The Freedom Star Part 25

"It's too warm in here." Ella waved her paper fan. "I shall be on the porch if you need me." Her footsteps crossed the carpet to the wooden floor.

Morgan waited until the footfalls had faded, then whispered almost inaudibly, "Thank you . . ."

Florence spoke in his ear. "Again, Ma.s.sa, slowly . . ."

"Thank you."

She resumed his ma.s.sage. "Florence is gonna get you in that wheelchair, then she'll be hitching that contraption behind a plow mule and hanging an ear of corn to his front, just to see you go."

Morgan's chest heaved in a silent laugh. Florence rubbed oil into his shoulders. He closed his eyes, imagining that he was sitting on the porch, looking over his fields again-what a joy that would be. G.o.d bless her. A mockingbird called from a tree outside the window. He dozed.

"Ma.s.sa McConnell."

Florence? He opened one eye.

"I don't mean to trouble you none, but I sure misses that time before you was taken ill. I reckon I can speak my mind-least ways you don't complain none when I do. Things is different these days. I've been missing my Abraham something terrible, and folks down at the quarters is saying how they's feeling the whip. It ain't like before . . ."

Morgan struggled, but could not form the words. She was right, and it wasn't how he wanted his slaves treated . . . He lifted his hand and dropped it to the mattress. Things would change, Florence, they would . . .

"I can see you's trying to talk, Ma.s.sa, but you oughtn't push yourself. I declare, you keep straining like that, you's gonna pop out your eyeb.a.l.l.s. You'd best stick to one or two little words *til you gets your health back. Miss Ella's gonna be surprised when I tells her how you can talk some."

He banged his hand on the mattress and strained as he whispered, "Don't tell her . . ."

_____.

Isaac straightened and wiped his brow. Picking bugs from the tobacco had been early morning or cool of the evening work before Ma.s.sa McConnell fell sick. Now, there was no escaping the searing midday sun. "This heat's a misery, little brother. You'd best drink you some water." He pointed to the bucket in the back of the wagon.

Joseph squashed the tobacco worm he'd just picked off the leaf, then walked to the wagon and scooped a dipper of the warm liquid. "How about you, Isaac? You thirsty?"

Two hors.e.m.e.n came into view from the direction of the big house. "Never mind that water," Isaac called. "There's riders coming. Get back to work."

Joseph dropped the dipper in the bucket and started walking through the tobacco rows when the riders turned off the road and came straight at him.

Patrick trotted his horse alongside Joseph and reached down, grabbing him by the back of his s.h.i.+rt and lifting him until his bare feet dangled helplessly. "This is what you must deal with-lazy nigras." Patrick glanced at Big Jim, who was mounted on the other horse, then he dropped Joseph to the ground.

"There weren't no call for that, Patrick." Isaac took a step toward the riders. "That boy's been doing a man's work. He just stopped to fetch me a drink."

The tip of the blacksnake whip cracked like a pistol as it caught Isaac's bare shoulder. "That's *Ma.s.sa McConnell' to you, boy." Big Jim pointed the b.u.t.t of the whip at Isaac. "This here is one uppity n.i.g.g.e.r, but he'll be learning his place soon enough."

Isaac grimaced, but did not cry out. Instead, he stared at the ground and braced for the next blow. The whip cracked again, ripping his flesh. Others in the field stopped what they were doing and watched.

"The rest of you lazy n.i.g.g.e.rs get on back to work or you'll be feeling the same," Big Jim hollered. He snapped the whip across Isaac's back again, driving Isaac to his knees. "And you'd best be calling me *Mister Jim' from now on." Big Jim grinned, then turned his horse and followed Patrick across the field toward the big house. Isaac stumbled to his feet.

Joseph rushed to his side. "How come Big Jim's setting up on that horse and cracking that whip like he was somebody?"

Isaac brushed the dirt from his knees. "I reckon we has us a new overseer, little brother."

Chapter Thirty-five.

June 1862 "Lift your foot, Papa." Polly helped Morgan into the wooden wheelchair that Banjo had picked up at the mercantile the day before. His head rested against the chair's rattan back. Arm and leg rests held him in position. Lord, it felt good to sit upright again. Would Polly notice the smile welling within him, or would facial muscles that were no longer under his control mask his delight?

"It took two weeks to get this s.h.i.+pped from Richmond," Polly said, "and Mother says we were fortunate to get it at all. With all our wounded boys, most chairs go to the army now." She cinched a leather strap around his chest, then carefully pushed the chair forward. The wheels bounced over the edge of the carpet. They moved slowly into the hallway, pausing at the side door.

"I need to get help, Papa. I don't want to spill you all over the porch on your first outing. Wait here."

Morgan nodded. Wait there . . . of course.

In a moment, Polly returned with Banjo.

