I can put an end to those problems now, or later I might need to find buyers for these two." Patrick pointed at Joseph and Tempie.

"Florence, I's coming back, I's coming back . . . ." Abraham called as the two men heaved him into the wagon.

"Sure, you'll be back," Patrick said. "After you've picked all the cotton in Mississippi. Give my regards to Natchez." He saluted with his riding crop, then turned and strolled into the house.

"I loves you, Florence. Don't you fret," Abraham called. "I'll be back."

She rose to her knees as the wagon lurched forward. "I loves you, Abraham. I'll be here waiting."

Chapter Thirty-one.

April 1862 "Stay close and keep to the shadows." Isaac surveyed the clearing, then signaled Moses and Carter Louis to follow him. He darted across the muddy field to a split rail fence that wormed along the crest of the open ground. Crouching beside the fence, Isaac motioned for the others to get down.

"The moon's too bright; we's casting shadows. This is a bad night for running." Isaac pointed. "Them tracks bend to the east and into them woods yonder. Once we's in the woods we'd best hold up for the night." He slowly shook his head. "I ain't got good feelings about us being out here tonight."

The field appeared to be a half-mile across. At the north end they came to a gully that ran into the forest and toward the tracks. "We'll follow this," Isaac said.

"The boy's feet is real bad," Moses said, "and he's cut up all over from last night. I don't reckon he can go much further."

Isaac glanced at the boy. "Another hour, then we'll bed down. Can you make it?"

Carter Louis nodded.

"Come on, then." Isaac stayed low and stepped carefully to keep from snapping twigs. The gully ran along a dirt road, parallel to the railroad tracks. Isaac held up a hand. They crouched and listened. He pointed in the direction they had come. "Train. It's running east. Be here within the quarter hour. We'd best keep moving."

"I can't." Carter Louis sat and grabbed his foot. He began to cry.

"The boy's done for tonight, Isaac. Can't we hold up?" Moses' face showed a mix of frustration and fear.

"Stay here," Isaac said. "I's gonna scout ahead, maybe find us a hiding place away from that road." He slipped away. After a quarter mile, the ditch turned and cut under the road. Logs supported a double bridge, wagon road on one side, railroad on the other-a good hideout. The train drew closer as he scurried back to Moses and his son.

"I can't make it, Isaac. Can't walk none." Tears streaked Carter Louis's cheeks.

Isaac tugged the boy's sleeve. "A quarter mile-you can make it."

"I can't . . ."

Moses placed his hand on Isaac's arm. "You go on ahead. We'll catch up tomorrow."

"No." Isaac replied. "We stick together. Come on, we'll take the road. It ain't that far. We'll take turns carrying the boy." Isaac scooped Carter Louis into his arms and clambered up the bank. Moses followed close behind.

The two men walked side by side along the dirt road, Carter Louis in Isaac's arms. The chugging of the approaching steam engine drowned out all other sounds. Isaac and Moses crouched in the ditch as the train rounded a bend and its headlamp swept the road with a wide beam of yellow light. The engine throttled down for the curved track ahead, spewing smoke and sparks from its stack. Boxcars clattered and swayed, many with doors open on both sides.

Isaac pointed toward the cars rumbling past. "You still want to ride that train?"

"You said it was too dangerous-"

"The boy ain't walking none for a few days no how. Better risking the train than risking them woods and pattyrollers. Get on up in that boxcar. I'll pa.s.s him to you."

Moses raced to the track. He paced himself and jumped, landing easily in the open doorway. Isaac trotted alongside carrying the boy. His stride placed him beside the open door.

"Riders!" Moses pointed at the road behind Isaac.

Barking dogs broke the monotony of wheels clattering on the tracks. The train began to pick up speed. Isaac ran harder.

Moses reached out with one hand, holding the door handle with the other. "Run. They sees you. Hurry!" Moses leaned out as far as his arms would allow.

A stone bridge loomed ahead. It had to be now! "Moses!" Isaac lunged, tossing the boy forward. Moses caught Carter Louis by the arm and swung him into the open door as Isaac stumbled and collapsed beside the tracks.

_____.

Florence sat in her rocker on the porch, the sewing in her lap untouched. Tears moistened her eyes. Spring air carried a scent of honeysuckle and newly turned earth. She sighed. Abraham would commence to speechifying on such a pretty day, but words never came as easily to her. Still, it was sure enough a day the Lord had made, and Abraham would be expecting her to find the joy. She closed her eyes. In her mind, his tall, angular frame ambled across the barnyard, broad-brimmed hat c.o.c.ked to one side. Clasping her arms, Florence hugged herself tightly. "Lord, I prays You'll watch over my man, keep him safe, and when it be Your time, You bring him on home to Florence . . . and Lord, don't mean to be taking up all Your time, but if it ain't no bother, could You watch over that boy, Isaac too? Thank you Lord."

