The Freedom Star Part 16

"I can move this merchandise. I have buyers in Mississippi. How much you asking?" the man said.

Constable Branson rubbed his chin, then pointed to Perkins. "This here n.i.g.g.e.r goes for three hundred dollars. That boy there," he said, pointing to Isaac, "will run you seven-fifty."

Isaac glimpsed Perkins twitching nervously beside him. He'd been right. This dandy was in the business of buying people, and Isaac was on the block. Raleigh feared that might happen. If he were sold south, who'd tell her? Would he ever see her again? Beads of sweat gathered on Isaac's brow. His heart pounded.

"Seven-fifty's too steep for my troubles. My buyers are looking for field n.i.g.g.e.rs. If I can't get a decent price up here I can't make a profit down south."

"Six-fifty, but that's as low as I go. This young buck'll sell right fine on the local market."

"Then I*ll purchase just the one." The man in the blue suit shook his head. "He'll bring a profit in Vicksburg. I have more merchandise to look at in Durham. I'll be by in the morning to pick him up."

_____.

The cell door clanged shut behind him. Isaac stumbled, catching himself as he fell against the wall. He eased to the floor and stretched on his side, his festering wounds still too raw to lean against the rough brick. Perkins sat across the cell.

"Looks like I'll be leaving ya come morning, boy."

"What's they gonna do with you in Mississippi?" Isaac said.

"Perkins can't go to Mississippi. Ain't traveling that road no more." What little light entered the high barred window painted Perkins in a warm glow.

"They's done bought you," Isaac said." Come morning, you's headed south whether you likes it or not."

"Boy," Perkins said, shaking his head. "I's been in them cotton fields too long. The blacksnake whip done cut me for the last time. Moktar Perkins ain't no white man's field n.i.g.g.e.r no more." He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.

That man was talking nonsense. Isaac turned on his stomach, resting his cheek on his hand as he studied his cellmate.

Perkins sighed, then his breathing relaxed.

Was he sleeping? How could the man sleep knowing he'd been sold south? At least Isaac hadn't been sold, not yet, anyway. He tried to nap, but visions of Raleigh, Mama, Pa, Tempie, Joseph, even Henry floated through his mind. If he was sold south, he'd never see any of them again. And what about Raleigh . . . how long would she wait? Would she find herself another man, one free to travel where he wanted and live wherever he chose?

_____.

The rattle of keys in the lock woke Isaac from a fitful sleep. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Sunlight glowed through the window.

"The shackles stay here," the constable said from outside the cell. "You can tie him up, if you feel the need." The iron bolt sc.r.a.ped through the brackets, then the heavy door creaked open. Standing in the doorway with the Dandy behind him, Constable Branson tossed a key at Perkins's feet. "Get them shackles off, boy. You ain't taking my leg irons south. They cost me good money."

Perkins turned the key and freed his legs. He rubbed the raw skin where the iron cuffs had chafed his ankles, then he turned toward Isaac. "It's been real nice, boy. You finds that star you be searching for, you hear?" The other shackle clanged to the floor.

Isaac stood. Words would not come. He searched Perkins's eyes. They sparkled. Tears? No, joy. Where was the fear? Isaac held out his hand. Perkins grasped it in both of his leathery hands and smiled.

"Get a move on, n.i.g.g.e.r." The constable shoved Perkins with his whip, slamming the cell door closed behind him.

Isaac grasped the iron bars on the window above him. Sunlight warmed his hands. The voices outside grew faint. Isaac closed his eyes. Perkins's image was fresh in his mind. All those years of picking cotton, his back scarred from countless whips. The man lost his family-not once, but twice. Was that what awaited Isaac? He pressed his forehead against the cool brick.

"h.e.l.l, he's running!" The voice called from outside the window. "Stop him. Stop that d.a.m.ned n.i.g.g.e.r."

Two pistol shots echoed against the cell walls.

Isaac released the bars and slowly slid to the floor.

_____.

Florence tended to Morgan in the back parlor, eavesdropping on the doctor and Patrick as she worked.

"I gave your mother a potion to help her sleep," the doctor said. "She's been through a lot, poor woman. Let her rest until the effects wear off." The doctor nodded toward Florence. "Your nigra woman there did a fine job."

"I apologize again for not getting out this way yesterday, but I was up country tending to a patient and the storm kept me there overnight. I didn't get your message until I returned this morning." Doctor Blackman closed his bag and folded his spectacles, placing them in his coat pocket. "It's apoplexy, there's no doubt in my mind."

"Will he recover?" Patrick glanced at his father, then back to the doctor.