Banjo tipped his hat and smiled. "Morning, Ma.s.sa McConnell, you's looking well this fine summer morning." He scratched his head as he studied first the chair and then the step down. "Miss Polly, I do believe we has to back into this. Like so."

Banjo turned the chair, facing Morgan into the hallway, then pulled. Morgan rolled backward, bouncing as the rear wheels dropped from the door's threshold to the porch.

"Now, Miss Polly, you gives Banjo a holler when you needs to get Ma.s.sa back up off'n that porch. Maybe I comes by later and builds you a ramp. You has a good day, now." Banjo tipped his hat and returned to his ch.o.r.es.

Polly turned the chair around and faced Morgan toward his barns and fields.

Nothing much had changed. A few of the outbuildings showed fresh coats of whitewash. The tobacco looked good; should yield twelve hundred pounds per acre.

"Papa," Polly said, "enjoy the breeze while I fetch us something to drink." Her footsteps trailed into the house and down the hall.

The mid-summer heat trickled sweat across his brow, but the sun was an elixir for his spirits. Morgan turned slowly, stretching muscles weakened by months of bed rest. The farm appeared well-tended. Patrick must have been finding success, but at what cost? Poor Florence-Patrick never should have sold Abraham . . .

"Here's a drink for you, Ma.s.sa McConnell." Tempie stood beside him holding a gla.s.s filled with a green liquid. "Mama fixed it special."

Oh G.o.d, not more of her potions. Their healing powers didn't matter-they tasted awful.

"Open up, Papa." Polly lifted the gla.s.s to his lips.

He sipped, then gagged. Lord, it was worse than sour weed . . .

"Once more." She tipped the gla.s.s.

Polly smiled, handing the gla.s.s back to Tempie.

With effort, Morgan turned toward them. The girls were the same age, but now Tempie seemed older, different . . . like she'd lost her suns.h.i.+ne.

"There's a wagon coming, Papa." Polly bounced on her toes and pointed. A wagon pulled over at the end of the long lane, let off a pa.s.senger, then turned and continued on its way.

Tempie's soft footfalls faded into the house as a lone figure sauntered up the lane in a familiar gait. The lane disappeared into a swale, hiding the visitor from sight. Morgan remained focused. The lane eventually lifted the traveler back into view, closer now. Gray jacket. b.u.t.ternut pants. Something white wrapped around his head? He swung his arms in a jaunty stride. Morgan strained against the leather straps, grabbing Polly's hand. The name formed, first in his heart, then on his lips. He forced a raspy whisper. "Henry . . ."

_____.

Dust swirled around Henry's boots as he ambled up the lane. He gazed across the green tobacco fields. Thank goodness the rains hadn't washed them out, at least not yet. Slaves were busy pulling tobacco bugs-Lord, how he'd hated that job. Hey, there was Isaac. "Isaac! h.e.l.lo, Isaac." Henry smiled and waved as he strolled toward the cl.u.s.ter of slaves.

Isaac straightened and leaned on his hoe. "Morning, Ma.s.sa McConnell."

Henry backed away, glancing over his shoulder as though expecting to see someone behind him. He turned and studied his friend. "'Morning, Master McConnell'? I get shot up in the war and all you can say is, *Morning, Master McConnell'? Have you been in the sun too long, or are you trying to get me riled?" He landed a playful punch on Isaac's shoulder.

Isaac's gaze met Henry's for a moment, then he looked away.

"Hey," Henry said. "Who stuck a burr under your saddle?"

"I reckon things has changed since you been gone," Isaac replied, slowly shaking his head. "Ain't like before." He pointed to the main house. "I *spect that be your pa setting up there on the porch. Best not keep him waiting."

Henry searched for a sign, a clue, anything. Finally, he stepped away. "I don't know what's stuck in your craw, but we need to talk-and soon."

_____.

Pain throbbed behind his eyes as Henry shuffled along the lane toward the house. Was it the glaring midday sun, his wound, or Isaac's curious greeting that triggered this latest relapse? Never mind, it would pa.s.s quickly-they usually did.

Morgan appeared to be seated in a chair set on wheels. Ella stood beside him, the sun warming her smile. Polly was behind, her hands on Morgan's shoulders. She bounced on her toes as though she would take off running if given the slightest encouragement. Tempie stood behind his family, her hands folded in front of her, her expression revealing no emotion.

"Mother . . ." Henry climbed the steps and gathered Ella in his arms.

"Your head." She gently touched his bandage. "Henry, dear, what happened?"

"The bullet just grazed me." Henry laughed. "Them Yankees can't shoot straight."

Ella smiled tightly, tears welling in her eyes.

"You get any of them?" Polly asked. "Did you make *em pay?"

He studied his sister for a moment. "Land sakes, girl. I'd a never recognized you. You look all growed up. Must be time to get out that shotgun and start scaring away the suitors."

