If Someday Comes

“Calloway’s elegant prose effectively captures the tension and textures of the period… he shows himself to be such a talented writer of historical fiction that the biographical element of the work barely registers.”

– Kirkus Reviews

“David Calloway has written a powerful and moving story… His writing style draws in the reader from the first page…not easily forgotten.”

4.5 stars – The Manhattan Book Review

IF SOMEDAY COMES David Calloway

David Calloway was born in Chicago and grew up in Palo Alto and Berkeley.

Calloway holds an MFA from UCLA in Film Production. His first job was as an Editor, progressing to Cinematographer, then Producer of features and television. He is a member of the Producer’s Guild, the Director’s Guild, and the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences.

Calloway is a Director on the board of the Angel’s Gate Cultural Center and on the board of the Offshore Racing Outreach Foundation.

Calloway lives and works in Los Angeles, California.

Cover photo: only known picture (1905) of George Calloway, top center; clockwise, Thomas, Clinton, and James Calloway, my Grandfather.

Cover Design by Susan Davis

DAVID CALLOWAY

This is the true story of my Great-Grandfather George Calloway, a slave in Cleveland, Tennessee, before and during the Civil War. It is a tale of determination, perseverance, and achievement. It is written as historical fiction, based on George’s life, and stories I heard growing up.

More fact than fiction, George’s story has also been my journey, grappling with the humiliation of slavery; sorting through the many myths and false modern-day narratives, and discovering a long lost relative, I found that to understand America, you must first understand the Civil War. George was then, and remains, a hero of our family.

IF SOMEDAY COMES

“This is an essential read… for readers looking for a more accurate view of true history.” 4/5 stars – The San Francisco Book Review

IF SOMEDAY COMES David Calloway “My Great-Grandfather’s true story from slavery to freedom during the American Civil War.”

If Someday Comes A Slave’s Story of Freedom

Written by

David Calloway

“I would never have drawn my sword in the cause of America, if I could have conceived that thereby I was founding a land of slavery.” – Marquis de Lafayette

For Wendy

“Someday if someday comes we will agree That trust is not about safety…” - Adrienne Rich

Copyright 2022 David Karl Calloway This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictionally. Other names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, and any semblance to actual events, or places, or persons is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved ISBN: 979-8-9865014-0-6 Point Fermin Publishing ifsomedaycomes.com

~ ii

~ iii

Map Key 1. Courthouse and lawn 2. Poe’s Tavern 4. CH Mills Saddlery and Harness shop 7. Calloway’s Bank 25. The Cleveland Banner 26. Campbell’s warehouse 40. Grist Mill 54. Inman Home after fire 60. Calloway home bought by Raht, 1861 68. Smithy for the torpedoes 73. Fort McPherson, started by Confederates, occupied by Union 76. Craigmiles’ Farm

~ iv

~v

Illustrations

I.

Map of Cleveland, Tennessee, 1863 adapted from “Bradley Divided”, Melba Lee Murray, page iii II. Calloway Family Tree, Abridged, 1866, page v III. George Calloway, page 1 IV. Calloway Home until 1861, page 3 V. Thomas Howard Calloway, page 10 VI. Nathaniel Grant, page 14 VII. Caroline Eldridge Grant, page 39 VIII. Transcript, Nat Grant trial, page 105 IX. Nat Grant’s letter from Liberia, page 156 X. Thomas Howard Calloway home, after 1861, page 170 XI. John Brown’s final note, page 191 XII. American Flag, 1861, page 227 XIII. Confederate Flag, 1861, page 228 XIV. Tennessee State Flag, 1861, page 248 XV. The Miscegenation Ball flyer, page 249 XVI. Bullet design, 1861, page 281 XVII. Loyalty Oath, “History of the Rebellion in Bradley County”, JS Hurlburt, 1866, page 306 XVIII. Hideout, “History of the Rebellion in Bradley County”, JS Hurlburt, 1866, page 332 XIX. Charleston Redoubt, Hiawassee River, 1862, USAMHI, page 373 XX. George Calloway home, after the War, page 377 XXI. Henry Calloway enlistment paper, 1864, page 390 XXII. George Calloway, top center, L to R lower, James, Clinton, and Thomas, page 415

~ vi

Preface This is the true story of my Great-Grandfather George Calloway, a slave in Cleveland, Tennessee, before and during the Civil War. It is a tale of achievement, determination, and perseverance. It is written as historical fiction, based on George’s life, and the stories I heard growing up. More fact than fiction, the latter necessitated by missing information; I know where people were and what they did, the why is driven by embellishment.

George Calloway was born into slavery January 8th, 1829. He was a remarkable man. He built, both in slavery and after, a legacy for descendants that were and still are, resilient, successful people.

His owner, Thomas Howard Calloway was born into a slave owning family January 16th, 1812. They were men of their times, lived and worked by the assumptions of their worlds. Both guided their families through life, both did well by them. Their paths were intertwined and greatly different.

George’s story springs from family oral history, the research of cousin Jimmy, and most significantly, that of my brother Buddy. My own research took me to the town of Cleveland, Tennessee, to slave schedules, to the front of an old family bible. A few found letters, an old photograph or two. Remarkably, the two homes that played into George’s life still stand. It has taken much time and attention to piece the story together; following dead end tales, finding new true ones, the unexpected documentation of others.

The writing of George’s story has been a personal journey, grappling with the humiliation of slavery, the reading of the history of our Civil War, dispelling the many myths and false modern-day narratives, the discovery of a long lost relative. It substantiated Shelby Foote’s

~ vii

observation that to understand America, you must first understand the Civil War. That war defined us then, defines us now.

The brutality in slavery ranged on a wide scale; ‘Fifty Shades of Evil’ if you will. My family was not spared the force of this evil; humiliation at best, brutality at worst. But most were better treated than other slaves owned by men of greater malevolence.

Some may find the use of language offensive. Use of words, and the impact of their meaning were different in the time of slavery.

Historical notes are provided to aid in defining the timeline and context of the period of the book, 1857 to 1866. Reading them is not necessary to follow the story.

“Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.” – John F. Kennedy

~ viii

Chapter One Friday, March 6th, 1857 Even at twelve years old, George knew Ma had waited for their owner, Marsa Thom Calloway, to walk out of the back door of the Big House; it was then that she started to scrub George’s ripped and bloody clothes.

Marsa Thom had grabbed the shirt and marched down to the overseer’s house, yelled at Bryant up and down, and stomped away red faced.

Bryant got meaner; the work hours got longer, but no one got whipped again.

George had taken his place beside the men and was expected to work like a grown slave. He’d been driving the year-old heifers into the winter oats to graze on the fresh grasses, but he’d fallen asleep in the sun; one of the cows had gotten out and wandered into town. Bryant caught him sleeping, took a whip to him then and there. Ma had wept; told George to take it, there was nothin’ he could do.

That had been nearly sixteen years past; the scars were with George still.

After Bryant had died of consumption in 1847— six years after the whipping—Marsa Thom had made George the farm manager, until he could find a new White overseer. Then eighteen, George had run the farm well; so well he had run it since.

~1

George worked hard. He was proud of the fact that the farm produced more per acre with him as boss than under old Bryant. He was proud of the straight rows, taut fences. On most Sundays, the county’s farmers would drive by their neighbor’s fields on the way to and from church, checking to see how straight the rows were, if the weeds were chopped, the fences upright and tight. Marsa Thom was said to have among the neatest of the farms in Bradley County. George could run a farm as well as any man.

That first year, none of the Whites in the county would hire on during the harvest season. Wouldn’t work for a Black manager. There had been trouble at first with some White farmers: Brown, McMillian, Acock, Kincannon. They didn’t like a Black man in a White job. Marsa Thom had held firm with George in charge, “Why would I pay a man to do a job I can get done for free?”

The eight slaves (seven really, his sister Becky had only been three that year when scarlet fever set in, God rest her soul) on the place weren’t enough to harvest the crops by themselves, what with the housework too, even starting before dawn and working ‘till dark. Marsa Thom had tried to rent some of the county’s seven hundred slaves, but they were all working sixteen-hour days for their owners, “couldn’t be spared.” George had hired a few free Blacks who lived round the east end of the rail station in a marshy area called Frogtown. Marsa Thom, who owned the largest part of the stock in the railroad, and the land around it, let them live there; the copper haulers from the Ducktown mines camped there when in town. It was too much noise and thick black smoke for most White folks. Marsa Thom loved to see his trains run through the station, on his land, right below his house. ≈ George, now twenty-eight years old, closed his eyes and tilted his head up into the afternoon sun, warming his face for a moment. The cold spring wind was blowing strong here on top of the hill above the Big

~2

House. He liked to come up on clear afternoons to look over the farm; to see things in ‘broad strokes’ as Marsa Thom said.

George inspected the tight straight fence lines, the fields of wintergrown black oats, fresh and green, ready for the spring calves and lambs; the straight rows of the newly plowed corn and wheat fields ready for planting. He judged the color of the dark yellow-brown clay and loam blend of the soil to be good, but in the next few days, before he ran the harrows, he would see that the barn manure was spread on the fields closest to the Big House where Miz Susan, Marsa Thom’s wife, liked to grow the vegetables. She was a firm mistress, chestnut hair she kept closely bound. Miz Susan was nineteen years younger than Marsa Thom; not a beauty, yet striking in her bearing.

Here George could see the jutting limestone, slate and sand-rock ridges that led directly north-south which defined the western foothills of the Appalachian Mountains; a mixture of yellow pine and hardwoods struggled up the hillsides, steep in places. Sugar maples sprinkled the edges of the creek beds, hickory mixed in. Next to him a gravelly spring erupted, filled a clear pool before making its way below to the milk-house—a portion of the water passed through, cooled the metal milk cans—out past the barn to Mouse creek, immediately past the east Tennessee town of Cleveland now in his view; on into the Hiwassee River, where it joined the Tennessee River, thirteen miles away.

The Calloway Farm was just over twenty-eight hundred acres, four and a half square miles, more than two miles on a side. Most of it was hill and stone; eighty acres were under the plow, the rest pasture and timber. One corner rested against the town, held the train station and the copper depot; the remainder lay southeast in a large rectangle and included Wildwood Lake. The threestory brick house was the latest in the

~3

new Victorian style: a steeply pitched roof with one gable for each point on the compass. It had many doors, windows made of glass, an enclosed sun porch on the rear. It stood on a hillock overlooking the town and valley beyond. Along the two sides with the town view were broad lawns, flower, and tree gardens. A ‘summer house’, an open structure of brick columns, was perched on the edge of the garden in the cool shade of the big oak and maple trees.

At the back of the house was a large separate kitchen, built of the same dark yellow-orange-red brick. Sheltered by a small grove of pines, it was ten or so yards behind the Big House, smaller, of the same style.

Grey smoke trailed away from the kitchen chimney in the wind, where George’s mother, Ma (Mary was her given name, but everyone just called her Ma), would be baking the pies and breads for the evening supper. “Always fix ‘em in two’s, two of each kinda two,” she’d said ever since he could remember. Between the two buildings was the household well, same brick with a wooden cover to keep out the leaves, needles, and drowned critters. George had built that cover for Ma, put in a hand-crank bucket to lift the heavy pails out easier. “Look down de well, see de future”, Ma said. George never could, though he wanted to.

Maybe it was silly, maybe it was just a little too scary; he could only see himself.

Across the yard from the kitchen was a large red barn and next to it a two-bay carriage house, painted the same white with yellow trim as the Big House. Beyond the kitchen house, closest, was George’s house.

The rest of the roughly hewn slave quarters lay scattered in the pine trees beyond. They were log cabins with thatch roofs; the chimneys were made of smaller logs with mud smeared thickly on the inside. The chimneys were tilted back away from the cabins, looked as if they were peeling away; when they caught fire, they could be pulled over quickly to keep the cabins from burning down.

George rose up to his full five feet seven inches, hitched up his brown wool pants, tucked in his shirt made of old flour sacks, and pulled his rough wool jacket about him. George had a wiry thin build,

~4

coffee-with-milk skin, and sharp blue eyes; hawkish nose and thin lips, which he often pursed together when he was thinking. He treated people fairly, spoke ill of no one, and went to church on Sunday. He wouldn’t truck with troublemakers, “Back talk gets the back hand”, but never whipped anyone. “Vinegar doan’t draw flies,” Ma said. George believed it.

He started down the hill to the small house that was his and Elizabeth’s. Two rooms, separated by a stone fireplace and doorway, it had belonged to the overseer before him. It was made of sawn wood planks and was up on posts to help keep rats and mice out. It had a board floor, the roof was split wood shake, not thatch like the slave quarters. He whitewashed the house when the outbuildings were done in the fall, and it was, to look at from the hill, a bright and tidy spot.

George had added a small porch, and an oiled paper window over the kitchen/front room to throw light on the table and two chairs his fatherin-law Nat Grant, a carpenter, had made for them. George and Elizabeth had a wood bed frame with rope for springs, a stuffed cotton mattress, and two chicken feather pillows; Elizabeth’s mother Caroline had made them a bear paw quilt out of old clothes given to her by her owner, Captain Grant. They had Elizabeth’s hope chest, which now had all their clothes in it. Lately, Elizabeth had taken to putting their firstborn baby, Caroline, in the hope chess under the window. She said it made the baby’s skin glow.

As George got near his cabin, he saw his brother Louis coming from the rail office, running, and waving. He sighed to himself, wondering what excitable, talkative Louis was going on about now.

Of the four brothers, Louis, the third born, was five years younger and two inches shorter than George. Charles the oldest, was five years older and the same height as George. Their other brother Henry, the youngest, was eight years younger, the tallest, near six feet. They were all the same cream-in-coffee color, lighter than their mother; all four had the same grey-blue eyes.

~5

Charles was the butler in the Big House and a stickler for good manners. Louis had a head for words; he read the books in the Big House, with or without permission. He was the Calloway family secretary, always dressed in his grey three-piece suit with the narrow black stripes. He had traded a year’s letter writing to the old cobbler on Swan’s farm for a fine pair of black boots. He always kept them shiny.

Henry was the bookkeeper, kept Marsa Thom’s ledgers on all the businesses. George disliked being inside all the time and said so. He was a farmer, through and through. He loved the wind, the view of the sky.

Louis shouted George’s name. He was clutching a piece of paper, a telegraph slip. He waved his hands nervously as he spoke.

“The Supreme Court of the United States just handed down their decision in the Dred Scott case,” he breathed quietly. “They say that Negro cain’t be a citizen of the United States, cause he’s a colored man.”

The Dred Scott case had been the talk of the White folks for weeks.

Most would fall silent if they noticed a Black nearby while they talked.

As if the Blacks weren’t aware. Everyone knew. The news was all over the Black telegraph how Scott had sued for his freedom because his owner had taken him to Wisconsin for two years, and since it was a free state, he was a citizen of Wisconsin, therefore not a slave. The Whites were outraged that free states were not returning runaway slaves who escaped up from the south, ignoring the fugitive slave act. The Dred Scott case, it was said, would decide the issue once and for all.

George looked at his brother like this was nothing new. “And what’s that to us?”

“This means that even if you get to the north, you can’t be free atall. They can get you and put you back in slavery anywhere.”

George pursed his lips, shrugged, “We’re slaves, we’re likely always gonna be slaves.”

“Not me!” Louis said, pounding his chest with his index finger.

~6

“You’ve run off how many times? Eight. The only reason you haven’t been whipped to the ground by the pattyrollers, is cause of Marsa Thom. You know it.”

“He can put us in his pocket, sell us down the river anytime he’s awant to. And then you’d be cryin’ under the whip of some evil mean marsa who’ll work you to death cuttin’ sugar in Louisiana!” said Louis raising his voice.

“That just shows you know how good we’ve got it.”

“I’ve run off nine times,” Louis pointed in the general direction of north, “And I’m afixin’ to leave again. Someday soon!”

George patted the air down in front of him with his open hand as if patting down Lewis’ excitement.

“Keep your voice down, go give the ‘gram to Marsa Thom, then go tell Nat Grant,” George sighed. “We should have a meeting ‘bout this.”

