The Freedom Star Part 37

"Thee mustn't think of it that way. It was G.o.d's will. The Lord knows best."

"That's what Mama was saying."

Polly skipped down the stairs, grabbing a shawl from the hall tree. She draped it over her shoulders. "Ready?"

Hannah placed a hand on Isaac's shoulder. "Polly promised to show me around the farm this morning. We might visit Tempie's grave. Would thee like to join us?"

Isaac shook his head. "I ain't ready for that. I reckon I'd best stay put and tend to Henry." He pulled the chair next to the sofa.

"Henry will appreciate that," Hannah said as Polly took her by the arm. Together, they headed out the door, their voices trailing into the distance.

Isaac turned to the lump curled under a blanket on the sofa. "You hungry?"

Henry opened one eye. "You ain't near as pretty as my other nurse."

"Hardtack's what you be needing, but all I gots is eggs and bacon. I throwed in a couple of Mama's biscuits too."

Henry struggled to a sitting position and took the plate. "You think she is?"

"Who?" Isaac stared at him. "What?"

"Hannah. You think she's sweet on me?"

"If'n that poor girl's got a lick of sense, she'll be hopping the next train north."

The crash of a gla.s.s against pinewood floors echoed from the back parlor, followed by Florence's voice. "If'n you throws it, I'll just be getting another. Now, you drinks these here medicinals before I gets upset."

"Your mama's a hard woman," Henry said with a laugh. "Mother sure never talked to him like that."

"I reckon she is." Isaac chuckled. "Just ask Pa."

Henry's face grew somber. "Wish I could. You got to know that . . ."

Isaac squeezed Henry's good shoulder as he stood. He walked to the window. The fields were harvested, but the barns were in need of whitewash. It was all so familiar, yet somehow distant, as though it had only existed in a dream. Somewhere to the south, Pa worked the cotton, ignorant of all that had happened; not knowing about Tempie . . .

Pounding hoofs pulled Isaac from his reverie. The front door flew open and Patrick stormed in, slapping his riding crop against the side of his brown frock coat. Suddenly, he halted and stared. "Well, I'll be . . . Little brother's home from the war again."

"Nice to see you too." Henry waved his fork in Patrick's direction.

"Boy," Patrick said, motioning to Isaac, "unsaddle my horse and rub her down good. If she gets chilled, it'll be your a.s.s."

Isaac didn't move.

"You hard of hearing, boy?"

"Isaac's a free man," Henry said. "He ain't yours to boss around." He set his plate on the end table.

"Free? Says who?" Patrick swung at Isaac with his crop.

Isaac caught Patrick's wrist in mid-arc, glaring as he twisted his arm. "The last man what took a swing at me met his maker on the battlefield."

Patrick's face flushed. His gaze darted from Isaac to Henry, and then back to Isaac, his eyes growing wide as the riding crop slipped from his hand and rattled to the floor.

Isaac released his grip.

"Are you going to let your n.i.g.g.e.r get away with this?" Patrick stepped toward Henry, wagging his finger. "Did you see what he did? I've a mind to gather a few folks and have an old fas.h.i.+oned lynching."

"The man's free," Henry said. "You touch him, it's murder."

"You don't have the authority to set him free," Patrick replied. "He belongs to this farm, and I've got papers right here." He reached in his coat pocket. "Judge Ellis over at South Boston signed them this morning. I've been a.s.signed conservator of Father's estate. Everything on this farm, including the slaves, belongs to me."

"You can't get away with that," Henry said. "Papa'd never agree . . ."

"He doesn't have to. The judge signed the papers. Father has no say." Reaching under his coat, Patrick withdrew a Navy Colt. He pointed the pistol at Isaac. "I sold your pa and I reckon you'll bring even more. Get over there." He motioned toward Henry with the pistol.

"You're stealing from Papa? I won't let you." Henry struggled to stand, but collapsed onto the sofa, knocking a lamp off the side table. "d.a.m.n you to h.e.l.l."

"There, there little brother. Save your strength, "Patrick said. "You'll need it to rejoin your outfit because you sure aren't staying here. As of today, this farm is mine."

"Like h.e.l.l . . ." Henry tried to get up again.

Patrick rolled back the hammer and aimed. "Maybe I should finish what the Yankees started . . ."

Isaac dove in front of Henry as the pistol discharged. Searing pain, like a red hot poker, coursed through his shoulder as he crashed to the floor. He tried to push himself up with his one good arm when the deafening roar of a shotgun filled the room and plaster cascaded from a gaping hole in the ceiling above Patrick. Isaac turned toward the second shot.

Morgan sat in his wheelchair in the doorway between the two parlors. Smoke curled from a double-barreled fowling piece resting on his lap.

Florence stood behind him. "Patrick, your papa says drop that pistol, else he gives you the second barrel."

Patrick raised his pistol. "No n.i.g.g.e.r talks to me like that . . ."

Morgan shouldered the shotgun.

"Your papa, he can't talk so good, but there ain't never been nothing wrong with his hearing." She bent over as Morgan whispered in her ear. "He says, you drops that pistol or you die."

"He's not in charge now. I have papers that say so . . ." Patrick waved his arms like a frustrated barrister pleading his case.

"On the table. Now!" Morgan ordered in a raspy whisper.