"Oh, Henry. Don't be silly . . ." Polly giggled, throwing her arms around his neck, then she stepped back and pointed to his sleeve. "What are these?"

"Didn't my letter arrive? Captain Bruce came by the hospital a couple of weeks ago and promoted me all the way to sergeant-he said it was for heroism there at Seven Pines. Ain't that something?"

"Isn't that something," Ella said. "And I thought Captain Claiborne was your commanding officer."

Henry grinned. "Isn't that something." He winked at Polly. "We held elections in May. Captain Claiborne wasn't reelected." Morgan sat stiffly, his gaze transfixed on some distant field. Henry knelt, taking Morgan's hand. Morgan turned, his moist eyes now fixed on Henry. His grip tightened. He gave Henry an almost imperceptible nod.

"Come tell us all about the war and how you received those awful wounds." Ella took Henry's arm and led him across the porch. When they reached the door, she turned to Tempie. "Tell Florence we require a special dinner tonight. Our Henry's come home."

_____.

Henry tossed the dusty wool uniform in the corner. Florence could clean it later. He put on a fresh suit and studied himself in the mirror, then tugged at the civilian clothes hanging on his lanky frame. Army life had cost him a few pounds.

As he descended the stairway, Henry was greeted by the familiar aroma of Florence's fried chicken. Ella and Polly were already seated in the dining room. Florence wheeled Morgan to his place at the head of the table.

Ella smiled. "Your father wanted to join us." She extended a hand toward the far end of the table. "He takes his meals privately in the back parlor, but he will enjoy our mealtime chatter." She motioned to a vacant chair. "Please, take your seat." She turned to Polly. "Would you ask the blessing?"

"Certainly, Mother." Polly folded her hands and bowed her head. "Lord, bless this food which we are about to partake, and thank you for bringing Henry home safe. Amen." She looked at Henry and smiled. "Tell us all about the war, Henry. How many Yankees did you kill?"

"Hush," Ella said. "Let your brother enjoy his dinner."

"Aw, it's all right, Mother." He winked at Polly and reached for a drumstick.

"They feed you like this in the army?" Ella pointed to the fried chicken and biscuits.

Henry shook his head. "Not likely. We were almost out of food last winter. No greens at all. Fresh meat was scarce. We lived on corn meal and whatever fish we could pull from the James River. Where's Patrick?"

"Tending to some business in South Boston," Ella replied. "He'll be along shortly." She pointed to his bandage. "How did you receive that terrible wound?"

Henry took a bite of chicken and rested his gaze on Morgan. "Seven Pines Crossroads, it was the first of June," he said as he chewed. "We'd pushed the Yankees and all was looking good, then suddenly they hit our flank and all h.e.l.l broke loose-" He quickly covered his mouth. "Sorry, Mother. "

"Continue . . ." She smiled.

"Anyway, the Yankees had us on the run. Those woods were thick as anything-like down there by the creek, only stretching for miles. The reserves pulled up on this rise and tried to make a stand. I was climbing up the embankment to join them when, wham!" Henry slapped his fist into the palm of his hand. "It felt worse than getting kicked by a plow mule."

Morgan flinched.

"I awoke in the hospital-most G.o.d-awful place you'd ever lay eyes on. Blood everywhere, and piles of arms and legs just festering in the sun-"

"Henry, not during dinner." Ella tapped the table and covered her mouth with her napkin.

"Sorry, Mother." He smiled at Polly, who appeared to be hanging on his every word. "Chimborazo Hospital sets on a hill overlooking the James there in Richmond. There must be forty acres of buildings, all set in these neat rows. They say it's the largest military hospital ever there was."

"Did they take good care of you?" Polly set her biscuit on her plate and focused on her brother.

"Never saw a doctor but once. They was all the time doing surgery and such, so they don't have time for tending to the less serious wounds, but don't you know, they had women working there."

"Well, of course, you ninny," Polly said. "We have Florence and Tempie right here."

"White women," Henry said. He turned to Ella. "Mother, there were white southern women working jobs side by side with free blacks. I never thought I'd see the day . . ."

"White women, you say?" Ella dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin. "Well, there's no accounting for those with no social standing."

"One was a Richmond society woman. Her husband had been an officer, killed up there at Mana.s.sas Junction." Henry paused while his mother considered this new reality.

Ella took a deep breath but remained silent.

"They had a preacher man too," Henry said, "a Reverend Jasper. He come around and held services every Sunday. Most everybody attended."

Polly pulled back in mock surprise. "Imagine that, a preacher holding church services. Whatever will they think of next?"

"He was a slave." Henry gave Polly a satisfied smile.

"This war's a terrible thing," Ella said. "It's simply tearing apart our inst.i.tutions and our fine Commonwealth. Tempie, clear these dishes and bring us some of Florence's peach cobbler." She smoothed the tablecloth beside her plate and looked across at Morgan.