As George watched his brother enter the back door of the Big House, he knew this was going to be trouble. “Big trouble” he said to himself. He mounted the steps and entered his house, smiled at his wife Elizabeth. ≈ George was sixteen when he first met Elizabeth, now almost twelve years ago. He was raking in the front yard, doing the weeding of the flower garden. The last few days of June were heavy and still, the trees filtered the hot overhead sun, and George was doing his best to work only in the shade. Elizabeth, was six, and like all slaves, came of working age young. One of her first jobs had been to do the running of errands and the delivery of small packages and envelopes for her owners, the Grant family. They were recent additions to Bradley County. She had turned up at the house with an invitation from the Grants to the Calloways for their Fourth of July party. Elizabeth had skin the color of buttermilk, clear blue eyes, and reddish-brown straight hair. He had taken her for a White girl.

“This the Calloway Farm?” she asked.

~7

“Yes, Missy,” George had replied.

“Ain’t no missy,” she replied. “My name’s Elizabeth, and my pappy is Grant’s carpenter Nathaniel,” she said proudly.

George knew that if her father was owned by Grant, she was too.

And by the look of her, she was more likely Grant’s child than his carpenter’s. Not that he’d ever say so.

George would meet her parents that summer. They were high yellows, weren’t color struck like most. It was her father, Nathaniel, who looked exactly like Captain Will Grant.

“Your people tell you to say it like that?”

She nodded in reply. “What’s your name?”

“George. My Ma is the housekeeper here.”

She looked dusty and tired.

“You walk all the way from the Grant’s place?”

She nodded and held up her basket. “Got a letter for Miz Calloway.”

George put out his hand. “I’ll take it.”

“I’m to give it to the housekeeper,” she said. “Only.” She gripped the basket with both hands as she started for the back of the house.

“You’ll find Ma in the kitchen house. It sits by itself—” “I know what a kitchen house is,” she said without stopping. “My Pappy says I’m smarter than most.”

She said this matter-of-factly, like she was letting George in on the truth. He smiled, watched her disappear around the big house, and went back to work.

The Calloway and Grant families became close friends over the years, so George watched Elizabeth grow up, change from a pestering little girl, to a shy eleven-year-old, then a young woman of sixteen.

Most girls of sixteen had jumped the broom and were already producing more slaves for their masters. But Elizabeth’s father Nat had not allowed her to see any man, and Captain Will Grant hadn’t interfered. When Nat heard the call to become a Methodist minister,

~8

George and Ma started going to his Colored Church on the corner of Grant’s farm.

George didn’t know when he started loving Elizabeth. One day in church, he was staring at her and it just came on him. From that day, he couldn’t help himself. And he sure didn’t know what to say to her. Ma told him to just walk up and talk to the girl.

“You’se knowed her for ten year’. She growed up, but she still de same as she was. Peebles doan’t change, George.”

George didn’t believe a word of it. She didn’t look or act the same.

Elizabeth was strong and slender, smiled politely and kept her hands still in her lap. Not the tom-girl he’d played with. No more running, rock throwing, or silly songs. Not silly at all.

Like most things to do with the heart, the women took charge. That next Sunday out in the church yard, with the entire congregation watching—at least it seemed that way to George—Elizabeth left her mother’s side, walked right up to George, and asked him if he knew how old she was. He said he did.

“Sixteen-year-old.”

“You know that’s marryin’ age?”

George nodded, “And then some.”

It hadn’t been a hot day until that moment. George could barely breathe, his face felt warm, his hands moist. George’s mind went blank.

Elizabeth’s mother, Caroline, and Ma, who had been chatting at a distance, turned and looked at them. Elizabeth stood and looked him straight in the eye, held her ground.

“I… I’m… wonderin’…,” George was wondering what to say next.

“Yes, I will,” she said.

“What?” he said.

“Marry you,” she smiled.

George’s knees nearly betrayed him; he put a steadying hand on the tree next to him. Over her shoulder he could see the two women watching.

~9

“You’re gonna have to kiss me sooner or later, George. Might as well be now.”

George hugged her, lifted her off the ground, kissed her. He could see his mother smile.

Her father appeared from around the other side of the tree; he’d been watching too. “That’ll do, George.” Nat continued as George put her down, “You’re gonna have to have a Scripture wedding in this here church. And get permission of Marsa Thom, you know.”

He did know; everything George did was with the permission of, knowledge of, or orders of Marsa Thom. In this, his life was no different than any slave.

Marsa Thom was six feet tall, handsome, blondish hair, with the same blue eyes as George.

Sure of himself, always polite, Marsa Thom worked hard and pretty much got what he wanted.

He was a busy man, what with the bank, railroad, and mines he owned. To say nothing of his farms and land.1 He was a wealthy man.

In 1838, the Bradley County lands sold to the first settlers for $7.50 an acre. Every two months, the land price was

1 Thomas Howard Calloway had moved to Bradley County in late 1837, near the time he’d

graduated from East Tennessee College, and set up trade as a surveyor. He’d assisted old John Tipton, the Surveyor-General, and met Luke Lea, Euclid Waterhouse, Robert Swan and the other now wealthy men of Cleveland. Together, they had surveyed the Cherokee Nation after the United States bought it in 1833 for 5.5 million dollars and equal land in Oklahoma. The Indians had until 1838 to leave, but the land was opened for White settlement by order of the Tennessee legislature November 20th, 1837. Calloway had met John Ross, the Chief of the Cherokee, when he first arrived; they became good friends. Ross was the richest of the Cherokee, owning several hundred acres tilled by over twenty Black slaves. John Ross had been fighting the sale of the tribal lands and tried to protect his people from displacement. Finally, in March of 1838, the U.S. Army under the command of Major General Winfield Scott, built concentration camps throughout southeastern Tennessee between Rossville Landing (later Chattanooga) on the Tennessee river and Cleveland.

The Cherokee were forced first into the camps, and then to march to Oklahoma. Conditions were difficult, food scarce, and many died. The Cherokee would call this walk “the Trail of Tears.”

~ 10

reduced, a little at a time, until the farmland was sold off. Marsa Thom, with a partner, Euclid Waterhouse, bought up most of the county’s unsold ‘remainder’ land for a penny an acre from the government.

Much of it was near a place called Ducktown, rough scraggy mountains, not fit for farming; it had little value for timber either. Turned out it was full of copper, lead, and silver. But to get the valuable metals to market, Marsa Thom needed heavy transportation, so he built the East Tennessee Railroad. Then he needed a bank to put the money in. So he opened the Ocoee Bank, in July 1854, of which he was president, capitalized at one hundred thousand dollars. He was a member of the Masonic Lodge number 134, and in 1856, Marsa Thom founded the Female Institute of the Masonic Lodge, the first all girl’s school for hundreds of miles.

In the early days before there was a town, Marsa Thom, a bachelor, brought Ma with him to Cleveland, to a house on a small farm at the edge of the settlement. As time passed, the boys were born, and Ma put Charles and George to work planting a kitchen garden; Louis was the youngest then and helped as best he could. Harriette, their sister, worked with Ma. Marsa Thom had brought Pappy Jim from the Knoxville place three years later to help with his new house. Pappy Jim had jumped the broom with Ma after she moved out of the Big House back porch, just before Marsa Thom married Miz Susan. Pappy Jim was a field hand, and Ma made him sleep on his cot out in the carriage house. She slept in the summer kitchen. ≈ George took the earliest opportunity to speak to Marsa Thom about Elizabeth. It was that next Friday, a clear spring day. Marsa Thom had been riding his new horse, a beautiful light chestnut Arabian two-yearold gelding named Johnnie after Marsa’ Thom’s Cherokee friend Chief John Ross. They were alone in the barnyard. Marsa Thom dismounted and handed the reins to George.

“George,” he nodded, turning away.

~ 11

“Marsa Thom, Suh.” Marsa Thom turned back and stopped, hearing the formality in George’s voice.

George stood as full up as he could and took a deep breath. “I have to ask you if I can marry.”

Marsa Thom smiled, waiting. Finally, he said, “To whom?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Grant’s Elizabeth.” It was less a question than a statement of fact.

George nodded. “She’s the one.”

Marsa Thom nodded, studied George for a moment.

“How old are you now?”

“Twenty-six.”

Marsa Thom nodded again. “Congratulations, George. She’s a good choice. I’ll speak to Captain Grant.”

George smiled ear to ear. “Thank you, Marsa Thom.”

Thinking back on that conversation many years later, George would realize that Marsa Thom knew about Elizabeth beforehand, but wanted George to ask. “People place value on that which they must work for,” he’d said many times. George believed that too.

That next Sunday, George was told to hitch up the buggy, and to look nice, he was driving Marsa Thom and Miz Susan to church. He put on his only suit, made of heavy black cotton store bought cloth that Miz Susan purchased for him. He wore it only for events at the Big House and church. He put on a clean white shirt, new collar, and thin black bow tie.

It snowed and then it rained that morning. George put the leather cover on the buggy, but Miz Susan decided that their children, Joe, seven, Luke, five, and Lucie, two, would stay home. Good thing, too. By the time George, Marsa Thom, and Miz Susan got to the church, Miz Susan, already showing with their fourth child, was cold. George’s suit was soaked through.

They were late. As they stopped at the First Baptist church, Marsa Thom leapt out of the buggy, shielding Miz Susan with his cape. George took the buggy over to the pasture at the edge of the driveway, under

~ 12

some tall pine trees. He didn’t feel like church today but knew that Miz Susan would expect to see him sitting in the back with the rest of the house slaves. He made his way into the back door, a blast of cold air ushering him in, turning the heads nearby. He sat down quietly, nodding to those he knew, and pulled his wet clothes close. Those field slaves that could get a pass from their owners sat on the floor on the other side of the church, behind the altar, being preached to by the backside of the minister. As the sermon droned on, George watched the steam rise from his damp body, swirling up into nothing.

George woke with a start. The service was over, people were leaving. Sunshine was breaking through as he rushed outside to get the buggy. As he approached, he saw Marsa Thom and Captain Grant talking quietly. George eased up to the far side of the buggy, listening.

“She’s worth more than that, Thom. Young, healthy, well mannered, a trained housekeeper. She’d fetch seven hundred fifty dollars on the market.” Captain Grant was standing with his hands in his pockets, relaxed, but serious. “And… she’s real special to me.”

Marsa Thom narrowed his eyes in concentration, the same way George did. “And George’s the same special to me.” Both men nodded in agreement. “I’d never sell either of them.”

Grant lowered his eyes, kicked at the dirt once, looked up. “Okay, then. I want that Arabian gelding that John Ross gave you, even trade.”

“Johnnie’s my best horse!”

“Elizabeth’s my best house darkie.”

George felt his stomach flip with nerves. He backed up a few steps, then approached the buggy noisily. He turned the corner just in time to see the two men shaking hands. He would have a wife.

~ 13

Chapter Two Sunday, March 15th, 1857 Sunshine streamed through the open windows, rested warmly on George’s shoulders as he sat waiting for the service to start. He looked at Elizabeth seated next to him, smiled to himself. She had on her dress she made from dark blue store-bought cloth. He had planted peaches on his free acre, sold them fresh, made jam with the rest. George’s jam was so good that he had to quit taking orders for this year already. It was good money. He liked to have good things for his family.

Theirs had been the first wedding in the church. Indeed, theirs was the first slave wedding that George knew of that wasn’t on the back porch of an owner’s house. Usually, the owner would read a few words from a bible, and food would be served; sometimes a dance would follow. If they were house slaves, a cake and drink would be added. On many farms, the couple would just jump a broom with the Master watching, and they went right back to work. It was said that whoever jumped over the highest would be the boss of the marriage.

Nathaniel Grant, Elizabeth’s father, had presided even though it was his own daughter. He was an ex-slave, intense, serious. His nappy red hair, and stocky muscular build made him stand out amongst the members of the Church. He had learned to read so he could read the bible.

Their Church was the African Methodist Episcopal, it had a vision of freedom and selfdetermination shared by the White northern missionaries that came through preaching the Word of God. Nat’s owner, Will Grant, had encouraged him to preach to the other Blacks. “It’s the key to your salvation and everlasting freedom,” he’d said, “In the life hereafter.” Nat felt the calling to God to be the key to freedom in this life.

~ 14

At first, Nat became a ‘field preacher.’ He had preached with the local White preacher: “Serve your masters. Don’t steal your master’s turkeys. Don’t steal your master’s hogs. Don’t steal your master’s meat.

Do what-some-ever your master tell you to do.” Nat tired of the same old words all the time.

Nat took to spreading the word on his own when the missionaries weren’t around, traveled to other farms and slave villages. He’d go to the big farms on Sundays, hold church in a remote outdoor area away from the White owners. Eventually, he wanted a Colored Church; he built one. Captain Grant loaned them the land, and Nat along with his brother John, and George, and George’s three brothers, Charles, Louis, and Henry, and the Swan brothers, Isaac, and Walter, had built most of it. Marsa Thom gave them the pine trees from his land, gave George and his brothers the time to build on it. The log church had a double door on one end under a large cross, an altar on the other. On one side was a large stone fireplace and two shuttered windows; on the southern side, a row of large windows open to the churchyard. The floor was made of puncheons; the slab benches had peg legs and no backs. On the shaded north side sat the unmarried girls, on the other, the boys. Each side always tried to get the other to notice them without returning the notice. Old Alice, the personal maid to the Swans, had a long hard hickory stick with a knob on the end for the sole purpose of keeping the youngsters’ attention on the sermon. Most often, a withering glare was all that was needed.

Nat was a finish carpenter, a furniture maker, and a good one. He worked nights, not sleeping much, to build the furniture he would sell to buy his freedom, and then planned to buy his family; one-by-one. It took Nat four years of saving and working extra around the Grant home to buy his freedom. Captain Grant let them live in a house Nat built on his property, had said there was rent, but never bothered to collect the money. Captain Grant would not sell Caroline, Nat’s wife, saying, “She’s too valuable to my home.” This had confirmed for Nat that no White man could ever be trusted; they had no respect for a Black family,

~ 15

not even his own White father. “As long as slavery exists, then evil will exist,” is what he would say to his congregation when the Whites weren’t around. It gave him comfort to know that Elizabeth, if not free, was safe with George.

Just now, Brother Rafael was leading the congregation in singing “Brother Won’t You Guide Me Home”: “Brudder, guide me home an’ I am glad, Bright angels biddy me to come; What a happy time chil’n, bright angels biddy me to come.”

The crowd grew silent as Nat opened the door to the tiny vestiary behind the altar and walked to the podium in a new white cotton gown with puffy sleeves over his street clothes. A white cross was embroidered across the chest. He carried his bible in one hand, a lighted candle in the other. He set the candle on the podium, opened the bible, looked around the room.

“This candle is the flame of faith and hope. The book of Saint John, chapter 16, section 12. ‘I have yet many things to say unto you, but ye cannot bear them now.’”

He paused and looked about the room. “The kind words of Jesus.”

He raised his voice, and repeated, “of Jesus.” He added cadence, “of Jesus!”

Some of the older women began to chorus back to him, as their mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers had done to the village headmen in their west African villages: “Um-hum.” “Yes.” “‘I have many things to say to you.’” Nat looked around the faces, pointed at the congregation. “He has many things to say to us. To all of us.”

Louder now came the chorus, “Um-hum.”

~ 16

“To ALL of God’s children!” he shouted. And then whispered, “Even to us who bear the heavy burden of slavery…” and now louder, “…in this mortal life!”

Shouts now as more joined in, “Amen! Yes! Brother!”

“I have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now.”

The crowd murmurs approval, “Yea, Jesus! Tell hit! Tell hit!”

“What are these things? We do not know, we cannot bear them.”

“Yes, yes.”

“But we must keep our faith in Jesus.”

“Amen!”

“Keep your faith that Jesus will tell us these things.”

“Our Lord!”

“There are many things we must bear, which we do not understand! We do not understand, but we have Faith that Jesus will tell us these things! And we have hope aplenty for this life!”

“Amen, brother!”

