The Freedom Star Part 3

Sergeant Daniels turned aside to Henry and muttered, "Never yet seen a New Yorker what could make a decent cavalry officer." He slapped his crop against the side of his leg. "Next."

Each cadet in turn ran the course. Several required more than one attempt before landing a killing blow on the dummies. When Sergeant Daniels finally appeared satisfied, he commanded, "At ease."

Cadets staggered, rubbing stiff necks and stretching tired legs.

"Gentlemen. Someday one or two of you might find yourselves leading dragoons, but most will be lucky to land in the infantry. For those who do make the cavalry, know this; you must ride better than the men you lead. You will be in front. Your troopers will observe how you set your mount. They will notice how you treat your mount. They will know which of you is in charge. Will it be you, or will it be the horse?"

Sergeant Daniels walked away, motioning the cla.s.s to follow. "Over here, by the wall." He walked to the side of the riding hall and pointed to a mark on the wall above his head. "Look at that, gentlemen. Back in '43 we had us a cadet was the best-d.a.m.ned horseman to ever ride in this man's army. During a demonstration for General Winfield Scott himself that little cadet jumped a horse over a bar set at six foot, three inches. Never been done before or since. None of you have a prayer of ever riding that well, but that is what you all must strive for-excellence. Nothing less will do."

"Sergeant," a down east voice called from the rear of the group. "That cadet, where is he now?"

Sergeant Daniels rubbed his chin. "I hear tell he quit the army a few years back-grew tired of soldiering, I reckon . . . but to hear it from them that was here that day, why, it was something to see." He looked at the spot on the wall. "Some horseman, that fella. Name was Grant, if I recall; Ulysses Grant."

Henry touched the faded mark.

Chapter Five.

October 1860 "You, boy, get over here." Morgan McConnell stood on the covered porch of the farmhouse and beckoned.

Isaac dropped the armload of firewood and hurried to the porch steps, brushing bits of tree bark from his frayed tunic. He bowed. "Yes sir, Ma.s.sa McConnell?"

Morgan settled into his cane-backed rocker. He withdrew a match from his pocket, drew it across the tabletop, and relit his cigar. Drawing the smoke in slowly, he hooked a thumb into the corner of his coat pocket and studied his young bondsman. Tall, lean, muscular-a prime specimen of African manhood. On the market that buck could bring twelve hundred dollars or more.

"Boy, your daddy teach you all he knows about furniture?"

Isaac lowered his head. "Sir, Pa done taught me a lot, but he ain't taught me everything, least not yet. He knows more about working wood than most any man alive."

Morgan smiled. Boy's got a right to be proud of his ol' man. He tapped the ash from his cigar. "I reckon from where you stand old Abraham would be the best there is. Your daddy's sure enough a fine carpenter, and he earns me good money."

Morgan took another long draw on his cheroot, then leaned and pointed the cigar at Isaac. "You'll be worth more to me as a craftsman than you'll ever be as a field nigra. Your daddy ever tell you about that nigra down in Milton, name of Thomas Day?"

"Yes, sir. Pa said it was Mr. Day what taught him woodworking. He also says Mr. Day, he's the best there is, black or white." Isaac appeared startled at his own words and quickly looked away.

Morgan laughed, waving toward Isaac with the back of his hand. "It's all right, boy. Your daddy spoke the truth. Thomas Day is the finest carpenter this side of Philadelphia, and I haven't met any man, black or white, can hold a candle to him-but your daddy comes mighty close. Did you know that your daddy used to be one of Day's slaves?"

Isaac's eyes widened. He shook his head.

"More'n twenty years ago my pa bought your daddy from Thomas Day-and he's been making me good money ever since. Now I'm going to send Abraham's own son back to North Carolina to learn from that same master. What do you think of that, boy?"

Isaac s.n.a.t.c.hed off his hat. He lowered his head, poking at the hard packed dirt with his toe. "Is . . . is Ma.s.sa selling Isaac?"

Morgan chuckled. "No, boy, just loaning you out for a spell. Day has some big orders to fill and he asked if he could hire your daddy. Well, your daddy's too busy making me money, but I told him he could have you for no cost, except feeding and such, on the condition he sends you back with some marketable skills. So now what do you think?"

Isaac smiled. "I'll be doing carpenter work all the time, like Pa?"

"That's right, boy."

"I'll earn you plenty of money, Ma.s.sa McConnell. Thank you, sir." Isaac clutched his hat in front of him and bowed.

"Good. I'll have Sean take you down to Milton next week. Now, pick up all that d.a.m.ned firewood and finish your ch.o.r.es." Morgan chuckled as Isaac scurried about, gathering logs scattered across the farmyard.

_____.

Sunlight warmed the green floorboards on the porch, bringing memories of summer to the late autumn afternoon. Morgan shielded his eyes as he surveyed his land. McConnell tobacco fields stretched to the horizon. He smiled and began to rock. Surely, they'd been blessed. Patrick, with a university degree in hand, would be running the farm soon enough, and now Henry, Lord, who'd of thought that boy would ever pa.s.s those entrance exams? He might turn into something yet.