"Hard to tell." The doctor put his hand on Patrick's shoulder. "Some have an almost complete recovery. Others may linger for years, never again speaking or walking on their own. Just no way of knowing."

"What will he need?"

The doctor bent over Morgan and examined his eyes. "The willow leaf tea your nigra concocted was helpful. I'd recommend continuing that. Also, after he gets some rest, regular stimulation will get blood to his limbs. Some patients respond well to vigorous exercise. Others remain backward, as unresponsive as any idiot."

"Thank you, doctor. I'll send for you if there's any change in his condition." Patrick walked the doctor to the door.

"Hope this rain hasn't damaged your crops, Patrick."

"The tobacco's already in the barns. We'll be fine, but thank you for asking."

The front door creaked open, then slammed shut.

"Florence," Patrick called. "Come here."

She hurried to the front parlor. Patrick was seated in Morgan's chair. "Yes, sir, Ma.s.sa Patrick?"

"You may go back to your cooking now. I will tend to any needs my father might have."

"Yes, sir, Ma.s.sa Patrick. You needs me to bring you some of my remedy? It'll fix him up real good."

"Father doesn't need any African potions. You just get back to cooking."

"Begging Ma.s.sa's pardon, sir, they ain't African medicines-Indian woman up Roanoke way taught me . . ."

"I don't give a d.a.m.n who taught you, keep your witch's brews out of this house. Your job is to cook, not sa.s.s white folks. I'll tend to my father's needs."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, Ma.s.sa Patrick." Florence curtsied and left the room.

_____.

Florence set a platter of eggs on the table. Polly and Ella were already seated. Tempie poured coffee while Florence set china plates at each place. "Miss Ella, you want I should fix up something soft to feed Ma.s.sa McConnell? He needs to be eating."

"That will not be necessary, Florence. Patrick says he's taking charge of Mr. McConnell's recuperation. You may leave a plate of eggs and sausage, maybe a biscuit. Patrick is in the back right now tending to his father."

"Florence . . ." A weak voice called from the parlor.

Patrick stood in the doorway, pale and shaken, his countenance a greenish pallor. "Get that cleaned up . . ." Patrick pointed to the rear parlor, then raced out the front door. Sounds of retching came from the direction of the porch.

Florence glanced at Ella. "Excuse me, ma'am." She curtsied, then hurried to the rear parlor.

Morgan lay on his back. A fetid stench filled the room. His eyes followed her as she lifted his blanket.

"Appears you done fouled yourself, Ma.s.sa. It ain't nothing new for Florence, I treats lots of sick folk down to the quarters. I'll have you cleaned in no time." She pulled the blanket out of the way. "Tempie . . ."

"Yes, Mama." Tempie stood in the doorway, her face twisted in a frown.

"Fetch me a pitcher and a bowl-and some rags."

"Yes ma'am."

"First thing we has to do is get you out of these soiled clothes." Florence began to lift the nights.h.i.+rt over Morgan's head. His gaze flashed from the doorway to Florence. She smiled and pulled the blanket up again just as Tempie returned.

"Set that over here," Florence said "Then pull them doors shut when you leaves."

Tempie set the pitcher and bowl on the side table and dropped the rags next to the bed. She reached for the bra.s.s latch and pulled the pocket doors closed across the wide doorway.

"Now we's private," Florence said. "It's just you and me." She placed a hand on Morgan's shoulder. "Ma.s.sa, this here's gonna be hard on you, you being a proud man and all, but you knows Florence is gonna take good care of you, so you just make up your mind to stop fretting and trust ol' Florence." She smiled. His eyes welled, then closed tightly for a long moment. When he opened them again the fear was gone.

Chapter Twenty-four.

November 1861 "Cato, you stop that." Tempie giggled and pulled away from the lanky boy.

"It's just a tickle to put a smile on your face. Come on, sit beside me." He dropped to the gra.s.s under a spreading oak and patted the ground next to him.

Tempie tucked her dress up under her knees as she sat. Moonlight danced on Cato's face, highlighting an impish smile. She and Polly had played make believe so many times, finding princes or handsome knights to marry, but play-acting never felt like that. What was he thinking? She peered at her chest. Wasn't all round yet, not like a grown woman's. She sighed. "Cato, Mama says I can't be coming here no more. She's fretting about them pattyrollers."

"Ain't nothing to worry about. They's out on the roads, not back up here in the fields. I been crossing this land from our farm to yours for better'n two years now, and I ain't never had no trouble."

"Just the same, if you wants to see me next Sat.u.r.day, you'd best come on down by the McConnell's slave quarters. You runs faster than me, and if them whites is patrolling, you can run the creeks and jump the fences."