“Our faith gives us hope! On that glorious day when we cross the river Jordan, he will tell us! And lift our burdens!”

“Put Jesus in your heart, and this flame of hope will never go out!”

“Jesus! Jesus!”

“He will show you the way!” And Nat began to sing, joined in by all.

As I went down to the valley to pray, Studying about that good old way, When you shall wear the Starry Crown, Good Lord, show me the way.

O Sinner let’s go down, let’s go down, let’s go down, Down to the valley to pray.

~ 17

≈ After the service, the midday basket dinner was set out on the grass and served. Charles and Ma set off for the Big House, as they were to serve the Ladies luncheon Miz Susan was having that afternoon. George joined the men at the downwind end of the churchyard for pipes.

George enjoyed his pipe, smoked it evenings on his porch and Sundays.

He took out his tobacco pouch, made of tanned deerskin from the first buck he had killed.

He had been just ten, and his Pappy Jim took him into the hills on a cold autumn morning. Pappy Jim rammed in gunpowder and wad then shot and wad into the muzzleloader, primed the flash pan and the two sat overlooking the salt lick, still as stumps in the brush. The gun was long and heavy, and Pappy Jim had rested the end on a crotched stick, at the ready. When the deer finally came out of the woods, George’s hands were so cold that they would hardly move. He took aim, closed his eyes, pulled the trigger. The roar, smoke, and kick of the gun knocked George off the log, flat on his back. Pappy Jim had pretended not to notice, though it would be one of his favorite stories as years passed. Over time George would become a crack shot—said to be among the best in the county—a good hunter and excellent tracker. But George’s hands had shook that day, he felt sick at the sight of the dead deer. ‘Buck fever’ is what they call it; happens the first time you take a life.

The pouch was worn now, smoothed by countless pockets, filled with George’s secret blend. The rich aroma of whiskey and molasses lifted up as he packed his clay pipe.

Henry and Louis were discussing with the Swan brothers, Walter, and Isaac, that the speculators were in town, buying and selling slaves.

The Swans were freemen. They were freed as boys, when Old Robert Swan had passed. Their pappy had been given his freedom, and even though they had grown up as playmates with young Jimmy Swan, the boys weren’t set free. Their pappy traded back his freedom to Jimmy Swan to get his sons made free.

~ 18

Walter and Isaac made their living hauling supplies into the hills to the mines, the copper out. Twenty miles each way, over the rough steep muddy Copper Road, with six-mule teams. In good weather, each way took two days, with the layover at Greasy Creek Camp, next to the Halfway House. The White teamsters didn’t like the free Blacks hauling for pay, but few Whites who had tried it would stay doing it. And they were under the protection of Jimmy Swan, who held an interest in the mines. Over time, all the copper hauling was done by the two brothers.

They hired free Blacks, rented other slaves, bought more mules, did well. Both men were heavy-set, strong, dressed in store bought clothes.

Both were bachelors. Walter was sweet on Harriette, but couldn’t afford to buy her, and even if he could, George doubted that Miz Susan would sell her. Old Sally had died just last year, and Harriette took care of the Calloway children, as well as looking after Miz Susan.

“Dey come into town in a line, chained at de neck in a string, hands tied at dey sides. Dey run ‘em into town, making all kinds of noise, at de market yeste’day,” said Walter.

“Look like a drove of turkeys runnin’ before de hound. Most got rope burns, a few with whip marks. Mens and womens, half nekked,” said Isaac. “Come up Redclay Road from Georgia. De mens what chained up to de cuffey bar. Field niggers.”

“They just fell to their knees, beggin’ for water looking mighty wore out,” said Henry. He was taller than his brothers, the same height as Marsa Thom. He had Ma’s broad face and small nose, blue eyes, short stout hands; stained with the ink from the ledgers in the Railroad office.

“Dirt caked up in their hair,” said Henry.

Louis knocked his pipe against the tree, emptying the hot ash on the dirt. He ground the ash with his shoe. “There’s a special place in hell for those slave speculators.”

Everyone nodded, stayed silent for a moment. Henry drew out his empty pipe as George started to put away his tobacco pouch. “Say,

~ 19

Brother. You s’ppose you could lend me a little?” he said, gesturing to the pouch.

George silently handed his tobacco over to his brother, nodded.

Henry never had a nickel in his pocket; money went through his hands as fast as he got it. He had a way with numbers, could remember long strings of figures. He liked to gamble, had schemes for winning. He seldom did.

“Dey runned dem into Mouse crick, washed dem up, greaze up dere mouf, make dem look good. Dey’s for sale startin’ Wednesday,” said Walter as he took his pipe out of his mouth, pointing it towards town. “Dey’s in de slave barn ‘hind Poe’s tavern.”

Elizabeth’s father, Nat, now dressed in his Sunday suit, walked up to the group. He had heard the end of the conversation.

“Thought I might take some victuals to ‘em later in the eve.”

“I’m wid yo’, said Walter.

“Me too,” said Henry.

“Freemen only, Henry,” said Nat. “Those speculators cain’t be trusted. They’d claim you a runaway, try and collect a reward from Marsa Thom.”

George nodded agreement, “You’d need a pass and you know Marsa Thom’s not truckin’ with you messin’ with speculators.”

Henry nodded, agreeing he should not go. The men all nodded, waiting for someone to speak.

“A sorrowful thing has happened,” said Nat, “A thing of evil.” He withdrew a folded newspaper from his inside breast pocket and began to read: “On March 6, just of late, in Dred Scott v. John Sanford, after lengthy deliberations, the Supreme Court has ruled against Scott 7 to 2. Chief Justice Roger B. Taney gave the majority opinion. Said Taney: Scott could not sue Sanford because he was not a U.S. citizen. Scott was not a citizen because he was both a Black man and a slave. Further,

~ 20

Taney said that Black men ‘had no rights which the White man was bound to respect’.”

Nat looked up from the paper, “The highest court in the land has decreed that a Black man, slave or free, is not a citizen, can never be.

And now, he cain’t be free, even if he gets to a free state. No slave, exslave, or descendant of slaves can ever be a citizen of the United States.”

George had listened, staring at the ground. Angry, he looked up to see all the men overwhelmed by their own reactions. Nat broke the silence. “No rights. Tiz the law of the land.”

“Laws can be changed,” said George.

“Not likely in our lifetimes,” said Nat. He shook his head slowly, then shrugged. “Maybe someday.”

“There’s not gonna be a someday,” said Louis, as he wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “Got to leave this diabolical country.”

Walter and Isaac nodded silently.

“Where you agoin’ to go? Cain’t go to the north, sure cain’t go south,” said Henry.

“You got it better’en most. Talk like that is nothin’ but trouble,” said George, “You know what Marsa Thom said.”

“One day you gonna wake up and I’ll be gone,” said Louis.

George started to speak, but Nat interrupted him. “Don’t quell the spirit, George. The boy’s gotta right to strive for his freedom.”

George looked at his father-in-law, and looked away. He knew Nat was right but also knew that a run to freedom was rough and long.

Most didn’t make it. He didn’t want Louis to get hurt any more than he had already been.

“God knows we all want to be free. Even if you have the money, most Marsa won’t sell. I just don’t see how it’s to be.”

~ 21

Nat smiled, “The Supreme Court is the law of the land, not the law of Heaven.” He paused and looked at each man. “And there’s Liberia.” 2 “Cain’t get to Liberia unless you’re free, and you cain’t get free to get to Liberia,” said Henry.

“There is no end to keeping us from what’s ours,” said George.

George knew about Liberia, had heard the story many times. Though the African utopia had many Black supporters, most freemen wanted to stay in America, their home, claim their share in the country they too built. ≈ A cold clear night descended upon the three men as they drove to town.

The stars were out, no moon yet, but still enough light to make out the road. Isaac drove the battered ore wagon, the reins between the fingers of both hands. Nat sat beside him, Walter in the back with the food and a few worn clothes. They had the leftovers of the basket dinner and some—by now cold—ashcakes wrapped in flour sacks against the dust from the mules’ hooves.

Poe’s Tavern was closed, as it was the Sabbath. The slave barn behind it was dark and quiet. Across the street, Lea’s store and Hacker’s Furniture shop were dark, as was the rest of the street. No lights except one in the barn to the side of C. H. Mills’ Saddlery.

Nat jumped to the ground past the big iron rimmed wheel and looked around while Isaac tied off the reins and took the taillight off its

2 In 1815, an African American Quaker and freeman named Paul Cuffee, financed and

captained a group of ex-slaves wishing to establish a colony in Sierra Leone. He had hoped to take educated Blacks to Africa to teach and create trade with the United States. He died in 1817, his dream unfinished. A group of southern Whites led by Henry Clay took up the idea. They called themselves the American Colonization Society. It was founded and run by southern Whites to “return” free Blacks to Africa. No African Americans were permitted to be members. The ACS formed Liberia on the west coast of Africa. Soon there were Societies across the southern states strongly encouraging the free Blacks to leave; laws expelling freemen were later passed.

~ 22

hook. “Don’t see no one,” Isaac whispered looking at the slave barn.

Walter nodded as he handed the ashcakes to Nat. “At the Railroad Hotel, I’d guess,” Nat said quietly. Walter jumped down and picked up the iron pot and a hand full of wooden spoons. As he swung the pot out of the wagon, it clanked against the rear wheel.

They all froze.

C.H. Mills’ teenage son Jesse, inside the saddlery doing chores, heard the clank, came out to look. “You niggers need some’in’? It’s nigh on curfew.” 3 “No, Suh, Mister Jesse,” replied Isaac. “Just a delivery fo’ de slave barn, is all.”

Jesse held his light out in front of him for a better look, nodded, turned, and went back inside without a word.

The slave barn was made of thick logs, the cracks stuffed with straw, with small iron-barred windows across the top of the wall every ten feet or so. Two stories tall, it had smooth sides and a stout slab-oak roof. It had a faded sign over the door that read ‘W. L. Brown, Speculators’. The door, made of the same thick oak, was closed and cross-barred from the outside. The barnwood had all faded to a dull grey, ghostly in the dim starlight.

The three walked up the dirt path to the door. Not a sound was coming from inside. “It ain’t locked,” whispered Walter.

“Then we ain’t breakin’ in,” Nat whispered. He grabbed the crossbar and lifted it off the door. Isaac pushed open the door, turned the wick up brighter, held the lamp up over his head so he could see past the light. A fetid odor washed over them as they stepped through.

“Smell wourse dan de out’ouse,” mumbled Isaac. He closed the door, bringing the crossbar in with them.

3 The Curfew Law said that no Negro, freeman or slave, could be out past 9 P.M. in the

winter, and 10 P.M in the summer. And no more than four could gather in one place, unless it was for church or a funeral.

~ 23

The floor was covered in straw wet with urine. Against the far wall the men were chained hand and foot to the wall in a seated position.

They were sitting in their own excrement. “Damn,” said Isaac. A scuffling noise came from overhead. A rough ladder leaned against the wall in the corner below a hatch door in the boards above. Isaac and Walter walked down the line of men. Silent squinted stares greeted the passing lamp.

“Everybody just keep still,” said Nat just loud enough for all to hear, “We’re freemen, and we’re here to give y’all some victuals.”

“We’n too?” came a woman’s voice from overhead.

“You too,” said Nat. He groped his way into the dark corner and set the ladder under the hatch. He took three steps up and pushed it open with his shoulder. “Is anyone hurt?” he said into the darkness. The rattle of chains and then quiet. “No mo’ dan us’al,” came the same woman’s voice, “Is’m you real’ free?”

“Free as we cain be in this White man’s world,” said Nat. “Set us’n free, uncl’, plea’,” said a younger woman’s voice from the dark, “My’n man doan’t even know I’s been sold an’ gone. Him be come fro’ his’n plantation for us’n nat’jal visit. De jus’ took me ‘way in de night.” Her voice cracked, “Him doan’t know. My’n babies doan’t know.”

Standing in the dark, Nat’s eyes filled with tears. “I cain’t free you,” Nat whispered. He wiped at his eyes, “I would be condemned to slavery.” Quiet sobs added to one another in the still dark.

“Dose who keeps us divided from our bruders, is doin’ de work of Satan,” said Isaac.

George began to recite the Lord’s Prayer, “Our Father who art in heaven…” Voices joined him one by one, a whispered chorus of hope in the dark. “…hallowed be thy name. Your Kingdom come, thy will be done—” Suddenly a scuffling sound came from outside the door, then a voice. “Hol’ up nigger, or I’ll cut jou down where you’s astandin’!”

~ 24

Nat lowered himself quickly to the floor as the door slammed open.

Henry came stumbling through, eyes wide, hands high, scared, a shotgun in his back. Holding the gun was a thin White man, dark haired, medium height. He had on a dirty worn cotton shirt, pants, tired work boots. He smelled of old sweat, dirt, and grease. He stepped in the barn, looked around in the lamp light. Walter and Isaac stood rock still, holding the pot and spoons.

“What jou niggers think you’s up to?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Stealin’ legal property, seems to me.”

Nat knew that voice: Billy Brown, the slave barn owner. Nat stood, looked at him in the dim light. “Just come over to feed these here coloreds, Mister Brown. That’s all.”

The tip of the gun swung over to Nat. “That’s all, SIR,” he shouted the last word. He wobbled on his feet. He’d been drinking. Hard.

Nat nodded, “Sir,” looking him in the eye.

Brown blinked twice, slowly. “I don’t like your attitude. I don’t like uppity blue-eyed niggers, no how.” He cocked the hammer on the gun.

“We’s all freemen, Suh,” said Walter, distracting him.

“Us’n got papers to prove it, Suh,” said Isaac.

Brown didn’t reply for a moment, the unexpected information drifting into his alcoholic fog. He blinked again. “Let’s see ‘em,” he said, gesturing with the shotgun.

The men all looked at one another. Walter and Isaac both reached into their front shirts and pulled out their packets. Henry, his hands still up in the air, panic-stricken, looked over to Nat who stood-still with his arms by his side. Nat glanced at him then back to Brown. “I’m ‘fraid I don’t have ‘em with me,” said Nat. Brown stared, blinking slowly for a long moment. “So. You claims you free, but you ain’t got no papers. I think you’s a runaway,” said Brown. “And iffen you ain’t, you’s out without a pass. That’s thirty lashes, nigger boy,” he smiled. “Or,” he raised the tip of the gun, “You could get shot tryin’ to run off.” He laughed. “Yes, I believe that’s what happened.” Brown started to raise the gun to his shoulder.

~ 25

Nat would see the events in his memory in slow motion as long as he lived: the gun coming up, Henry shouting, the man turning, Henry grabbing the gun barrel, Henry hitting Brown in the face, the gun firing, the wall next to Nat exploding with splinters, Brown falling backward, hitting his head on the crossbar, lying in a heap.

Stunned by the loud noise and the smoke, no one moved for a moment. Then Henry sagged against the wall behind him as Walter ran to Nat and Isaac ran to Brown and set aside his gun. Isaac felt for a pulse, listened for a heartbeat. “He’s dead drunk, but alive.”

Walter grabbed Nat by both shoulders, “Is you okay?” he asked.

Nat started to shake, broke out in a sweat. “I thought the maker was comin’ for me,” is all he said as Walter helped him to sit down on the bale of straw next to him.

Running footsteps approached the barn. Henry ducked behind the door as Jesse ran up, looked in, saw Brown lying there with blood on his face. “Jesus Christ! You niggers done kilt Mister Brown!” He backed out and ran off down Lea Street shouting for help. Henry bolted out the door, running the other direction.

Nat leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. He said slowly to himself, “Lord have mercy.” ≈ Sheriff Thomas Low paced back and forth in front of the wagon. He was a big man, heavy, thick, and round-shouldered, wore a black, flat brimmed felt hat, a red plaid shirt, and his good pants, still on from church. On the left side of his waist up at his belt, was his holstered pistol. On the other was his bowie knife. His full beard touched his ample chest, as he stared at the ground, arms crossed, listening. Nat sat on the rear gate of the wagon, hands tied in front; Walter and Isaac in the bed of the wagon, hands tied to the side rail. Several White men stood near-by with guns. C.H. Mills, owner of the Saddlery and the deputy sheriff, was there with his son Jesse.

