The Freedom Star Part 6

"What do they call you, boy?"

"Name's Isaac."

"Who'd Mr. Day buy you from?"

"Ain't bought."

"You free?"

Isaac shook his head. "Mr. Day borrowed me. My owner, Ma.s.sa McConnell, he lives up in Virginia, there in Halifax County."

The old man pointed to the book. "He know you can read?"

"Was him what taught me, or least ways his son did." Isaac folded the tattered copy of Peter Parley's Winter Evening Tales and stuffed it back in his pocket.

"Don't be letting no white folk down here see you with that book. They'll think Mr. Day taught you to read and that'll bring trouble down on him."

The old man sat across from Isaac. "Gabriel's the name, except I ain't got no horn." He chuckled. "I been with Mr. Day most all my life. He owns me and old Mr. Jones over yonder there." He pointed toward the other old man, now sitting on the edge of his bunk, tapping out a rhythm on a pair of bones.

Mr. Jones raised his hand holding the dried goat's ribs above his head, then bought the bones down with a flourish of short clacks. "George Washington Jones." He winked. "But Mr. Jones be just fine."

"You all there is?" Isaac asked. "I heard tell Mr. Day owned a pa.s.sel of slaves."

"Business been tough, boy," Gabriel said. "Mr. Day come close to losing everything. His boy, Thomas Junior, he had to come to his rescue. All the other slaves been sold to pay bills. Me and Mr. Jones, we's too old to draw top dollar, nor most any dollar at all, so Mr. Day had to keep us. We does what we can and he feeds us pretty good. We don't mind none a' tall."

Isaac took a bite. "Squirrel?"

"Yup. Throwed in some possum too. Mr. Jones there," Gabriel said, motioning with the wooden spoon, "he does most of the gathering and all the cooking. He's pretty good too, but . . ." Gabriel leaned closer and wagged his finger. "You watch him real close, you hear? He ain't always particular about how ripe a critter gets lying dead out there in the bushes. Mr. Jones reckons them maggots make for good eating too, says they put fat on a man's bones."

Isaac searched his stew, turning over lumps of meat-then he caught the gleam in Gabriel's eye. Isaac smiled and took another bite. "Where's the senior Mr. Day?"

"He done took sick-consumption, some folks say." Gabriel took in the room with a wave. "But you'll see him here by and by. He's a right fine gentleman."

Isaac leaned closer to Gabriel. "But he's black, same as us. How's a black man hold with owning slaves?"

"Business." Gabriel returned to the stove. "If'n a white man uses slaves to make his goods, how can a black man keep up, less'n he gets his own n.i.g.g.e.rs? Mr. Day can't stay in business paying for labor what white folks is getting for free." Gabriel ladled another pile of stew on his plate and sat down again. "Truth be told, Mr. Day used to have whites working for him too, and n.o.body *round these parts ever seemed bothered none by that. Ten years ago, this here business supported lots of folks, black and white."

Mr. Jones settled on his bunk and Isaac and Gabriel continued talking while Isaac finished his supper. No lights shone from the big brick house by the time Isaac went out back and washed his dinner plate under the pump. Returning to a quiet bunkhouse, Isaac grabbed a blanket from one of the empty bunks, blew out the oil lamp, and curled up on the lower bunk beneath the window.

_____.

Sunlight filtered through the dirty gla.s.s windowpane as Isaac ran his hand over the smooth maple. He measured the stock against the pattern. Close. Just a bit more off the end. He engaged the clutch. The leather belt hummed as it slipped around the pulley, then caught, spinning the lathe to life. Thomas had been a good teacher-no rejects for two days.

"Only Abraham's boy could turn such a piece."

Isaac pulled out the clutch and turned to face an old man, light-skinned, but African nonetheless. He was tall and thin, with short, curly hair that recessed at his temples to form a "V" of gray hair over the center of his forehead. Isaac looked into his tired, dark eyes.

"Mr. Day?"

The old man started to speak, then bent over, wracked by a violent cough. Finally, he straightened, pounding his fist on his chest. "At . . . at your service."

Mr. Day pumped Isaac's hand. His calloused grip still possessed incredible strength.

"Come. Sit." Mr. Day motioned toward two chairs beside a small table. "Your father was the best I ever taught. If I had five more with his skills today, I'd be competing with the best furniture houses in New York City." Mr. Day coughed again, then asked, "How is Abraham?"