"Ma.s.sa care for a cool gla.s.s of sweet tea?"

Morgan turned. Tempie stood in the doorway holding a small tray containing a gla.s.s filled with amber liquid and a sprig of mint. Her bright calico dress complemented her innocent smile. In a few years she'd take a husband and bear offspring to work his fields, but today she was just sweet little Tempie, same age as his Polly.

"Thank you, Tempie. Set it there." Morgan pointed to the table. Tempie did as instructed, then curtsied and returned to the house.

Morgan took a sip and set the gla.s.s on the table. A moment later the door opened again. Ella McConnell stepped onto the porch wearing a silk day dress imprinted in a muted flower pattern. A crocheted shawl draped her shoulders.

"May I join you," she said, "or are you deep in your thoughts again and wishing not to be disturbed?"

"Ella, my dear, there are no thoughts worth holding if they would keep you from my side. Please, have a seat." Morgan stood and pulled the second rocker next to his.

Ella unfolded her fan and began rocking. "This is the first you've taken time to relax in weeks. Between finishing the harvest and worrying about those elections, I thought you would absolutely exhaust yourself."

Morgan nodded. "I'll go to South Boston next week and cast my vote, but I don't see much purpose to it. That Lincoln fella is going to win, and there's nothing any of us in Virginia can do to stop him."

"Now, Morgan, you said yourself that Mr. Bell was going to win. Has he fallen from favor?"

"John Bell's the right man, and Virginia will cast her votes for him, of that I'm sure, but the rabble in South Carolina and Mississippi won't, and with the South divided, no candidate will have enough votes to defeat Lincoln." Morgan rubbed his right forearm. "Besides, those radicals in Charlestown would just as soon follow that d.a.m.ned fool Breckenridge right out of the Union. They'll destroy us all." He stood and tossed the cigar stub into the yard.

"That arm still giving you trouble?" she asked. "You really should see Doc Blackman."

"Just tingling now and again, no need for concern." Morgan walked to the edge of the porch and surveyed fields that had just yielded another profitable crop of yellow leaf.

"Bell's an American first. Being from Tennessee, he understands the South, but he also stands squarely for the Union, and that's where Virginia must be."

"Well, I am sorry I mentioned politics. I surely did not mean to get you riled."

"Wasn't you got me riled." He leaned on the porch rail and lowered his voice. "Was that tomfool son of yours who'll be canceling my vote with his d.a.m.ned secessionist ballot. I don't know how we raised two boys so totally different from one another."

"Now, Morgan, Patrick takes after you in so many ways. You can't expect him to follow you in everything."

Morgan pounded a fist on the porch rail. "I just wish it wasn't my own flesh and blood waving those banners and calling for secession when I'm on the dais arguing to save the Union. It's not right, a son opposing his own kin like that."

_____.

Night air drifted through the pines, hinting at the changing season. Isaac pulled his rough tunic close around his neck and hurried toward the cl.u.s.ter of small cabins down the lane from the big house.

"You helping runaways tonight?"

Isaac stopped in his tracks at the soft voice. A figure in a hooped skirt stepped from the shadows, a bonnet covering her head.

"That you, Miss Polly? What's you doing out and about?"

"I know where you were, Isaac. I saw you."

Isaac s.n.a.t.c.hed his hat from his head. "Don't know what you's talking about, Miss Polly."

"Tucker Johnston, it was you that killed him, wasn't it?"

"I didn't kill n.o.body." He searched the trail. They were alone. Should he run?

"Oh, Isaac," she said, grabbing his arm. "I know you wouldn't actually kill anyone-you aren't a violent man, but you were out there that night, weren't you?"

"Miss Polly, I needs to get on down to the quarters. It ain't right, me being out here at night talking to a white woman."

Polly circled around Isaac. She fingered the lace on her collar. "Take me with you next time."

He backed away, shaking his head. "Don't know what you's talking about, Miss Polly."

"I'm talking about when you sneak off to help the runaways." She twirled around. "It sounds absolutely dramatic-the dogs, the patrols, those poor, wretched slaves yearning for freedom-I could just die with all that excitement."

"Isaac'll be the one dying, them pattyrollers finds you out here talking to me."

"Oh, stop worrying. Your secret's safe with me." She started toward the big house, then paused. "But I'll be watching, and next time, I'll be dressed for running the woods."

_____.

He hopped the fence and stepped into a glowing ring of firelight.

"Isaac! Set on down and show us what you brung." Lilly, a large woman a few years older than his mama, patted an empty place beside her on the log.

Isaac settled beside her. "Got nothing tonight, Aunt Lilly. Mama says prices is high so she has to be careful buying her salts and sugars for the big house. Ain't no extra to share, but she'll try to save you some, if'n she can."