“I tell you, I caught them red-handed,” said Brown, “They’s astandin’ ther’ big as life as I come in!” Brown was leaning on the tie rail

~ 26

at the side of the road, holding a hanky against his forehead where he’d hit his head. “They like to kilt me!”

The sheriff looked around at the three Black men. “Who did you say hit you?” he asked Brown, suddenly turning and looking at him. He watched as Brown squinted at each of the prisoners. Brown’s eyes drifted back and forth.

“I ain’t sure,” he hesitated. “It was dark.”

The sheriff waited, his head tilted like a man making up his mind.

Brown closed his eyes, trying to remember the course of events.

“I saw a nigger outside! In the dark!” Brown remembered. “I marched him in. Him’s the one that hit me!”

“Which one was it?” asked the Sheriff, tilting his head at the wagon. Brown looked at the three again.

His brow narrowed trying to lift the dark and the alcohol from his memory. “I… I ain’t seen his face.”

C. H. spoke up impatiently, “Just pick one, so’s we kin kill ‘im and go on home.” A few White men echoed their agreement.

Sheriff Low held up his hand for quiet, “Ain’t gonna be any killin’ tonight.” He turned to Jesse. “Did you see another nigger?”

Jesse took a step forward. “I wuz in the stable, didn’t see nothin’ ‘till I hears the gun.”

“Did you see the other nigger or not?” Sheriff Low snapped back.

Jesse looked at his father—who frowned—and said quietly, “No sir.”

The Sheriff looked at Nat. “Who was it?”

All eyes turned to Nat. His heart raced. He knew to name Henry was to kill him. He also knew the Lord was listening.

Jimmy Swan, who had played with the Swan slaves as boys, broke the silence. “Wasn’t Isaac or Walter. They’re good boys. They tell the truth.”

The Swan brothers lowered their faces, looking at their bound hands. Sheriff Low pulled at his beard, looked at each of the prisoners in turn, pacing before them, examining their hands, looking for bruises.

~ 27

He stopped close to and in front of Nat. “Someone is going to have to pay for hitting a White man,” he said to Nat, “Who was it?”

Nat sat hardly breathing. He met the sheriff’s stare. “I cain’t say.”

“Say what!?” The sheriff’s face flushed red; he bent over face to face with Nat. There was nervous shuffling from the onlookers.

Nat raised his voice so all could hear, “But I knows I would recognize him if’n I saw him.” He added as a hasty afterthought: “Sheriff sir.” Nat’s eyes pleaded with the sheriff. He nodded ever so slightly.

The sheriff leaned back, grimaced a thin smile. He saw the wisdom: “Then I’m holding you as a witness, ‘till we find ‘im.” ≈ George leaped up the two sand-stone steps on to the stoop and lifted the latch on the white Dutch door at the rear of the big house. It was past ten o’clock and Ma was still in the narrow service porch getting out the dishes and linens for tomorrow’s breakfast. She wore her white ‘big house’ apron; she reached into one of the high cabinets to get down the last of the ‘everyday’ cups as George walked in.

“Last dem folk done gone,” Ma said. “All ‘em comin’ unannounce’, I thought Marsa Swan was gonna stay all de nigh’. Tho’ I woun’t be rushin’ ‘ome to dat ol’ dry-up wife of—” “Ma,” George interrupted. “I needs see Marsa Thom. It’s important.”

As he spoke, Henry came in the door behind him, worry on his face. Henry had his swollen right hand stuffed in his pocket, shifted his weight foot to foot. Ma looked carefully from one to the other.

“Wha’ ju been up to?” Her eyes had that ‘I’m-really-concerned-Idon’t-approve’ look that only mothers know how to give, even to grown sons.

“Ma, everythin’s fine. Just a few things Marsa Thom needs know,” said George, not wanting to worry her. Ma held his gaze for a short moment, then turned to enter the front hall.

~ 28

“Just like all dem mens, never say nutin’,” she muttered, ‘loud talking’ them.

Marsa Thom stepped out into the night air, one suspender over his shoulder, the other dangling. He leaned against the house, crossed his arms to fend off the chill. George stood in the yard, hat in hand, next to Henry, who stared a hole in the ground. Marsa Thom looked tired, the lines in his face deeper than usual. He looked back and forth from Henry and George who waited for him to speak first.

“Mister Swan told me quite a story tonight,” he said slowly. “And that Nat is in jail for hittin’ a White man,” he paused, looked right at Henry. “Or knowin’ who did.”

“Yas, Suh, it be true,’ said George quietly. He too looked at Henry.

“If you want to live to see the sun come up, tell him the truth now.”

Henry looked up at Marsa Thom. “I’m the one did it, not Nat,” he half whispered, adding in a hurry, “to save Nat’s life.” The story poured out of him, confessing, an absolution.

When he was finished, Marsa Thom nodded, scratched the stone porch with his shoe.

“George,” he looked up, not looking at Henry. “Tell your brother to pack his things and stay in the ridge cabin ‘till he hears from you,” Marsa Thom said as he turned and walked into the house, closed the door with a heavy hand.

~ 29

Chapter Three Monday, March 16th, 1857 The jail, a basement room in the courthouse, was long and narrow, lined with stout pine logs damp to the touch. It had no window save the small opening in the cast iron door. It smelled of mold and the dirt floor, only a night jar in the far corner. In the gloom, Nat could just make out the untouched bowl of greasy greens and cornbread that had been his breakfast. He crouched down with his back to the wall and he thought of Caroline, serving breakfast to the children, worrying about him. “I’m alright,” he said out loud as if she could hear, “God will provide.” Nat heard footsteps approach; the cross bar lifted. The door opened and Sheriff Low waved Nat out. “My office,” he said. Nat gathered himself up, brushed the dirt off his clothes, and stepped through the door, followed the Sheriff.

The courthouse was one big room, sandwiched with county offices on the two long sides of the rectangular room. Four large sets of windows, two at each end near the stairways, provided light. Wooden benches sat along the walls, to be used as waiting benches, as now, or could be pulled out to make a courtroom for the circuit judge. Several White men, well dressed, sat on a bench waiting for the offices to open, quietly talking among themselves. Two Black men, one mopping, the other drying the polished wood floor, stopped and nodded to Nat as he and the Sheriff passed by. Even this early, the ‘Black telegraph’ had spread the word about last night.

Through the window, Nat saw George standing next to Calloway’s horse and buggy, trying to peer in. The Sheriff opened the door to his office and gently pushed in Nat. Thom Calloway and Captain Will Grant, who had been sitting quietly across from the Sheriff’s desk, turned and looked at Nat. They both looked tired. The Sheriff nodded to both men, sat in his chair, and waited. Nat stood quietly, knowing that in this room, this day, he had to be the ‘good’ Negro, speak only when spoken too. Grant crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair, and looked

~ 30

out the window. Calloway sighed deeply and spoke. “Brown wants to have you strung up. He and Acock have been up drinking all night, getting more foolish with every drop.” He sighed again. “What happened?”

Nat glanced at Captain Will, then back. Calloway followed his gaze, nodded.

“Go on,” said Captain Will.

Nat told the story in detail, how Brown had tried to kill him, even adding the fact that he had told Henry not to come near the slave barn.

“But,” he concluded,” I’d be gone without him.” The three White men nodded in silence.

“That’s the same way Henry told it,” Calloway said to the Sheriff, “I presume we have a deal?” Again, the three White men nodded. Grant spoke slowly to Nat, “Outside of this room, you’ll stick to your story that you don’t know who the fourth darkie was.” Nat nodded agreement.

“Henry will be sent away, never to return, on pain of death,” Calloway whispered, “He hit a White man, even if he saved you, it’s no excuse.” In the silence, Nat could hear the creaking of the wooden building.

“And you’ll get twenty-five lashes in the town square at noon,” said the Sheriff.

Nat started to protest, was waved to silence by Grant, “We can’t let you off. If we put you in jail, Brown will kill you when you get out. If he sees blood, he’ll take it as just punishment.”

“I’ll see to it,” said the Sheriff. He turned to Nat. “He wanted a hundert.”

Nat knew this was the best he could get and nodded. The deal was done. ≈ The sun stood high over the hills, steeply baking the old oaks and half dead grass on Cleveland’s town square. The bare tree limbs were beginning to leaf out, throwing a spider web of shadows on the ground.

~ 31

The clock on the courthouse steeple faced the square, high over the steps to the entrance door. It was eleven-thirty as Nat, hands tied, was escorted out and tethered to a large tree in front. He stood in the shade of a big branch, looking at the whipping post out in the sun, the black caked dirt below a reminder of the blood that had soaked it. Nat had seen old man Kincannon whip a runaway slave to death on this post.

Kincannon had Bob tied up by his hands, his toes barely touching the dirt. He laid into his runaway with furious force, eyes shining at the screaming. When the man was still alive after a hundred lashes, Kincannon had stopped, exhausted. He had gotten a picnic lunch, read the paper, glancing up occasionally when the slave moaned, the blood draining out of him. Captain Grant had offered to dispatch Bob with a single shot; Kincannon called him “soft headed”. When Kincannon was rested, he continued shredding the flesh off Bob until he quit twitching.

Brown and Acock stood across the road beyond the post, in front of Brashear’s Saloon, silently passed a brown glass hip flask between them. They looked around at the sparse crowd; mainly they stared at Nat like grey timber wolves on the hunt. Sheriff Low was holding a stout bull whip, leaning against the tree next to Nat. “No wind to speak of,” said Sheriff Low. He nodded in the direction of Brown and Acock. “Those two look like trouble,” he said to his deputy, C.H., who threw a glance over at them.

“They’ll leave as soon as they get what they come for,” C.H. said, smiling at Nat. Nat looked up to see the men in his family walking up Ocoee Street. They walked towards the center of the dirt street carefully avoiding eye contact with any of the Whites leaning against the surrounding buildings and hitching rails along the sidewalks. The lowlevel voices fell silent as the men passed by each knot of Whites, resumed as they passed. The Blacks stopped on the southeast corner near the courthouse where slaves always waited while their masters were inside. Nat’s older brother John, along with George and Louis,

~ 32

Walter and Isaac Swan all looked at Nat. With them were Nat’s sons, Leander, 15, and young Johnnie, 9. Nat felt his face sweat, his hands turn cold. His humiliation would last generations.

Nat turned to Sheriff Low and said, “Gag me so my boys don’t hear me cry out.”

The Sheriff looked at Nat’s pleading eyes, nodded.

“It’s gettin’ to be noon. Take off your shirt,” the Sheriff said with a sideways tilt of his head. C.H. untied Nat’s hands and trained his rifle on him. Nat looked him in the eye while he removed his shirt.

“Don’t worry, Mista Mills, I’m not givin’ you any reason to shoot me in the back,” he said. C.H. flushed pink and lifted his rifle to strike him.

The Sheriff held up his hand, “Stop! I do the hittin’,” he said. He turned to Nat. “No more uppity nigger talk, or I’ll hit you an extry five out there. You got that?” Nat looked down at the ground.

“Yas, Suh.” The Sheriff pulled his bowie knife out and cut off one of Nat’s sleeves, bound it around his mouth while C.H. retied Nat’s hands, this time a bit too tight. The square fell silent as Nat was walked out to the post and was tied, hands high overhead. The shops and saloon emptied into the street, the crowd drawing closer. The Sheriff looked up at the clock, now a few minutes past noon, and waited. Brown and Acock began catcalling and heckling the Sheriff. “Get goin’, watch you waitin’ fur?” The Sheriff ignored the men, turned to C.H. “Go tell ‘em to shut up ‘til this is over.” C.H. looked at the two drunks, and then back to the Sheriff, not moving. “Go on.” As C.H. reluctantly turned to go, “Tell them the drinks are on me.”

The sound of wheels was heard echoing off the town hall before Will Grant’s carriage came into view with Thom Calloway riding next to him, stopping at the end of the brick path to the courthouse. The two men looked around, did not alight. All eyes upon him, Grant nodded slightly to the Sheriff.

~ 33

Sheriff Low shook out his bullwhip, turned to Nat. “Keep your eyes closed and your face to the post. Wouldn’t want to blind you if I miss.”

Nat leaned his head against the pole, closed his eyes. He heard the Sheriff step away three paces, heard the whistle of the leather. Despite his determination, he jerked with the first blow. And felt the pain.

The crowd watched closely, looked to see Nat’s mettle. Some White women quickly left, the remaining Whites stared, fascinated by another’s misfortune. Brown counted the lashes out loud.

Leander’s eyes filled with tears of rage and love; all of Nat’s menfolk looked drawn. Johnnie, the youngest, turned his face into his brother’s chest, sobbing with each stroke of the whip.

Nat made no sound until the last few lashes, the pain driving all else from his mind, blood cascading on to his pants, his legs no longer supporting him.

The Sheriff wound up his whip as Nat’s brother John and George ran over to Nat with a blanket. C.H. waited for the nod from the Sheriff, cut Nat down from the post into George’s arms. John pulled the gag off Nat, could see he was in a bad way.

“We’s got to get Doc Bates. He be pullin’ away from us.”

A small commotion broke out at the saloon. Brown strode out drunkenly with a small burlap bag in hand.

“Hol’ up!” he shouted. “Salt for his back! That’ll learn him good!”

He reached his hand into the bag for the salt. John and George, pretending not to hear him, quickly wrapped up Nat in the blanket.

“You niggers stop when I tell you!” Brown shouted and grabbed for the blanket. Sheriff Low’s big hand clamped down on Brown’s arm.

“Just you wait,” he said, pulling Brown to face him. Behind Brown’s back, John and George hefted up Nat and quickly carried him to the back of Grant’s carriage.

“That boy is under the protection of Captain Grant. An’ ‘less you’re too drunk to think straight, he’s a very good shot.”

Brown looked past the Sheriff to see Nat being carried towards the carriage, his sons John and Leander held on to his hands. And beyond,

~ 34

next to Calloway, the Captain himself carefully polished his pistol, studiously ignoring Brown and the Sheriff.

“I owe you a drink,” said the Sheriff, pushing Brown back towards the saloon, “He’ll likely die an-away from the festerin’.” ≈ George sat astride Cloudy, the big grey plow horse Marsa Thom let him use when needed; Nat’s blood still stained the sleeves on his shirt. The horses’ hoofs thumped along, occasionally cracking a small twig; the active chatter of the forest animals’ evening forage could be heard over the heavy breathing of the horses. Just ahead on the trail Marsa Thom rode his hot-blooded filly, Cleopatra, a chestnut brown, up the short incline approaching the ridge cabin. Set in the tall slender pines, it commanded a view of much of East Tennessee, the valley below lapping into the haze of the mountains beyond. The sun was setting into a lazy notch in the next ridge as they rode up without a word. Marsa Thom hadn’t said much of anything for most of the afternoon. The two men dismounted, and George took both horses over to the nearby tree, tied them up.

The cabin door opened, and Louis stepped out on to the small porch.

“Henry ain’t feelin’ too good,” he said. He held a gallon clay jug by the handle. The smell of bourbon corn whiskey and sour vomit wafted out the door.

“Bring your brother out here,” Marsa Thom said.

Louis nodded sharply, stepping back into the cabin as George entered. He squinted into the dark one room cabin, past the pine board table and roughhewn chairs. Next to the fireplace were two small cots against the wall. There lay Henry in his rumpled suit, a dark pool on the dirt floor next to him, passed out cold. “Damn, Henry,” George whispered to himself.

“I think he tried to drink himself to death,” said Louis. “When he sobers up, he’ll wish he had.”

~ 35

“Let’s get him outside, and get this over with,” said George as he bent over Henry to pick him up. “Grab his arm.”

George and Louis dragged their comatose brother out the door, each with an arm around their shoulder holding his wrist, each of them holding up Henry by the belt with their other hand. Marsa Thom’s shoulders sagged a bit as he looked at Henry. He reached out and tilted Henry’s bobbling head back to see his face. He stared for a moment, distracted; whatever he might have said to Henry was not to be. He turned to George.