"He's doing fine, sir." Isaac's throat tightened. Pa had said n.o.body could work wood as good as this man, and now, here he sat, talking to Isaac like he was somebody. Isaac took a deep breath. "He speaks highly of you."

"Good. Good." The elder Mr. Day reached below the table and produced a small desk drawer. He handed it to Isaac. "What can you tell me about this?"

Isaac turned the piece over. "Oak. Dovetailed." He pointed. "Groove cut here, in the sides and front, and the bottom piece is glued in. Looks to be good workmanship, sir."

"Look at the front."

Isaac turned the piece over again. Beneath the bra.s.s drawer pull was an ornate relief carving showing an acorn surrounded by a cl.u.s.ter of oak leaves.

"Anyone can learn the craft of joinery, boy, and you will, but I also want to teach you the art of it all. Fine wood is like a fine woman . . ."

Isaac smiled to himself. Like father, like son . . .

Chapter Nine.

November 1860 Isaac tapped the chisel with his mallet, carving a rabbet joint along the edge of a maple board that would overlap another board, similarly cut, to form one side of a china cabinet. He blew wood shavings out of the cut, then measured his work with the blade of his chisel.

"Hey boy, you got religion?"

Isaac turned at the sound of the voice.

The elder Mr. Day stood in the doorway. He coughed, then asked again, "You a church-goer?"

"Mama taught me religion, but we don't have no church-too far to walk."

"You ever been to a church?"

"Went to a camp meeting once," Isaac said. "Must have been eighty, maybe a hundred folks, all clapping and singing. We had us a fine time."

Mr. Day pointed out the window. "We worship up the street at the Presbyterian Church. Be sure you're ready first thing in the morning. We leave at quarter *til eight, prompt." He turned and shuffled out the door.

Going to church with the boss man . . . Isaac smiled. What would folks say about that? He picked up his chisel and continued cutting the joint. He might be headed to church tomorrow, but that boss man still expected him to finish his work today.

_____.

Isaac entered the bunkroom, tossing his hat on his bed. A delicious aroma rose from the steaming pot on the Franklin.

"Hey, boy. Set on down." Mr. Jones pointed to the table. "One of Mr. Day's customers done kilt him a deer and gave it up as payment for his bill."

"Where's Gabriel?" Isaac pulled up a bench.

"Mr. Day sent him to deliver an envelope. Gabriel says it was billing for a table and chairs." Mr. Jones set a plate in front of Isaac. "I reckon he'll be back shortly, was only going two, three miles to the south."

Isaac pointed toward his plate. "You done good, Mr. Jones. This here is only a fistful of carrots away from being a real fine stew."

"Boy, you find me some good 'uns, I'll throw *em in. Weather's been too dry, makes for small carrots-ain't proper for cooking." Mr. Jones stirred the pot, then took his plate and sat.

"You and Gabriel going to church tomorrow?" Isaac asked as he took a bite.

"Ain't set foot in a church for nigh on twenty years. "Mr. Jones shook his head. "Not since we built them pews."

"You built the pews?"

"The church folks asked Mr. Day could he make *em, and Mr. Day said yes, they'd have themselves some fine pews and a right nice pulpit too, and all at no cost."

"He made *em for free? How's that?"

Mr. Jones nodded. "Mr. Day said, if'n he builds *em, him and Mrs. Day and their children, they all set down in the front of that church, just like the white folks."

"And the whites was okay with that?"

"You go look at them pews, boy. They's poplar wood with real nice curves on the end pieces. Pulpit's got fancy columns on each corner too, fine place for any preacher to set his Bible."

"Sounds right pretty." Isaac nodded. "So, is you going tomorrow?"

"Old Mr. Jones, he don't hold much with religion no more. If there is a G.o.d, he ain't hearing no nigra's prayers." Mr. Jones looked at his plate for a moment, then chuckled. "Ain't got no Sunday meeting clothes no how."

"Church clothes? All I has are these rags I wear for working." Isaac pulled his frayed, worn shirt away from his body.

Mr. Jones lowered his voice and leaned toward Isaac. "You'll be fine, boy. Ain't n.o.body gonna pay no mind to no n.i.g.g.e.r what's dressed like what he is."

Isaac glanced again at his shirt, stained with oil from the machines. "I reckon you's right." He clutched his wooden star and closed his eyes. It must really be something to have clean clothes to change into every Sunday.