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Time to get the supper on. Florence rolled up her mending and went inside.

Tempie sat by the fire, poking at the coals.

"Girl, you cooking or dreaming?"

"Sorry Mama. You ready for me to put on that ham roast?"

"This be as good a time as any, but first you rinse it down real good and get off all that salt, you hear?"

Something different caught Florence's eye as Tempie began preparing the meat. What had changed? Was she getting thick around the middle? Yes, and not like a little girl what's growing up. Oh Lord, she has her a baby in there-and she don't want her mama to know. It must be Cato's. Florence looked up and whispered, "Lord, I got one more for You to keep an eye on . . ."

She laid scallions on the chopping board. This early in the season, choices for greens were few.

"Miss Florence? You in there?" Banjo had taken over ch.o.r.es around the barns after the departure of Isaac and Abraham. He usually found his way to the cookhouse around suppertime.

"Evening, Banjo. You staying for supper? Be ready once the big house gets fed."

He stood in the doorway, twisting his hat in his hand.

"If'n it's food you's wanting, you's gonna have to wait."

"Y-your boy, Florence." Banjo nodded toward the yard. "He's home."

She dropped the knife and ran to the porch, pushing Banjo aside. A man on a tall black mare rode slowly into the barnyard. Stumbling behind him was a bloodied figure bound at the wrists and dragged by a rope.

"Tie him to that tree yonder." Patrick walked across the porch, pointing with his riding crop. "O'Farrell, bring the whip."

Florence ran to Isaac's side, catching him as he staggered. "Ma.s.sa, please, don't be whipping my boy. He ain't gonna run no more, he'll be good . . ."

Patrick pushed Florence aside and grabbed the rope that bound Isaac's wrists. He tossed the free end over a limb and pulled hard. Isaac rose up on his toes. Patrick tied off the line, then ripped the shirt from Isaac's back. "O'Farrell, twenty lashes, hard and slow."

Sean O'Farrell looked quickly at Florence, then turned to Patrick. "The boy don't need a whipping, sir. Look at him, he's all used up."

"It's for his own good, O'Farrell. Lay them on."

"I'll not do it." Sean threw the whip to the ground. "*Tis the devil's work. I'll not take part."

"d.a.m.n it, O'Farrell, the devil's got no play here. That slave needs the lesson. Get out of my way . . ." Patrick pushed Sean aside and grabbed the whip. He drew back and cracked the lash across Isaac's back. Isaac twisted in pain, but did not cry out. Patrick landed another blow on the bare, bleeding back. Isaac slumped, his weight hanging on his bound and outstretched arms.

Florence lunged, grabbing Patrick's arm. "You sells my man, then you whips my boy? What's got hold of you, Patrick McConnell?"

Patrick pushed her aside. "I don't expect you to understand, but good discipline is a necessary part of business."

"I understands this, Ma.s.sa Patrick, when you was a baby, was me that cleaned your bottom and was my teat you suckled. When you cried out, was me rocked you back to sleep."

Patrick hesitated. Finally, he said, "I need him in the fields tomorrow. He'll pay me back for the days I lost." He tossed the whip down, turned on his heel, and retreated into the house.

"Help me carry him to the cookhouse, will you, Mr. Sean?" Florence supported Isaac while Sean cut the ropes. Together, they carried Isaac to the cookhouse and laid him face down on the bed. "Thank you, Mr. Sean, and don't you fret none, he'll be in the fields come morning."

"I'll do my best to go easy on him," Sean said as he started out the door.

Florence tended to the lashes across Isaac's back and the rope burns on his wrists. Isaac soon drifted to sleep. After several hours he stirred, then slowly pulled himself around and sat on the edge of the bed rubbing his face. He stretched, then flinched at the apparent pain.

"Soup?" Florence held out a bowl.

Isaac accepted the vessel without speaking. He appeared groggy, unsure of his surroundings. As he sipped, he looked at Florence. "You said something about Pa?"

She sat beside him and took the bowl, setting it on the floor, then grasped his hand. "After you left, Ma.s.sa Patrick said your pa was a troublemaker. He sold him to slave traders what took him south to Mississippi."

Isaac stared at her as though trying to comprehend what he'd just heard, then he slumped forward, leaned his elbows on his knees, and rested his head in his hands. "I shouldn't a run. It's my fault." His shoulders heaved as a sob escaped him. "If'n I'd stayed put, Pa'd still be here."

"Hush. Don't be troubling yourself with that nonsense," Florence said. "Your pa, he'll be back, he promised. We just has to be patient."

Isaac wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his tattered shirt, then looked straight at Florence and smiled. "I'll be right here with you, Mama." He squeezed her hand. "I ain't running no more."