“Take him down to Chattanooga tomorrow. An agent for Mister Metoyer, in New Orleans will meet you there at the dock.” He handed George an envelope.

“Here’s his travel pass, a copy of the telegram to Lavoisier the agent, and a letter for Metoyer.” Marsa Thom looked back at Henry for a long moment, finally turning and walking towards his horse.

“Don’t bring him anywhere near the farm,” he said without turning, “and bring me back the receipt.” George and Louis watched Marsa Thom mount up and ride into the deepening night. He never looked back.

~ 36

Chapter Four Tuesday, March 17th, 1857 George fell exhausted into bed, Elizabeth and the baby sound asleep. It was only a couple of hours before dawn, and he had to get Henry on the six o’clock train. The East Tennessee and Georgia Railroad would take them first into Dalton, Georgia, there to transfer, and then take a train back west to Chattanooga. Too bad the cut off tunnel straight south through the mountains was not finished; wouldn’t be open for another year yet.4 They’d ride with the mail and packages; they weren’t allowed to sit in the coach car, even if Marsa Thom owned most of the railroad, and paid their full fare.

George restlessly rolled over and looked at Elizabeth. She opened her eyes, red and puffy from crying. “How’s Henry?”

“Passed out drunk.”

She nodded slowly. “Sounds right,” she said. “What’s gonna happen to him?”

“Marsa Thom is renting him to a man in New Orleans.”

“Oh sweet Jesus,” she whispered. “Down the river.”

Sold ‘down the river’ meant to never be seen again; sold in Memphis or New Orleans to a sugar, cotton, or rice plantation. It was rough, hot, nasty work, bent over all day. If you cut yourself with the cane knife, you would likely die of infection. If not, likely you’d be dead in a few years anyway, worked to death without enough food. Keeping the slaves weak from lack of food made it easier to keep them in line. It was where ‘unbreakable’ difficult ‘troublemakers’ went.

George just looked at her and nodded, wanted to say something that would make them both feel better.

4 The Cleveland – Chattanooga tunnel opened May 14th, 1858, after three years of

construction.

~ 37

“Marsa Thom is renting him, not selling. Hope to God it keeps him safe. Anyway, won’t take Billy Brown long to figger out what happened. This way he’s gotta chance.”

She closed her eyes, knew there was nothing more to be done. He reached out to kiss her just as the door flew open. Johnnie Grant stood in the doorway.

“Come quick! Leander says come quick! Pa is gettin’ worser!”

George heaved himself up onto his feet. “No sleep this night,” he sighed. He kissed Elizabeth and the baby, followed out the door after Johnnie, one arm in his jacket sleeve, pulled the door closed behind him.

The night rain had filled the wagon tracks with ice-cold water.

More and more mud stuck to George’s boots as he made his way through town, Johnnie trailing behind. The effort of walking fast with their feet gaining weight at every step robbed their breath; their worries silenced. They cut along Church Street, passing the Methodist, Baptist, and the Presbyterian churches; Harle’s general store, so as not to pass the town square and the whipping post. The doctor’s offices were all in the next block; all faced the Presbyterian Church. On the northwest corner was Doc Bates’ office, above the Cleveland Banner newspaper.

Light glowed from Robert McNelley’s office, the owner, already at work. George had been there many afternoons watching the boys set type, giving a hand delivering the printing paper from the rail yard, or picking up the printed paper for Marsa Thom. He always read the paper after Marsa Thom was finished with it, but never on the way home. It was against the law for slaves to know how to read, he didn’t want to cause Marsa Thom any trouble.

They passed the Lea’s house and rounded the corner to Nat’s church where the lamplight was growing dim in the early dawn. They scraped their boots, walked up the few steps, and opened the door.

Nat lay on his stomach on two shoved-together benches under the window. On each side of him a lamp was turned up brightly, almost to the point of smoking. A blanket covered his legs and feet. Standing next to him on one side were Doc Bates and Captain Grant, on the other sat

~ 38

Caroline. Leander was sleeping on the floor by his father’s feet, exhausted by the day. Unusual that the Doc would be here at this hour, but Captain Grant was here, so Doc Bates would want to show himself for, if nothing else, the fees he would charge. All three turned their heads towards the door, Caroline stood as George and Johnnie came in.

Her face was drawn, eyes almost immobile from fear and pain. Johnnie rushed into his mother’s arms.

Caroline had belonged to the Eldridge family. Like her daughter Elizabeth, she was often mistaken for White by strangers; she had straight light brown hair, pale skin, and green eyes. She had been sold to Captain Grant as a house servant. Eight years his junior, Nat said he loved her all his life.

Nat’s eyes were closed, he was feverish, breathing rapidly, arms hanging to the floor.

“He’s poorly,” Caroline said. “He’s lost so much blood.”

“He’s not come out of the coma since the whippin’,” said Doc Bates.

“Can he hear us?” Johnnie asked.

Doc Bates shook his head then shrugged, “I really don’t know.”

“I’ve sent for some flowers of sulfur,” said Captain Grant. “I want you to grind them, put the powder in the wounds.” George and Caroline exchanged glances. “Saw the Indians in the Mexican War do it.

Put in the sulfur, cover it up,” Captain Grant said. “Made lots of puss, kept the wounds active. Most lived if the cuts weren’t far gone.”

Doc Bates nodded, “Worth a try.”

~ 39

George sighed. He looked at Caroline, “Is there any thing I can do for you?” Caroline shook her head and sat down heavily, Johnnie on the floor beside her, put his head in her lap.

“Excuse me, Cap’n, Doc, I have a train to catch,” George said. The men nodded knowingly to one another; he took one last look at Nat. There was nothing left to say. ≈ George leaned out the freight car door as the sooty grey steam puffed out of the top of the locomotive, each puff coming quicker than the last.

The train pulled away from the Cleveland depot as he waved goodbye to Louis, sat back down on the boxes bound for Savanna and other places south; the interconnected line ran the length of the South, was the backbone that took the raw materials of the south to be the finished goods from the factories of the North. He looked over at Henry, who sat holding his head, unable to keep anything down. The rocking of the train made him moan even louder, then gag. George turned back to the open door, the Calloway farm slipping away behind.

“Marsa Thom came to say goodbye,” said George. Henry looked up with watery eyes, forcing them to focus.

“When?”

“At the cabin last night. You were dead to the world, behind all that drinkin’.”

Henry closed his eyes, started to gag, opened them again. “What did he say?”

“Not a word. He looked at you for a moment,” George paused, “Looked like he was gonna cry. Then he turned and left.”

Henry put his head down between his legs and sobbed a few deep choking breaths. George sat down beside Henry, offered him water from a wood canteen; Henry waved it away. “I did nothin’ wrong. I saved Nat’s life.”

George nodded. “Maybe. Right now, Nat’s hanging on by a hair’s breadth.” George put his hand on his brother’s shoulder to take away a

~ 40

little of the pain. “You were where you not s’post to be. You just gonna have to accept that.”

Henry looked at George, his eyes filled with tears; he turned and stared out of the open door. All that he knew was passing out of his life. ≈ George and Henry stepped off the train platform in Chattanooga just after Eight O’clock that night. The train ride had been exhausting.

Seems everyone was looking for a couple of runaways, and there was a reward of fifty dollars, more than two months wages for a White man, for whoever caught them. There had been handbills at every station: Runaways, two young Negros, short and stocky, dark field hands, direct from Guinea, one with the fingers missing on his left hand, answers to Bob, the other Zeus. $50 reward for the return of the property, in prime condition, on delivery to the county bailiff.

Though George and Henry didn’t match the description, every station master and pattyroller at every stop had wanted to see their papers and passes, even though Mister Cooper, the White brakeman, had told them he’d checked the papers.

The night air was crisp; they could see their breath as they walked the mile to Ross’s Landing on the riverfront. Chattanooga sat between the rail station on the east and the Tennessee River on the west. Situated on a bluff above a bend in the river, the town had a good view of the water, Lookout Mountain beyond to the south, and the Missionary Ridge hills to the east and north. Long past supper, the storefronts were dark, few people on the street. The sidewalk clunked dully at each step as they walked. Henry shifted the heavy carpet satchel from hand to hand. Elizabeth had packed for Henry the one good travel bag the family had. It had been a gift from Captain Grant when she married George. The irony of giving a travel bag to a slave apparently never bothered the Captain.

~ 41

“Wood sidewalks. I’ve never seen so many wood sidewalks,” said Henry.

“There’s lots to see in this world, Henry.” They walked along in silence, not knowing what to say. What was there to talk about when both men knew nothing could change what the future was going to be?

“I’ve never really felt like goin’ far from home, myself,” said George. “Too many crazy people.”

“I’ll write and tell you all about it,” Henry smiled weakly, “All the new things I’m gonna see.”

“And that’s what I’m gonna tell Ma.” Henry stopped and turned to George. “I didn’t say goodbye.”

George nodded. “Marsa Thom said not to bring you to the farm.”

Henry’s eyes betrayed his despair. “I’ll be back one day… I promise. Tell Ma. I promise.”

George nodded, “I will.” Both men again fell silent as they walked on down towards the water. They could smell the wet odor of the riverbanks before them, feel the increasing cold as they walked, leaving the town behind.

The riverboat ‘Ben Campbell’ was tied up alongside the bank, a bright light coming from the saloon on the top passenger deck and another lamp at the end of the gangway resting on the muddy grass. On the highest deck a short mast held a single anchor light. At one hundred fifty-eight feet long, ‘Ben Campbell’ had two full height paddlewheels on each side; with two full length decks, captain’s quarters on a third deck, and topped by the pilot house with a whistle at the rear. Thin wisps of smoke rose above her twin stacks. Painted white, she threw a ghostly outline against the night. At the far end of the boat, a Black work gang was loading on firewood from a huge pile of logs, piece by piece, hand to hand, in a human chain. The wood was stacked neatly along the lower foredeck on both sides, crammed deck-to-overhead, ready to slide into her massive steam boilers. Another line of ‘alongshore-men’ pushed barrels of whiskey and salted meat up the gangway

~ 42

and into the shallow hold, bound for points south, eventually to the Ohio River and then the Mississippi River and New Orleans.

George watched his brother gape at the boat.

“This is the biggest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Henry, “Bigger than a train engine.”

George smiled. He remembered the day he’d first seen a riverboat.

“I hear tell they’re even bigger down-river.” Henry just shook his head and stared. ≈ Antoine Lavoisier was a White man, medium build, in his mid-thirties.

He had a hawkish face, close set dark eyes, and thin beard. He was dressed in the fashion of New Orleans, full three-piece wool suit in the latest French style, ochre in color, brown silk top hat rather than beaver fur, a large and brightly colored yellow and orange cravat. He spoke in a clipped Arcadian soft drawl.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Suh,” he said extending his hand to George, “and you, Henry.” He pronounced it “on-ree” in the Cajun way.

George had never been offered the hand of a White gentleman before. He looked at the outstretched hand and hesitated. Lavoisier didn’t flinch.

“Yes, sir, Mister,” George replied, taking the offered hand, lest he insult this stranger.

Lavoisier was a landed gentleman, a slave holder, a descendent of the many French-Canadians forced to flee to Louisiana during the French and Indian War with the British during the 1750s. Arcadians, or Cajuns, as they were called, had a system of laws and values based on Napoleonic principles. These included rights for free men of color and minor protections for slaves. Lavoisier had a mulatto mistress in New Orleans with whom he sired three children, all ‘finished’ in France, all prominent leaders of the free Negro community, who, in peaceful stasis with Whites, ran New Orleans.

~ 43

Augustine Metoyer, Creole, plantation owner, slave holder, was such a man. He was patriarch of the Metoyer family, and leader of the ‘gens de couleur libre’ of New Orleans. Henry was rented to Metoyer for the next year.

“That is all your baggage?” said Lavoisier, smiling, holding the telegram and letter from Marsa Thom.

The three men were standing on the lower foredeck of the riverboat, the last of the whiskey barrels being loaded behind them, the boatswain barking orders to the crew. The dull thunk of wood sliding into the boilers vibrated up through the deck, as the stokers fed the fireboxes, making steam to get underway.

“Yes sir,” Henry said softly, looking at his bag in his hands, head down.

Lavoisier studied him for a moment. “Do not fear, Henry. Monsieur Metoyer is a just man. He’s a man of color such as yourself.”

George and Henry exchanged glances, stared at Lavoisier.

“A Negro plantation owner?” said Henry, narrowing his eyes.

Lavoisier nodded. “You will serve him well, and no harm will come to you.” Lavoisier turned to George. He reached in his coat, withdrew an envelope, handed it to George. “This is your delivery receipt of Henry for Monsieur Calloway. And here,” he withdrew a small red leather purse, “is the agreed payment, one year’s rent in advance.”

George opened the purse. Inside was twenty $10 gold pieces. It was the customary rent, one tenth the value of the slave per year. He nodded, quickly put the purse into his pocket. He reached out and grasped his brother’s hand, placing a silver dollar in his palm. Lavoisier turned his back politely.

“Speak when you’re spoken to, do as you’re told, and stay out of trouble,” said George. “We’ll all be here waitin’ for you to get back.”

Henry nodded, trying not to cry, not succeeding. The emotional disruption of this moment on his short life struck hard. The boat whistle interrupted, its harmonic shrill sounding departure; George quickly

~ 44

hugged his brother before making his way ashore. George turned and looked at Henry, barely fifteen; a thin young man off on an uncertain journey, hoping, as all young men do, for adventure, reluctant to leave home.

George watched as the gangplank was pulled aboard, the deck hands retrieved the dock lines, securing them carefully on the bollards.

With a long whistle blow and a potent cloud of steam, the big wheels began turning, pushing the riverboat out into the current of the Tennessee, into the dim light of grey dawn. George waved, Henry waved back. He watched his brother recede on the aft deck until the turn of the river took him, and the boat, from view. George was certain he would never see him again. Indeed, two years later, a letter from Metoyer would tell of the disappearance of Henry, asking he be returned if found.

George could not know that the next time he saw Henry, their world would be changing in ways neither could now imagine.

~ 45

Chapter Five Thursday, March 19th, 1857 The sun was already up when George opened his eyes. He’d slept hard, did not remember any dreams, just Henry’s face as he waved goodbye.

George ran the events of the past days over in his mind and couldn’t see what else anyone could have done. He rose from the bed, stretched. He rubbed at his eyes, wiping the sleep from them with his sleeve, pulled up his overalls, and made ready to face the day. Elizabeth and the baby Caroline were already gone up to the kitchen house to help Ma with the day’s chores; she had left two ashcakes and shredded pork in a wood bowl on the table in the other room. He grabbed the bowl and went out into the yard, splashed water on his face, washed his hands, and stuffed the food in his mouth as he walked up the small hill to the barn. He’d come in late, well after midnight, as it had taken him the better part of a day to get back from Chattanooga. The train had hit a deer, it had gotten tangled up in the front trucks of the engine, and they had to stop to make repairs; by then they were low on firewood. He wound up on the night mail train from Dalton to Knoxville, seventy-two miles out of his way, which stopped at every town, hamlet, and large farm that had mail and newspapers coming or going. George didn’t know there were so many people who could read.

The horses, milk cows, and the pigs were already outside of the barn, snorting around for food in the pastures; a few chickens scratched in the straw on the floor. The young rooster crowed at George, challenging him to stay outside, protecting the barn as if it were his.

George noted he would have to cut the spurs on him to keep him from attacking the young children out in the yard. George checked that the hay mangers were full, decided that the stalls needed to be mucked out.

He’d have to hire on a hand for a few days to catch up with the work while he figured out how to spread Henry’s chores around.

~ 46

George looked out the barn door at the kitchen house. He knew he had to go talk to Ma and tell her about Henry. He’d worked on his story on the train, rehearsing it until it made some kind of sense even to him.

What he said now would have to be good enough to get her through until Henry came home. Who knew how long that would be?

George entered the kitchen, let his eyes adjust to the light level. Ma stood with her back to the door, kneading bread on the old oak table and didn’t turn around even though she heard him come in. Elizabeth stirred a big kettle on the stove by the far wall, greeted George.