A sudden commotion shook Isaac from his thoughts. Thomas pushed through the doorway half carrying, half dragging a bloodied Gabriel.

"Help me get him to his bunk," Thomas said. "Grab some bandages. Mr. Jones, get some water and fetch that whiskey I know you have hidden around here."

Isaac grabbed Gabriel's arm and helped guide him to the bunk.

"Lord Almighty," Mr. Jones cried out. "What happened?" He dug behind his blankets and handed Thomas a jug.

"Somebody jumped him coming home from the Benjamin place," Thomas said as he poured whiskey on a rag.

Isaac pulled off Gabriel's muddy shoes. He stared at the battered old man. "Why'd anybody do this to Gabriel? He never hurt n.o.body."

"Could have been highwaymen," Thomas said, "but I suspect it was something more." He daubed Gabriel's cuts with the whiskey soaked rag.

"What do you mean, *something more'?" Isaac said.

Thomas put the jug to Gabriel's lips. Gabriel swallowed, then coughed and looked around. He laid his head down, covered his eyes with his forearm, and moaned.

Thomas looked at Isaac. "We can't collect on debt the way a white man does. Those that are paid to uphold the laws won't give us the backing. I suspect what happened to Gabriel was a warning from one of our customers to stop trying to collect on overdue accounts."

"There must be a sheriff or a magistrate? We got to tell somebody . . ." Isaac clenched his fists.

"Won't matter without a witness." Thomas pointed at Gabriel. "Right now it's just the word of one old slave."

Isaac studied Thomas. "So, what is you gonna do, Mr. Day?"

"All we can do is trust the good folks here in Milton to do right. Even now, with talk of secession, war, and slave uprisings, most still try to pay us as best they can."

"Folks what ain't got the cash, they still be paying in barter?" Mr. Jones seemed to be searching Thomas's face for an answer.

"Yes, my friend, we'll be eating like kings-until we go broke." Thomas smiled. "Chickens and pigs won't pay our New York creditors."

_____.

Gabriel's snoring filled the darkened room. Reflections from the Franklin stove danced across the ceiling. Gabriel was bruised a mite, but nothing broken. Isaac chuckled to himself. Gabriel said he didn't have a trumpet, but that nose of his sure sounded loud enough.

Isaac tossed restlessly on the narrow bunk. So many questions. Mr. Day wasn't free. Maybe he owned slaves, but he was a slave too-held captive by the color of his skin.

Closing his eyes, Isaac tried to push away the swirl of confusion in his mind. The fragrance of burning wood in the stove and the warmth of his blanket began to lull him to sleep, then he remembered church and Mr. Jones' words: "n.o.body's gonna pay no never mind to no n.i.g.g.e.r what's dressed like what he is."

_____.

Somewhere in the woods behind the bunkroom, a rooster crowed. Isaac wearily awoke. He stumbled to the washstand and splashed cold water on his face. Mr. Jones had already stoked the fire and had corndodgers sizzling in hog fat.

"Morning Mr. Jones," Isaac said. "I need to speak with Mr. Day. Save me some breakfast." He dried his face and headed out the door.

Isaac paced by the back door steps of the of the large brick home searching for the right words. Finally, he climbed the steps and knocked. After a moment, the door opened and the elder Mr. Day looked down at him.

"Sir, I can't be going to church this morning," Isaac mumbled, staring at his feet.

"What seems to be the trouble?" Mr. Day raised an eyebrow. "You ill?"

"No sir, ain't ill." Isaac paused. He looked down at his shirt. "Ain't got no proper church clothes, just this rag I works in." He pulled the dirty cloth out from his body.

"A shirt is it?" Mr. Day smiled. "You need not miss the Good Word for want of a proper shirt. Wait here." The door closed.

In a few moments the door reopened and Thomas handed Isaac a small bundle. "This should suffice. It's yours to keep."

"Thank you, Mr. Day, thank you, sir." Isaac backed down the steps, then turned and ran to the bunkroom.

He cut the twine and spread the garment on his bunk. Seven oyster sh.e.l.l b.u.t.tons lined the front of the white, finished cotton shirt. The full-length sleeves had cuffs that b.u.t.toned. Isaac touched the pocket on the left breast. He'd never owned a shirt with a pocket before. It had a stain, but it didn't show much, except when he held it up to the direct sunlight. He hung his new shirt on the peg above his bunk and sat down to breakfast.