Florence bent over again, leaning toward Morgan. She nodded and straightened. "He says you ain't his son no more and you's to set them papers and that pistol on the table, then you's to get on your horse and ride-and if'n you ever sets foot on this farm again, you'll be the one tied to that old oak and I'll be the one giving the lashes."

Morgan c.o.c.ked the hammer on the second barrel.

"You'll pay for this." Patrick dropped the pistol on the table.

Henry s.n.a.t.c.hed the papers from his hand.

"You bring shame to the McConnell name," Morgan said. He motioned with the barrel of his shotgun. "Go."

Patrick glared at Henry, then turned on his heel and marched out the door.

Morgan lowered the shotgun and took a deep breath, then glanced at Florence. "Lashes?"

She pursed her lips. "I figured it was what you'd say, if'n you was in your proper voice."

_____.

"Been a week," Isaac said. "He ain't coming back." He put his arm under Henry and helped him from the sofa.

"Don't bet on it. I hear he's riding with the irregulars now; they're a bad lot." Henry grimaced as he stood. "And the day's coming when he'll kill me, or I him."

"It won't be today," Isaac said. "So I'd best get you fed."

Together, they walked to the dining room. Morgan, Polly, and Hannah were all seated around the table. Florence stood in the doorway as Isaac eased Henry into his chair.

Staring at Isaac, Morgan pointed to a vacant chair.

Isaac searched his mother's face, then Henry's. What should he do? He couldn't sit there-it wouldn't be proper.

"Papa says sit. You'd best sit." Henry raised his eyebrows and smiled.

Isaac pulled out the chair next to Henry, then hesitated.

"How are you ever going to survive as a free man in Philadelphia if all you do is cower like you just got caught stealing pies off the window sill?" Henry patted the chair seat.

Isaac sat.

"I told Papa how you were heading to Philadelphia when you came back for me," Henry said. "I also told him how you said you were free to choose, and it was your choice to save me. Well, Papa, he's not much on words these days," He smiled and patted Morgan's hand, "but he wants you to have this." Henry laid a paper on the table.

Isaac unfolded the doc.u.ment and stared at it, then shook his head. "I don't reckon I understands all them big words."

Leaning forward, Morgan whispered, "You've been paid for, boy."

Isaac shuddered. "Been sold . . . ?" He glanced quickly at Henry.

"Manumission." Henry tapped his finger on the doc.u.ment. "Freedom papers. Your daddy paid for you, and even if he hadn't, you'd be free anyway for what you done for me, but that alone won't get you back north. These here papers prove you're free, and if anybody questions them, they can write the McConnells of South Boston and we'll vouch for you."

Isaac studied the papers again. A name was written in the center of the page in block letters in dark blue ink: Isaac McConnell "Keep them safe." Morgan's hand trembled as he pointed at Isaac. "Where's your pocket?"

Isaac patted the sides of his sh.e.l.l jacket, then shook his head.

"d.a.m.n . . ." Morgan's voice rattled from his chest.

"Ma.s.sa, you'd best be watching that mouth," Florence said. "I has the lye soap and I ain't afraid to use it."

Morgan smiled and pointed to Polly. "Coat," he whispered.

Reaching behind her chair, Polly retrieved a dark blue frock coat. She stood and held it up.

Morgan waved excitedly. "Try it . . ."

Isaac slipped into the coat. The velvet lapels were smooth as a sow's belly. He brushed the sides, slipping his hands into deep, lined pockets.

Henry pulled back the lapel and pointed. Inside, within the satin lining, was another pocket.

Isaac folded his freedom papers and placed them in the inner pocket. "Thank you, Ma.s.sa McConnell. This here is the nicest coat Isaac ever knowed."

"Patrick won't be needing it anymore," Henry said. "And it's a proper frock for a Philadelphia man." He nodded approvingly, then turned to Florence and held up more papers. "Papa says you and Joseph are free to go too."

Florence stared at Isaac, then turned to Morgan. "Begging your pardon, Ma.s.sa, but this here be my home and Lord willing, one day my Abraham, he'll be coming back here looking for me. You just put them papers someplace safe *cause Florence gotta stay right here and wait for her man."

"Good." Morgan smiled. "My Polly . . . that girl can't cook worth a . . ." he winked at Florence. "Hoot."

Chapter Forty-eight.

October 1862 "The wagon'll hold me to the roads," Isaac said, brus.h.i.+ng his brown wool trousers, another gift from Patrick's wardrobe. "That's where them pattyrollers is."

"But you'll make better time, and that Yankee wagon and the mule, they're yours." Henry rubbed his wounded shoulder as he sat in the parlor. "You have your freedom papers, so the patrols shouldn't give you any trouble."

"I likes traveling light, keeping to the woods. Isaac knows them woods."

"Sure you don't want to wait? Banjo can take you over to South Boston. We'll buy you a train ticket up to Richmond."

Isaac shook his head.

Henry set his tea down and pulled the lap robe over his legs. "You figure you'll really find Raleigh?"

"I won't know less'n I tries."

"Isaac, I . . ." Henry took a deep breath, then looked up. "Write when you get to Philadelphia, you hear?"

"When I gets there, I'll send word," Isaac said. "You get your own self mended-and don't be going back to no army."

Henry laughed. "There you go, trying to take care of me again."

"Too big a job for me," Isaac said. "I reckon I'll leave Miss Hannah to worry on that."

Henry's face reddened.

"I'd best be going. Don't you worry none, I'll be fine." Isaac pulled on his new blue coat.