“Good morning, husband. You still hungry?” She rolled her eyes in Ma’s direction, he looked over, nodded.

He crossed the room, took a deep breath, put his hands on both of Ma’s shoulders and turned her around gently. Tears rolled down her face, her arms hung by her sides. She wouldn’t look up at him. A pain shot through George’s body, head to toe. It hurt him to see his mother so bereft.

“Henry said to tell you goodbye. He said he’d write.” Ma just stood there, crying. “He’s gonna be alright. He’s been rented, not sold, says right on the receipt paper. He’ll be back in a year, Ma. And he’ll still be alive.”

Her shoulders dropped; she looked ten years older than she was.

Not a word came from her. This was going even worse than George had expected. Ma should be yelling at the devil by now. George searched for something, anything to say to make her, and himself, feel better.

“He was rented to a free colored man in New Orleans. At least that’s something—" She looked up at him, “Peables nebba come back from de river,” Ma said, turning away.

Baby Caroline fussed in her basket, Elizabeth picked her up, both began to cry. George tried to hug his mother, but she pushed him away, “I cain’t hug de son dat cast out his brod’er.”

For the first time since ‘the troubles’ began, George wept.

~ 47

≈ George sat alone in the outer waiting room of the Ocoee Bank, waiting to see Marsa Thom. It was near noon, and Marsa Thom would soon go home for dinner. George sat with his hands in his pockets, fingering the coin purse, not wanting to withdraw it in public, lest he reveal its contents. It seemed like the coins themselves were warm to the touch, generating heat, and he didn’t want the evil money in his possession. As he looked around the room, he took in the familiar furniture, most of it made by Nat Grant. Though Nat was a freeman, Caroline wasn’t, still belonged to Capt. Grant. Since by law all children belonged to the mother, Nat’s children were slaves of Capt. Grant. Not that Capt. Grant interfered in their lives. But it meant that Nat could never really leave, take his family anywhere else.

The substantial Ocoee Bank building sat on the corner of Ocoee and South streets, facing the town square and courthouse. It was made of the local variegated marble and dark slate, the latest in iron bars on the door and windows. Next door was Mill’s general store. Out of the east window George could see the Hardwick home; out of the north, the whipping post and Brashear’s saloon beyond.

The two teller’s windows were on the west wall with the big safe behind them. Next to the safe was Mary’s desk, and in the rear corner that of the bank manager’s, young Mister Jimmy Swan. Only one teller’s window was ever open; Mary Payne, Marsa Thom’s bank clerk, sometimes helped the wealthy landowners at the other window if the regular line was too long, which was in the fall when the crops came in and the farmers would be paying for their seed money from the spring; and right before Christmas.

George knew Mary well, as she and Louis grew up playing together; they were the same age, born the same year. Her father, John Payne, the town Clerk, was a widower, and Ma had looked after Mary when he worked at the courthouse. They had all played many a game of hide-n-seek in the evening twilight. George could remember the nights Louis, nine, cried himself to sleep over Mary as she was becoming a

~ 48

‘proper’ White girl, and Louis, a Colored boy, couldn’t play with her ever again. Ma had explained to all the boys that this was for everybody’s good.

“This here a White man worl’, doan’t you never fo’get. You nebber look or touch their womens. Else you’a be dead.”

George thought that Louis never did get over it. Maybe that’s why he had run off so many times.

The door to the office opened, Mary exited, smiled at George.

“Mister Calloway will see you now.”

George knew none of this formality was necessary, but Mary had grown away from them, and didn’t want George to think they were on informal terms.

She stopped for a moment. “What do you hear of Nat?” “He’s out of the coma, but still poorly,” he said.

“Tell him I wish him a quick recovery,” she said as she turned to go.

“Thank you, Missy Mary, I will,” he said, rising. He wondered why she never married. To hear the older women tell, she’d had a good offer.

But now she was twenty-six and an old maid.

George stood in front of Marsa Thom’s large sugar maple desk, waiting, two respectful feet from the edge. The room was ornate with heavy curtains and over-sized chairs. The cloth on the chairs and the curtains on the window behind the desk matched; it was a brown and black flower pattern, woven, not printed, that Miz Susan had ordered from Boston. The brass lamps had frosted globes, with long chimneys to keep down the smoke; sugar maple shelves lined the wall on the far end, brightly varnished. Stacks of folded legal documents sat neatly tied in bundles on the shelves. Marsa Thom sat behind his big desk, reading the receipt from Lavoisier by the window, the coin purse on the desk next to the letter. As he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, it seemed to George that he’d had time to read the letter three times over.

~ 49

Marsa Thom swiveled away from the sunlight, stood up, and took down a leather portfolio, untying it. He placed the letter in it, retied it and put it back. He turned to George, looked directly at him.

“I have not, nor will I ever, sell one of the household slaves,” he said.

They both knew what he meant: he would not sell his Black family.

Marsa Thom stood there looking at George, clearly expecting a response. George didn’t know what to say. Did he want George to confirm that renting Henry was the only option? That he was full of regret? Did he understand that Henry was as good as gone?

“Yes Suh,” nodded George. Marsa Thom still said nothing, waiting.

“What’s done is done, Suh.” Marsa Thom nodded; George looked down at his shoes, feeling himself flush with heat.

“Take the money, George,” Marsa Thom said softly. “I want you to have it.”

George lifted his eyes to the red purse on the desk. Marsa Thom had never touched it. George shook his head, looked directly at Marsa Thom.

“He’s my brother, Suh.” Marsa Thom started to speak, stopped, his face turned red. “You will do as I tell you,” he cliped each word.

George’s heart pumped in his ears, his breath quickening. He could not disobey. He didn’t want the money. Blood Money. The work of the devil.

“I’ll hold on to it, Suh,” he said. He’d hold it but would never take it. Twenty pieces of gold. It was the money of Judas. ≈ George looked down on Nat in his bed. The stitches of boiled thread looked good, and Nat could talk clearly if only at a whisper. He had been delirious most of the two days George had been gone. The flowers of sulfur had worked, and as promised, there was lots of puss and swelling, but no infection. Caroline changed the bandages three times a

~ 50

day, as she was doing that moment. Nat wanted the wounds left uncovered so they would dry up, crust over, and begin to heal.

“Leave it be, Caroline,” Nat said in a hoarse voice, “let God do the healing.” He started to sit up, thought better of it, and turned onto his side to look at George.

“Seems to me that God needs a little help,” Caroline said. Nat smiled at his wife. “I’ll stay in the bed.”

Caroline nodded, gathered the bandages and bowl of water on the dresser, left the room.

“Good you’re back safe George,” she said as she closed the pine board door.

Nat and Caroline’s cottage was a three-room square building, set in the woods behind the Grant’s house. It had a railed front porch, glass windows, and doors between the rooms. It sat near the summer kitchen in the back yard. Through the open woods was a wide path that led to Nat’s church. Standing in the bedroom, George could see the top of the church and the cross above it, soft white clouds beyond. Other slave quarters lined both sides of the path, none of them like Nat’s.

Nat had built the pine bed with a high headboard to lean against and a footboard for the extra blanket. The dresser, nightstand, potty chair—so Caroline wouldn’t have to walk out to the outhouse at night— and vanity were all made of the same wood from the same tree, quarter sawn to present the grain of the wood, and finished with a mixture of linseed oil and beeswax. The walnut inlay was carved in the same curved pattern as the furniture in Captain Grant’s house. It was beautiful.

George sat on the woven willow and pine chair next to the bed, sighed heavily.

“These events of late weigh mightily on my mind,” George said.

Nat looked at George, closed his eyes, waited.

“I can’t change what’s happened, though I would,” George admitted awkwardly. “Thank you for saving Henry’s life.”

~ 51

Without opening his eyes, Nat smiled faintly and nodded. George went on.

“Keepin’ in mind all your sufferin’, you should have this.” He took out the coin purse with the two hundred dollars in it and placed it on the bed in front of Nat. “It’s money from renting Henry down the river.”

Nat looked at George, then down at the red purse. Moving slowly, so as not to tear the stitches, he opened it and looked in.

“Blood money,” George said, “I reckon both yours and Henry’s.”

“Cain’t take this, George,” said Nat, looking directly at him.

“How’d you come by it?”

“Marsa Thom wouldn’t take it. He knows it to be the money of Judas.”

Nat knew George was right. “Even more so, I cain’t—” “Use it for the poor, some bibles, sisters and brothers in need,” George interrupted. “If we don’t gain by it, then good can come of it.”

Nat could see how the money might do God’s work. “We’ll wash away the sin of injustice,” said Nat. “Amen,” said George.

~ 52

Chapter Six Thursday, July 4th, 1857 The American flag, thirty-one stars strong5, flew on the pole in front of Cleveland City Hall. Red, white, and blue bunting hung across the front windows of the red brick building, where Tennessee Assemblyman Rowles would champion the greatness of Bradley County in the late afternoon, and the town band would play. It was market day but there would be folks staying late, after dark, to see the fireworks. In the bright mid-morning light, farmers set their wares out on tables and the back of their wagons, around the square. Hams, bacon, flour and bread, tomatoes, sweet potatoes, corn and okra, fresh peaches and cherries, mountain strawberries, lemonade, both hard and soft; beer by the bucket, hard cider, sassafras tea, homemade root beer were all for the partaking; price only one copper penny a glass. The boy at Brashear’s Saloon put out a chalkboard sign that read: Tennessee Whisky! A full tin cup for a silver half dime!

Folks staked out their patch of lawn, picnic baskets marking their family groupings; the prominent families up front, descending by unspoken rank towards the boardwalk behind them on Ocoee Street.

Young kids buzzed around the patchwork of blankets, running through the alleys of grass, fighting with sticks, playing, and laughing.

Louis, his suit coat slung over the seat, hauled up on the reins of the buckboard wagon he was driving away from Mr. Lea’s Store. Two White women were crossing the street, and he stopped to make way.

Studiously avoiding looking at the pair, he surveyed the open square; few Black faces were present, later they would be standing in the street, holding the reins of their owners’ horses during the town’s celebration of freedom. Perched on the seat, Louis adjusted the rim of his new wide-brimmed felted grey wool hat, tilting it back in a rakish style.

5 Flown July 4th, 1851 to July 3 rd, 1858.

~ 53

“Louis,” a woman’s voice commanded. He looked to his right.

“Miss Mary,” he said. Mary Payne, his childhood friend, was carrying an arm load of fresh vegetables. She was a thin woman, kind round brown eyes, a pinched nose, brown thin hair back in a bun; almost five feet tall, she was partial to dark long-sleeved dresses, with a small, practical bustle. Her hair always covered in public, she wore a white sun bonnet.

“Help me with these into the wagon, then drive me home?” It was as much a command as a question.

“Yes,’em,” he replied. Louis tied off the reins, jumped down, walked around the wagon. He took her bags, helped her up to the seat.

Placing the bags in the back, he climbed up to the driver’s seat, sitting as far away from her as he could, a good six inches between them.

“Whup,” he said as he gave a short flip of the reins, and the two horses began to walk.

Mary, the only child of the town Clerk, John Payne, still lived at home with her widower father. Louis liked her company, remembered a childhood summer morning smelling the new grass. A shy kiss on the cheek at six years old; not able to know their separate futures.

Sometimes, like today, she would call to him to run an errand.

Mary said not a word for three blocks. As they turned the corner on her street, she looked at Louis for a moment, drawing her bonnet close over her head, covering the sides of her face; Louis could not see her when she turned away.

“I hear Nat has recovered from his wounds, and is preaching again,” she said, looking forward.

Louis glanced at her bonnet briefly; she did not turn to him.

“Yes’em,” he said quietly.

“Tell him that too many folks know about his preaching about slavery and freedom. It would be better for all concerned if he were to stop.” She looked directly at him. “Brown, Acock, Kincannon, are talking about it. Talking mean.” Louis looked at the reins in his hand, nodded. “I will tell him, Mary.”

~ 54

Louis halted the buckboard in front of her house, helped her down, carried the bags to the porch stoop. He smiled, looked at her standing on the porch, turned, did not look at her again. As he mounted the buckboard, he heard the door of the house close behind him. ≈ The long shadows of the mid-summer day stretched across the rail yard; the sun, hanging just above the trees, shone brightly through the windows on Louis’s corner table. Here, after hours, after the White customers left, he wrote out Marsa Thom’s letters, and since Henry had gone, entered the day’s receipts and bills of lading in the ledger book.

A knock at the open door interrupted him. Louis quickly closed his books and put his pen and ink in the cigar box next to him, closing it before turning around and standing.

Jacob Bacon, a young White farmer, and recent father, entered the front office. Jacob was dressed in his best town clothes, clean, thread worn, and patched. His jacket was coarse hand-woven brown wool, with shiny leather reinforcements at the cuffs and elbows. He was poor but carried himself proudly.

“Yes Suh,” said Louis.

“I’m a-looking for a letter writer. Told there’s one in this here office.”

“Yes, Suh, office be closed right now, he not around.”

“I’ve a farm up nar Hopewell. Cain’t get back down these parts fur a fortnight tor mor’.” Jacob was careworn, looked tired.

Louis looked at the young farmer, knew where Hopewell was, up in the hills, hard land to farm. Not much hope there.

“I’m not leavin’s ‘till tomorra. I be back in the mornin’.

“Guess I could deliver your message for yous, if yous wishin’. Dat way, de letter be ready whens yous get back.”

Jacob thought for a moment, then nodded. “How much he charge?”

“Ten cent. Dat’s two cent for de paper, five fur the writtin’, and t’ree for de stamp which mail it.”

~ 55

Jacob told him of the new baby boy, the birth-bed fever that had taken his wife Becky, that the baby was with her sister and family.

Crops were struggling, but there looked to be enough to feed everyone this year, and maybe sell some wool for cash. He wanted his Ma to know he’s alright, and he prays for everyone back home.

When he was through, Louis nodded, “My name be Louis, case you needs find me.”

“Jacob Bacon,” he said, turning for the door.

“What be de boy’s name?”

Jacob turned back in the doorway. “Ain’t got one. If he live ‘till the harvest, I’ll give ‘em one then.”

Louis waited while Jacob’s footsteps fell away, watched him cross Frogtown and out of the station area. He went back to his table, opened his cigar box, withdrew a folded sheet of paper, smoothed it carefully, picked up his pen, dipped it in his ink, and began to write. ≈ Richard Acock was drunk. He’d spent the day peddling his moonshine to the coloreds in Frogtown and had been mainly sampling his goods along the way. A tall man, six feet even, scruffy blond beard, pinched blue eyes, stringy thin light brown hair. He dressed in leather, made his own moccasins, lived here and there on the mountain behind town, and poached game in the hills to get by. The lines in his stained, thin White face were deeply etched, the effects of too much tobacco, too much whiskey, and too much sun. His manner said he was angry, always angry. A large brown clay jug dangled from his right-hand fingers, the cork long gone.

As twilight approached, Acock wandered past the train station towards the town square, glanced in the window of the office. He stopped short, looked at Louis, seated and writing. Louis looked up and met his gaze. Acock bolted to the door, charged through.

“Hey Nigger!” he shouted, slammed into the counter, and came to a complete stop. “What are you writin’? That be again’ the law!”

~ 56

Louis, knowing what was coming, had put his papers away by the time Acock got inside the building.

“Just puttin’ a few of Marsa Thom’s things away, Suh, is all.”

“I saw jou writing, and I’s gonna have to report jou to the Sheriff, boy.”

Louis knew not to argue back.

“Yes, Suh, just cleanin’ up, like I’s said, Suh.” Acock paused, then: “I’s a thinkin’ we’ll go right now. Yous under arrest.”

“Have’ta wait for Marsa Thom, Suh. He be the boss o’me.”

Acock wiped the back of his hand across both sides of his mustache, considered the point.

“I’ll just have to report jou tonight!” he spit out and weaved through the door.