"That's all right, boy. We's glad to see you all the same. Ashcake?" Lilly poked a stick in the fire, retrieving a blackened loaf from the coals. She brushed off the ashes and held it out.

"Thank you, no. I's eaten."

"Say boy, when's your pa getting home?" Old July called from the far side of the fire. Snow-white hair crowned a dark, thin face as wrinkled as dried fruit. The top half of one ear was missing.

"Don't know for sure." Isaac poked at the fire. Sparks drifted skyward. "He's over by Danville doing some repairs, then he's heading up along the Roanoke to help trim out a new farmhouse. I reckon he'll be gone a few weeks."

"He sure enough be Ma.s.sa McConnell's favorite n.i.g.g.e.r," a deep voice said from across the fire, "traveling with his fancy pa.s.s like he somebody special."

"Ain't so . . ." Isaac started to rise but Lilly blocked him with her arm, then shoved him down. She shook her fist at the hulking form on the far side of the fire ring. "Big Jim, I'm fixing to bust your fat mouth. You been fussing like an old woman ever since Ma.s.sa McConnell sent your lazy a.s.s back to the fields and brung Abraham in to work the carpentry."

"Why's you all the time taking up for them house n.i.g.g.e.rs, woman?" Big Jim wagged his finger. "Ain't like they cares none about folks down here no how."

"Maybe she works at the big house now, but Florence is still my sister, and she and Abraham, they remembers their time in the fields. You speak poorly about them, you's talking about me."

Big Jim retreated into the shadows.

July tossed a stick in the fire. "Sure would be nice, traveling like old Abraham. These bones ain't never been no more *n five miles from this farm since the day I was born. A body gets weary just planting and weeding, cutting tobacco, working them drying sheds." He sighed, gazing heavenward. "Old July would sure enough like to see them lights of Richmond town *fore he pa.s.ses."

"Maybe you'll get there yet," Isaac said. "Could be Ma.s.sa McConnell will send you to help Pa."

July shook his head. "Reckon I'll settle for sneaking on down to the river every now and again and catching me some catfish."

"Old man, them pattyrollers gonna whip your a.s.s down by the river just the same as if'n you was caught in Richmond." Banjo, a thin man with flecks of gray in his beard and a missing tooth that caused him to whistle when he spoke pointed toward the woods. "Why doesn't you just pack up your kit and skedaddle?"

"Too old for running them rivers and woods. Skedaddling's for young'uns, like this here boy." July pointed a crooked finger.

Isaac glanced at the other slaves around the fire. "The day's coming when I'll follow that North Star, but Pa says it ain't our time yet. And it ain't so bad here neither . . ."

"Sure ain't like yonder." Lilly jerked a thumb in the direction of the Johnston farm. "That Clancy, he's one to stay clear of since that Johnston boy died."

"Heard tell he was murdered," July said.

"Fell off his durned horse," Banjo replied. "That's all. Ain't that right, Isaac?"

"I reckon." Isaac lowered his voice. "Ain't n.o.body knows for sure."

"Well, maybe Ma.s.sa McConnell don't whip us like Johnston do his n.i.g.g.e.rs," Banjo said, wagging his finger at Isaac, "but you'll see the other side of that white man when his purse strings get tight. And you'd best watch out for Patrick, that boy of his."

"That's right," Lilly said. "He's a bad one."

"He sure enough is," Banjo replied. "He laid the b.u.t.t of his crop against my skull last summer just *cause I took me some rest time during the harvest. Split my scalp wide open, he did." Banjo pointed to the side of his head.

"He knock some sense into that old black noggin?" July steepled his fingers and pointed at Banjo. Laughter mixed with the crackle of burning logs.

Lilly wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "Yes sir, this here farm would be a whole lot different if'n Ma.s.sa Patrick ever took charge. He ain't like Ma.s.sa Henry. How can two brothers be so different?" Crumbs fell to her lap. She brushed them aside with the back of her hand.

Banjo looked at Isaac. "You and Ma.s.sa Henry is tighter than stink on a polecat."

"Been friends ever since we been in long britches." Isaac smiled. "He's a mite crazy, but he ain't hard on folks."

"Yes, sir." Banjo chuckled. "He's crazy all right-like that time the two of you treed that bear over to Pittsylvania County and he clumb up after it. Said he couldn't get him a clear shot from the ground. Craziest white man I ever knowed." Banjo slapped his knee and laughed, whistling through his teeth.

Isaac leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I had to catch Ma.s.sa Henry by his foot and drag him down from that tree. It was getting a mite too dangerous . . ." He gazed around the gathering. "For that poor ol' bear!" He slapped his hands on his knees and rocked back.

The clearing echoed with laughter.

"I got me some traveling soon," Isaac said after everyone settled.

Banjo tossed a log on the fire and looked at him. "Your pa taking you on one of his trips?"