"I *spect so, but I feel strange down there-like we's being watched. Your Aunt Lilly and that Mama Rose, they's all the time pointing at us and whispering . . ."

Tempie smiled. Her Aunt sure enough teased that boy the last time he was there. Maybe he wanted some alone time, just the two of them. She snuggled against him. "Weather's turning. Winter'll be on us soon. Setting *round that big fire will feel mighty good-better'n s.h.i.+vering out here like we's doing tonight."

Cato pulled Tempie's shawl tight around her. He smoothed the loose cotton wrap and settled his arm on her shoulder.

Tempie s.h.i.+vered, but not from the cold. It felt good, being close up like that. What if he tried to kiss her? Maybe she'd let him. What if he didn't try?

"Tell me about Isaac," Cato said. "You hear anything?"

There they were, alone, and all he wanted to talk about was Isaac? She glared. "Ain't heard none since Miss Ella said he'd gone missing."

"You think he's running?" Cato folded his arms over his knees.

"He talked some about running. He helps folks coming through on their way north, so he knows what to do, but this don't feel right-it ain't his time." Tempie pulled her shawl close around her, but it couldn't replace the warmth, or the excitement, of Cato's arm.

"You ever think about running?" Cato shoved a stalk of gra.s.s between his teeth.

Tempie stared into the distant sky. "I thinks about being up north, about being free, but some nights I lays awake, and I hears them dogs off in the woods-not knowing if they's chasing deer or tracking my kin-and I gets scared." She placed her hands on the damp gra.s.s, leaned back, and looked at Cato. "Still, being free has to be something special. Maybe someday, with the right fella . . ."

Cato tossed the gra.s.s stem aside and stood. "The hour's late." He held out his hand. "Pattyrollers or not, we'd best be getting home."

She took his hand and he pulled her up, holding her close. Their eyes met, then Cato stepped back and dropped his hands to his side. "Sat.u.r.day night? How's about you meet me over by the old smokehouse? I know it's on Johnston land, but n.o.body ever goes there, and the white folk, they don't pay it no mind. If'n you likes, we can set a small fire in the fireplace, and we'll be alone."

She stared at him. Alone? So he could chew gra.s.s and talk about her brother? They could do that at the quarters. "No, don't think so."

Tempie flounced away, then slowed as she reconsidered. She turned toward Cato. "Same time?"

_____.

"Ma.s.sa McConnell, you has to drink this here willow tea. I done made it good and strong and it's gonna help get you back to rights." Florence slid her arm under Morgan's head and lifted, putting the cup to his lips.

Morgan shuddered. It felt as though his lips moved, but all he managed to utter was an agitated mumble. That was the most G.o.d-awful stuff he'd ever tasted. Willow bark tea? Pressed garlic? Was she trying to kill him? It had to be her revenge for not putting that new roof on the cookhouse.

"There, another big sip and you's all done, then I's going to change you. Good thing your insides is working proper. Now, don't you fret none, Ma.s.sa. You'll be cleaned up and comfortable again in no time, then we begins your exercising, just like the doctor said." She smiled.

He wasn't some d.a.m.ned helpless infant. He didn't need a woman doing for him, especially a slave woman. Where was Patrick, or Ella? They should have known that wasn't right, some nigra woman tending to his private needs like that.

He couldn't move his head, but Morgan took in his surroundings as best he could by moving his eyes. Parlor . . . he was in the back parlor. His eyesight was no longer blurry-at least now he could see. Thank you, Lord. He'd thought he'd gone blind. h.e.l.l, there she was with those d.a.m.ned rags again. G.o.d, so humiliating. His face warmed. Could she see him blus.h.i.+ng?

"There. Let Florence take care of these, then she'll be back and work them arms. They'll get strong again if'n you uses them." She lifted the pile of rags. Her footfalls trailed down the hall.

He must have blacked out, but he couldn't recall. He didn't remember Doc Blackman being there neither. Why wouldn't somebody tell him what was going on? Why couldn't he talk? He couldn't move his arms. My G.o.d, he couldn't even feel his arms. What had happened? G.o.d, he was scared . . .

"Give me that hand." Florence took his right hand. She ma.s.saged each finger, kneading them from the knuckles to the tips. Morgan closed his eyes and relaxed.

"Squeeze."

He looked up. Her focus was on his hand. Something laid across his palm-her fingers? He couldn't move his head to see.

"Squeeze, hard as you can."

Squeeze her fingers? He'd try . . .

"Ma.s.sa McConnell, you has to squeeze. Ain't gonna get strong lessen you does like I tells you."

He was squeezing-squeezing hard as he could . . .