As Louis watched him retreating into the growing darkness, he said quietly to no one, “White trash is, as White trash does.” ≈ Nat stood leaning on a cane, chatting, next to George, who held the reins of the Calloway carriage horse. All the horses had to be tended in case one should bolt from the bang of the fireworks; they might all stampede. It was dark now in the town square, and the Calloways, Swans, and Grants were up by the courthouse, while their slaves watched the horses in the dirt street. Nat and George stood in silence for a moment, waited for a few passers-by to amble beyond hearing.

“The good Doctor Reverend Ross from Baltimore will be in these parts on Sunday, out by Wildwood Lake,” said Nat quietly. “You should come there with me after church.”

“That’s a good hour walk, in the heat,” said George. “You up to that?”

Nat nodded. “Only hurts when I bend over. I can walk fine.”

Louis, spotting the two men, hurried across the street towards them, passing through the assembled horses and carriages. Just as he was a few steps away, a hand grabbed his arm from behind.

~ 57

“I gots you now boy, yous comin’ with me,” said Acock threateningly, his speech slow with liquor.

Louis jerked his arm away, and raced for the safety of George and Nat, spooking the nearby horses enough that they bumped one another, causing a small ruckus, doubletrees and traces clanking.

Heads turned back to see what the noise was. Acock rushed up, and seeing the three men, stepped back a pace. He looked around furtively, looked at Nat and George intently.

“Well now. Jes’ what jou three boys up to? I s’ppose yous in on this.”

“What would that be, Mr. Acock?” asked Nat. “Just lookin’ at the fireworks set to start,” he smiled.

“Caught this nigger writin’ in the train office. And that be a-gin the law!”

The three men stood silently, all knowing better than to confront a drunk White man. Acock grabbed Louis’s arm again and started to pull.

“We’s goin’ to see the Sheriff,” said Acock.

George pinched the bitt in the draft horse’s mouth, causing him to flick his head back, knocking into Acock. Acock stumbled and let go of Louis. Nat reached out and grabbed Louis, pulling him back behind him. George stepped forward and helped Acock stand up.

“Mr. Acock, Suh, we’ll wait right here while you fetch the Sheriff right over here. Louis be goin’ nowwheres, Suh,” said George, tilting his head towards the Sheriff.

Acock looked between the three and seeing the Sheriff on the side of the park, nodded. “I’m agonna. You tricky niggers ain’t getting’ out o’ this.”

“Yes, Suh, be right here, Suh,” George replied, smiling, nodding.

As soon as Acock was a few steps away, the smile faded, and he turned to Louis.

“Just what the hell happened this time?” said George, whispering under his voice, clearly angry.

~ 58

“I was in the office writing a letter, and the dumb cracker saw me,” said Louis, spitting out the words.

George sighed, glanced at Nat, “I’ve told you never to write letters anywhere but in the kitchen at the farm. You shouldn’t be carrying around that cigar box o’ yours neither!”

Nat put his hand on George’s shoulder, “George, Sheriff Low is coming.”

Sheriff Low walked up, stood with his hands in his pockets, Acock pressed in close behind him.

“Evening boys, Mr. Acock tells me that Louis is causing a bit of trouble.”

“I caught him a-writin’ in the station,” said Acock pointing at Louis. “Then he denied it!”

“Do you know how to write, Louis?” asked the Sheriff.

Louis pinched his lips together, then smiled. “Can write my name, Suh.” “Ha!” said Acock, “Told jou!”

The Sheriff held up his hand to silence Acock.

“Did anyone teach you to read?”

Louis had been helped by Miz Tina the schoolteacher, and later, Nat, ‘the better to learn the word of God’.

“No Suh, just on my own self, you know, from the bible.” He knew God would forgive him a white lie to protect his family.

“And write?” shot Acock.

“I know how to write my name. Suh,” Louis repeated.

The Sheriff looked at George and Nat, then turned to Acock. “‘Fraid it ain’t against the law to know how to write your name, only to teach a slave to read,” said the Sheriff. “Cain’t see that a crime’s been committed.”

Acock’s mouth fell open. He pointed his finger at Louis.

“I catch yous a-writin’ again, nigger, and Sheriff here won’t be…”

“Mister Acock,” interrupted the Sheriff, “if somehow Calloway’s Louis here were to get hurt, then I’d have to arrest you for injurin’

~ 59

personal property. And you’d have to pay for Mr. Calloway’s loss.

Might be thousands of dollars.”

Acock just stared at the Sheriff, “Fuck rich men ‘n their uppity niggers!” he said as he turned his back and stomped off.

“George,” the Sheriff said, “I ain’t sayin’ Louis writes letters for the darkies in Frogtown, maybe others; such stories float about. But I don’t want to hear any more about this, ever.”

“Yas Suh,” George nodded, looking down.

Nat looked the Sheriff in the eye and nodded, “We’ll take care of it.”

The Sheriff nodded, turned and walked into the night, outlined by the bright spray of the fireworks behind him.

It was there and then that Louis decided to run for freedom. For the tenth time.

~ 60

Chapter Seven Sunday, July 7th, 1857 The shallow water of Lake Wildwood curled against the reeds, blown by the soft breeze coming over the ridge behind Nat, who was standing near the water, facing the crowd. Next to him, a thin White man with white balding hair, in a grey wool suit, the good Doctor Reverend Ross was clearly perspiring in the hot Tennessee sun directly overhead. The large crowd sat in the shade of the few trees on the gentle slope leading to the lake’s edge, well away from the road. George, like most of the others, was dressed in his Sunday best, and though many felt the heat of the day, most kept their coats and shawls on, to show respect to the Methodist abolitionist from Baltimore. He had come these many miles, he said, “to help remove the cloak of Godless slavery that is ill upon the land.”

George sat next to Elizabeth whose eyes were closed, lost in her own devotions. More and more, she had taken to reading scripture, “feeling the call” she said. He nodded to Louis, sitting in another group.

He looked around carefully, to see if there were strangers; and seeing a few, frowned a bit in worry. All present knew it was against the law for more than four coloreds to talk together, except in church or with permission; and this meeting, outside of town, outside of church, preaching against slavery, was definitely illegal. Should any of the slaves get caught outright, there would be lashings, and maybe worst: sale away from their homes and families. If Ross were caught, the local Whites would hang him.

Nat thanked the Reverend, began to speak.

“Today, a great gift came to me. Because of the good Reverend Ross, I have received a gift of knowledge. There is a man, a freeman of color, a runaway, ex-slave, who lives in the north. He taught himself to read and write. He travels the land and gives speeches in the great name of freedom. Surely he will not be the last man of color to break his

~ 61

bonds. He is one of us! His name is Frederick Douglass.” The crowd now began to echo back Nat’s words.

“Douglass,” murmured the crowd. “Umhm, yes.”

Nat raised his left arm high above his head, holding a thin pamphlet.

“This is his gift, a speech of hope, and destiny, and freedom! Listen now; these are his words.”

Nat opened the pamphlet, and began to read, the crowd echoing back in agreement.

“Your fathers have said that man’s right to liberty is self-evident.

There is no need of argument to make it clear. The voices of nature, of conscience, of reason, and of revelation, proclaim it as the right of all rights, the foundation of all trust, and of all responsibility. Man was born with it. It was his before he comprehended it. The deed conveying it to him is written in the center of his soul, and is recorded in Heaven.”

“Heaven, Amen,” rippled through the crowd.

Nat lowered the page and looked about.

“That’s right! Your freedom is written in Heaven! Your freedom was in you yesterday! Your freedom is in you today! And your freedom IS IN YOU FOR TOMORROW! The crowd leapt to their feet, surging forward, shouting “Joy,” “Truth,” “Alleluia.” Nat threw up both his hands and began to sing.

“Michael row the boat ashore, Hallelujah!

The crowd joined, swaying as one body with the music.

‘Michael boat a gospel boat, Hallelujah!

‘Jesus stand on the o’der side, Hallelujah!

The triumph of two hundred voices lifted the glory of the Spirit.

George, at the back of the singers, looked to see if anyone was on the road, might hear the singing. Louis was turned, looking towards the scrubby woods. George followed his gaze and caught a chill as he saw the back of a young White boy running through the thickets, away from the crowd.

~ 62

On the way home, the still air and heat so close that their clothes were soaked through, George, Elizabeth, and Nat walked in silence, the road dust making swirling puffs, coating each set of polished ‘Sunday Meeting’ shoes with a grey powder. It seemed to make their feet feel even hotter than they already were.

“I would like to start preaching.”

Both George and Nat stopped dead still in the shade of a large maple, and turned to Elizabeth, staring at her, then glanced at one another. Nat just shook his head, and started up the road, leaving George and Elizabeth behind for a little privacy. George looked at his wife, smiled tightly.

“I know you know that cain’t be done.”

Everybody knew only men preached.

“I know it’s never been done, is all. I know I feel the will of God asking me to help spread the Word.”

Looking away, George studied the dirt on his shoes for a long moment. He nodded, looked into her eyes, nodded again; there was that shine, that spark that he so admired in her.

“I know you will. But not as a preacher.”

George watched her eyes retreat in disappointment, he felt it in his chest as if it were his own.

“You will find another way, God will show you.”

George reached out and took her hand, pressed it to his chest as they turned for home and the Sunday supper. ≈ George awoke with a start. It was pitch black, and quiet. Something wasn’t right. And then in the distance he heard the fire bell ringing on the Cumberland Presbyterian Church. Quickly out of bed, he pulled on his clothes as Elizabeth stirred.

“What’s goin’ on?” she whispered.

“Fire bell’s ringin’, I’ll be back soon.”

Fire, uncontrolled fire, was the most dangerous occurrence short of a flood. Everyone had heard the stories of whole towns burning down.

~ 63

Whenever anyone saw smoke, or heard the fire bell, all able-bodied men and boys would stop what they were doing, and without discussion, grab a shovel, a bucket, head for the fire. Even in the middle of the night.

George fast walked through Frogtown onto Ocoee Street, other men, White and Black, emerging from their homes, grimly turning towards the fire. It was on the far side of town, a yellow-orange glow spitting embers high into the night sky. It was a big fire.

As George grew closer, he could hear men shouting, the roar and crackle louder with each step. George approached the corner at Captain Grant’s, and looking to his right, saw what he hoped would not be true: the Colored Methodist Church, Nat’s church, was burning. Burning like Hell had opened up below it. Flames shot out of the windows and doors, broke through the roof, and at the top began to burn the cross. A bucket brigade was forming, a line of men passing buckets of water hand-over-hand, from the Lea home just down Church street. The fire was so hot that the bucketers could not get close enough to throw the water inside the church.

George joined a frenzied Nat at the ring of men, Captain Grant among them, dragging the grass and smoldering brush away from the edge of the fire. It grew even hotter as the fire began to consume the outside walls. George smelled the singe on his clothes, and when he reached down to touch his pants, he burned his hand. Nat was still trying to get close, but even he was falling back, coughing, his clothes smoking from the heat. All that could be done now was to keep the fire from spreading. The men stopped and stood watching the church burn.

After watching for several minutes, Nat spoke.

“Unnatural the way it burned. So quick.”

George looked back towards the road. There stood Acock and Brown, a smile on their faces, doing nothing to help put out the fire.

“Unnatural is the half of it,” said George.

George nudged Nat and nodded in Acock’s direction. As Nat turned and looked, Acock looked at Nat, smiled even bigger.

~ 64

Chapter Eight Monday, July 8th, 1857 Nat stood in the middle of what was left of the church. Daybreak had brought rain showers, finally putting out the fire, leaving the morning grey, muggy, and cloudy. What remained of the church was completely charred black, the biggest beams skewed in a jumble, burned boards and charcoal debris settled in-between the stone fireplace now standing alone. Though it was still drizzling, Nat poked around in the debris, mud and charcoal on his boots and clothes, in the vain hope of finding something he could save; each footstep released the acrid smell of greasy smoke. Even the Bibles were beyond saving, first burned and scorched, then soaked, then smudged with soot and mud.

It was well past mid-morning, and the townsfolk had mostly gone home to get on with the day. Off to one side, down by the road, Captain Grant together with Marsa Thom, were sitting in his carriage, talking to Sheriff Low who stood, shoulder leaning on the dashboard, hands in his pockets as he did when he didn’t like the conversation.

Nat could hear their voices softly echoing through the hush of the misty rain.

“Nobody saw anything until the fire was burnin’,” said Sheriff Low, “It was the middle of the night.”

“Well, I’ve spoken to Nat, and no one left a lamp on,” said Captain Grant, “to say nothin’ of how unnaturally hot and fast the fire burned.”

“And to say nothing of how unnaturally quickly Brown and Acock got to town from their farms,” said Marsa Thom.

The men sat in silence, looked up the low hill at the ruined church.

“It was bound to happen with the freedom preachin’ rumors and all...” The Sheriff was careful not to couch his words as fact, less he contradict the two powerful town leaders.

“It’s a place of God,” said Calloway, not excusing the arson.

~ 65

“Well Sheriff,” said Grant as he stepped down from the carriage, “I expect you’ll be lookin’ further into the situation.” Grant turned to the Sheriff and stood his ground.

The Sheriff inhaled to speak, stopped, and slowly exhaled. “Yes, Gentlemen, of course.”

Grant smiled and nodded, walked up the hill towards his house; Calloway snapped the reins, and the big grey pulled the carriage away through the muddy street.

The Sheriff stood for a moment, looked directly at Nat, shook his head, muttered to himself, and walked slowly off.

Nat could see George making his way towards the church, close now, walking from the Calloway home after seeing Marsa Thom off in the carriage. He was carrying a single blade building axe, and a shovel, his pant legs wrapped in sack cloth to keep off the soot. Without a word, George set down the shovel and began to break apart the burned timber.

“What’s the shovel for?” asked Nat. “To bury the bibles,” said George, “Ain’t right to burn ‘em in the trash.”

George stopped and looked at his Father-in-law.

“Thought maybe we should bury them under where the new church will be,” George said. There’d been no talk of a new church, George had just decided without really thinking about it. He was just turning the other cheek.

Nat nodded gratefully and fell to the task of clearing the debris.

By late afternoon, the wind had risen, blowing away the rain, the hot sun drying out the day. First Isaac Swan, then Jimmy McNeal, then Pappy Jim, then Jerry Douglass and his son Ian, came by and lent a hand in the cleanup. The men piled up the wood, lighted a fire, burned the charred remains of the church. A little farther up the hill, where the new alter would be, a hole was dug, and the bibles laid to rest.

"Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return," said Nat. “Amen,” the men said.

~ 66

≈ Louis was sweating hard. It had been a hot night, with little breeze. His feet were hurting, the sweat in his shoes soaking the sores on his feet, stinging with each step. He’d been walking all night, headed north towards the Hiwassee River. He’d been careful this time, keeping to small roads and trails, napping well off the road; if he saw a light, he’d lay in the brush until the person went by. Mostly, it was only buzzing mosquitoes that kept him company. If he could get near the end of Blythe Ferry Road before dawn, he could rest in the cottonwoods on the bank of the Tennessee where the two rivers came together. The only other way north was to cross the Blue Ridge Mountains, through the Carolinas, Virginia, Maryland, and safety in New Jersey. Few made it.

A Black person couldn’t cross the toll bridges or ride the ferries even if he had the penny required, without a pass from his owner, or freeman’s papers, and even then, the operator might say no. The Tennessee was too wide to swim, and Louis couldn’t swim in any event.

So, Louis had a plan. Wait until the next night, then tie himself to the stern of the ferry. He had brought a rope for the purpose, along with a few days’ worth of cheese, dried hominy corn, and hard bread in an old flour bag. He planned to use strips from the bag to wrap around his arms, lest the ropes cut his wrists. He had worn rough work clothes, planning to shed them on the other side for the suit he had in a rucksack. He had wrapped the suit in heavy oiled paper to keep it dry.

It was wet clothes that had given him away the last time.

The long chain that lay on the bottom of the river guided the ferry across. It went through two iron rings, one on the bow, the other on the stern, which made the ferry follow the chain, first picking it up then dropping it as it passed. A team of horses walked on a treadmill that turned a chain gypsy and paddlewheel in the center of the boat. At the other side, the horses were turned around and hitched facing the other way, reversing the wheel direction for the return trip.

At first light, Louis stood on the small rise above the river landing.

The ferry was tied up on the other side, the western side, which meant

~ 67

that the horses must be barned there; it also meant that the last trip of the day would end there. There were cottonwood trees on the bank on the left; on the right was a large patch of cottontail reeds in a swampy edge of the river. Looking about to see if anyone might be approaching at this early hour, Louis worked his way to a spot where the water was two or three feet deep. He hid in the reeds, close enough to make his way to the stern of the ferry in a short time. He would wait until the last crossing of the day, as no one would be waiting, watching for the next crossing; no one would see him dragged across at the rear. Louis leaned back across a driftwood log, and despite the cold and the wet was able to fall asleep in the morning twilight.

~ 68

Chapter Nine Tuesday, July 9th, 1857 Ma reached up to the top shelf and pulled down the big yellow mixing bowl. Elizabeth took the bowl, set it down on the big table in the middle of the kitchen. Breakfast was underway for the Big House as well as the servants and field hands. Ma cooked three meals a day from scratch, every day save Sunday, every one of which had bread, a pie or cake, meat, eggs, potatoes or rice, and vegetables. Most days, the two women were in the kitchen before the sun rose to make the butter for the day.

“I’s not able to sleep good las’ night,” said Ma, “wid alls the worry ‘bout Loui’.”

Elizabeth looked over to the cot along the wall near the ovens; no one had slept in the bed for two nights now.

“I haven’t seen Louis for two days, neither,” said Elizabeth.

“George said Marsa Thom was asking after ‘im yesterday afternoon.”

Ma sighed deeply. “Guess he done run ‘gain.” She wiped at her eyes with her apron. “Jesus be wid ‘im.” ≈ Wisps of steamy moisture rose off the ground as the morning sun poured life into the matted grass around the burned-out church. Nat, Leander, George, even Pappy Jim and young Johnnie, were helping out with the set up for the construction: rolling the yellow pine logs off the wagon, up on the sawyer’s stand, taking turns on the long double ended ripping saws. The logs went up on a pair of crossed standing tree trunks, one set on each end of the log, holding it high enough for a man to stand under. One man stood on top, the other below, pulling each end of the saw in turn. The boards, two inches thick, were cut one at a time from the stout trunks, twelve, sixteen, even twenty feet long. The big beams would be cut from less desirable logs, the boards from the better. The cuts were stacked on small logs, carefully leveled, and ‘sticked’ in between to allow air to dry out the boards. The wood would

~ 69

dry out flat and straight, with little twisting or hogging. It would take months to dry properly, but by spring, the wood would be ready to rip into the two by fours and two by sixes for the new church.

Thomas Calloway rode up on his horse, Cleopatra, stopping next to the log cutting rack. All the men stopped what they were doing, and stood quietly with their hats in their hands, facing him. The day had turned late summer warm, and he had on only a thin white shirt, beaver bowler hat to go with his brown riding britches and shiny high-topped brown leather boots. Marsa Thom looked around carefully, remaining in the saddle.

“I see you’re working on the new church,” he said nodding thoughtfully. “Did Mister Douglass give you these logs?” he said looking directly at George.

“Yas Suh, Marsa Thom,” said George, more formal than he had to be, not knowing his master’s opinion of this fact. Marsa Thom pursed his lips, nodded again. After a pause that George thought lasted several minutes, Marsa Thom spoke.

“You seen Louis?” he said too studiedly, too casually.

“Naw, Suh, not since church on Sunday.” George stole a quick glance at Nat, who had a slight smile frozen on his face.

Marsa Thom looked at Nat, not taking his eyes off him. “Lots of talk about town. I’d hazard a guess that the church might not be the only casualty of that meeting by Wildwood Lake.”

It was suddenly clear that Marsa Thom knew all about the meeting, and Doctor Ross preaching. Sheriff Low had done his investigating and reported back quickly.

“Yes, I hear tell that was quite the revival,” said Marsa Thom.

George knew that Marsa Thom was warning them about more trouble from Acock and the others. Marsa Thom looked at George.

“Tell Louis when you see him that I want to see him immediately.

If he’s run off again, I’m putting a three-hundred-dollar reward on his head.” Marsa Thom looked at Nat and George, shook the reins, and rode back down the hill to the road.

~ 70

Everyone watched in silence as Marsa Thom rode slowly away. Nat hadn’t listened to a word since ‘Wildwood Lake’.

“Three hundred dollars could get him kilt,” George said, shaking his head. It was a year’s good wages for a grown White man. George said a silent prayer for his brother, put his hat back on his head, grabbed the saw, and went back to work. There was nothing he could do after the fact to stop Lewis. ≈ A loud heavy thumping boom startled Louis awake. The deckhand on the ferry had let the ramp-gate on the end of the ferry fall onto the shoreline rocks. Louis watched several foot-passengers depart, carrying their loads, one pushing a large wheelbarrow filled with fresh green beans. The wind was still, the sun well past the meridian, and no one was waiting to cross. The captain yelled at the deckhand to button up, they’d wait a few minutes, but if no one came soon, they would head home for supper.

Louis waited for the deckhand to raise the ramp, while the captain turned the horses; soon there was little sound but the murmur of the two men’s voices on the foredeck. Louis could barely move towards the end of the ferry, fighting the chill of a long day in cool water. Careful not to splash or shake a reed, his hands were stiff, his joints moved slowly, forcing him to concentrate. He lay prostrate in the shallow water, and deliberately tied himself and the rucksack to the stern chain ring. Everything now depended on no one coming along the road and seeing him.

The few minutes the crew waited seemed like hours to Louis. But then he heard footfalls on the deck, and the crack of a horse whip. The big paddle wheel began to turn, and the ferry slipped away from the bank. Immediately Louis was yanked out into the river, the rusty chain running along his body, tearing at his clothes and legs. Louis was able to pull himself up a few inches with his arms and miss most of the gnashing chain links. By dog paddling with his feet, and running along the chain underwater, he was able to spare himself a deadly thrashing.

~ 71

The ferry came to a sudden stop against the bank, slamming Louis against the stern, but he did not cry out. His arms were in agony, his burning legs ached with gashes, and he could not feel his hands. He was now on the end of the ferry out into the river, in water over his head. He heard the team unhitched and led to shore.

Louis hung on the stern until night began to fall. His fingers useless and unmoving, he gradually chewed through the rope. The cold of the river had put a chill on him, and his shaking arms rattled the chain as he made his way along the side of the ferry to the safety of shore. He crawled up the bank and lay spent in the mud. His body convulsed violently, and he blacked out. ≈ Jostled about, Louis awoke in a bed of straw. In the darkness, as his mind focused, he heard the sound of creaks, the clop of horses. He felt his body with his hands, the pain reminding him of the day in the river.

He was still in his wet muddy clothes, but he could feel a bandage tied around the chain cuts on his right leg. Louis sat up with effort, and realized he was in the back of a buckboard wagon, on a rough road. The solitary male driver was a black cutout against the stars of the moonlit night. From behind, a hand clamped onto his left shoulder, causing him to start. He tried to stand up, the hand held him down firmly.

“Don’t worry, you’re with friends,” came the White male voice.

Louis turned towards the stranger. “Who are you?” said Louis.

“Call me Jacob,” said the man. “You’re gonna have to rest up a bit before you can travel. You’ll be stayin’ with us.”

Louis realized he didn’t know where he was, or where he was going.

~ 72

Chapter Ten Thursday, July 11th, 1857 William J. Campbell, Esquire, Circuit Judge, acting Justice of the Peace, Bradley County, Tennessee, alighted from the first-class train car into the noon day sun. Despite the heat, His Honor was dressed in a black wool suit with silk lapels, black cravat neatly tied about his neck. His top hat was the latest smooth black silk, he carried a black leather portfolio; of good family, he looked every inch the man of power and wealth that he was. Of medium build, pale pink skin, he had a long thin nose, widely set brown eyes, dark hair. He wore the added girth of a man unaccustomed to labor, of a gentleman of his class.

Sheriff Low greeted the Judge, walked beside him as they made their way into town to the courthouse.

“Has the colored boy… his name again?” asked Campbell.

“Nat Grant,” said the Sheriff.

“Has Nat done anything to cause citizens to become overly concerned or agitated?”

“A couple of the local White farmers were the ones burnt down his church. I can’t prove it was them, but whoever it was, I’d say it was caused by rumors of Nat preaching abolitionist views.”

“Rumors?”

“More than rumors.”

The men walked along in silence. After a moment the Sheriff spoke.

“And they’re planning to rebuild the church.”

The Judge walked along, studying the ground as he walked. “When did he gain his manumission papers?”

“Mr. Payne said that he filed them in the Clerk’s Office June of fifty-three.”

“Ask Mr. Payne to see me this afternoon, and to bring me the boy’s registration and contract. I’ll need a formal complaint.”

~ 73

As the two men turned onto the walkway of the courthouse, the Sheriff said, “I’m sure that can be arranged.” ≈ “Outside Dayton, on the old Washington road,” said Jacob. He was a thin White man, early thirties, very pale blue eyes, and the dress of a Quaker: black wide-brimmed hat, shirt collar buttoned all the way up.

Louis had awakened slowly, the details of the night blurring into his dreams. He had asked where they were. They were in a barn, the wagon inside with them, all doors closed despite the heat. Sunlight forced its way through the cracks between the boards lighting up thin rays of dust and providing the only light. He looked around, the horses lay in a corner, resting from the night’s trip. Next to them, sprawled out on his back with his sweat-stained hat on his face, was the Black driver.

Arms crossed in front of him, he had on pants, vest, and jacket, all from different suits, worn thin, but in good repair.

“That’s Rollins,” said Jacob, following Louis’s stare. “He’s a freeman, and you’re a runaway.”

Louis felt the blood drain from his face. “Oh no, Suh—” “You can’t be anything else, laying there in the mud, and all,” interrupted Jacob. He turned over and stuffed his jacket under his face for a pillow, shut his eyes. “We’re traveling north, you can go with us.”

The sun was on the horizon when the door of the barn opened and in stepped a young White woman with a basket. Without a word, she crossed the room, handing each man a newspaper wrapped package of corn pones and fry meat. She left the same way she came in, closing the door behind her.

Rollins stood, brushed off the straw, gave each of the horses hay, and allowed them to drink from a large wooden bucket. Louis opened his paper and began to eat, as Rolland came back over and sat down.

“How’s that leg?” asked Jacob.

The cut hurt like hell, and the leg sore, but no infection had set in.

“It’s clean and healing,” said Louis.

“Where’s you from? said Rollins.

~ 74

“South of here, near Cleveland.”

“I’m Rollins,” he said, extending his hand to shake.

“Louis,” he said, taking his hand.

Suddenly, Rollins jerked him off his seat, face to face.

“You don’t tell where you’s from, you don’t tell your real name, you don’t tell who your owner is, and you forget the face of ever-body which help you!”

Louis had dropped his food, pain shooting up his leg.

“I get it,” he nodded.

Rollins smiled, and helped him down, picked up his food and gave it back to him.

“And never trust anyone who wants money to help you,” added Jacob.

Rolland opened his dinner. “What did you say your name was again?”

Louis thought, remembering a hardware drummer that came through town every three months. He was a friendly man, with ‘Every Day is a Fine Day’ painted on the side of his wagon. “David Lee Fine, from down by Dalton, Georgia,” said Louis.

“Nice to meet you, David,” said Rollins.6 6 Legend has it that in 1831, Tice Davis, a fugitive slave near the town of Ripley, Ohio, could

not be found by his owner, who was chasing after him. Confounded by Davis’ escape, the owner is said to have remarked “The nigger must have gone off on an underground railroad.” The story of Davis’ escape, and the remark, spread rapidly and the name ‘Underground Railroad’ stuck.

The metaphor worked well: ‘agents’ were those who steered the fugitive ‘passengers’ to help; ‘station masters’ ran the ‘depots’, the churches, homes, barns, basements, and attics where the fugitives rested by day; ‘conductors’ that guided and moved the ‘cargo’ by night; and ‘stockholders’ who contributed money, time, and resources.

The system operated simply, and without a central headquarters. Modeled more as a resistance movement, passionate volunteers were the engine that drove the UGRR. Slaves running to freedom came early in America’s history; Quaker Anti-Slavery Societies were operating in Philadelphia in the 1780s. As a result, Congress passed the first Fugitive Slave Act in 1793 giving the owner the right and responsibility to chase and recover his property

~ 75

≈ The wagon bumped along the muddy road, making slow time. Louis had been covered in straw, and bags of wheat and oats had been anywhere. Though mostly ignored, in 1804 Ohio passed laws making it illegal for a fugitive slave to enter. As the Northern States formally outlawed slavery, they established their states as safe havens for runaways; if an owner brought a slave to the Free States, he lost all claims to the slave as property, and the slave was now a freeman.

The Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 made it a crime to help runaways and made it a crime not to help catch them for return to slavery, even in the Northern states; it also reestablished the slavecatchers’ right to enter the Free States to catch the fugitives. Abolitionists, in the Free states that bordered on the Mason-Dixon Line of Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey, ignored this law. Many courts in these Border States set aside the Fugitive Slave Act, citing ‘higher laws of God’. Northerners sympathized with the fugitives, but some would not actively help them escape for fear of breaking the law; a few were active supporters of slavery and would report the runaways for the rewards offered. Slavecatchers set up headquarters in the popular crossing areas, with their own networks of sympathizers and paid informers.

The people who risked prison, fines, and even the loss of their lives, were of all colors and races, but the largest number were free Blacks and escaped slaves. James Forter, Richard Allen, William Still, Henry Bibb, Jermain Wesley Loguen, Frederick Douglass, Harriette Tubman, and Sojourner Truth were among the most famous. There were hundreds more. The Quakers were the largest part of the Whites, and organized active anti-slavery societies; Isaac Hopper, Levi Coffin, Thomas Garrett, Robert Purvis. Others: John Brown, John Fairfield, Thaddeus Stevens, Rutherford B. Hayes, and Susan B. Anthony were among the famous; there were hundreds of others.

The moral objection to slavery continued to grow, and what began as a trickle of fugitives, by the late 1850s had become a large stream. The 1857 Dred Scott decision of the U. S. Supreme Court (now widely regarded as the worst decision ever handed down), under Chief Justice Roger Taney, vacated all rights for any Negro in any state, nullified the Missouri Compromise regarding the North-South split on slave territories, and thus set the stage for the Civil War. But for fugitives, it meant that the only real freedom was escape to Canada, which in 1834 had abolished slavery.

Though many fugitives were caught and returned to slavery, estimates run between 10,000 and 100,000 did escape to freedom; a small number compared to the four million enslaved.

The people who operated the UGRR often knew little of the others in the system; it was not safe to know too much. Names were seldom given or asked, the conductors would not tell the stationmasters where they were going or where they were from, owners’ names and places of origin were not asked or told. Little or nothing was written down; few records of names were kept.

Desperation played out in these endeavors: shoot-outs, betrayals, and outright kidnapping and enslavement of free Blacks; even murder. Mobs rescued arrested slaves and abolitionists in the North, mobs lynched abolitionists and free Blacks in the South.

~ 76

stacked around him; he sat in a hole in the center of the pile with his rucksack. He had on a pair of old sailor’s pants that Rollins had taken out of the trunk under the wagon seat. Rollins had greased the wheels and axles well before they left; he had wrapped all the harness links with rags to muffle the clinking sound. The men had waited until the night was full, no twilight left in the western sky. It was just one day past the New Moon, and the tiny crescent had set an hour after sunset.

Though clear, it was a good dark night to travel unseen; they had no tail lamps burning.

As they left Dayton, they saw a flyer nailed up on the telegraph pole:

$300 REWARD, RUNAWAY MAN SLAVE, 26 yrs. named LOUIS. Chestnut mulatto, 5 ft. 5 slight build, 140 pounds, grey-blue eyes. Free spoken and intelligent, is wearing a grey stripped suit.

Deliver alive to Sheriff in Cleveland, Tenn.

Inquire TH Calloway.

The flyers would be posted all over the area, and with such a high reward the slavecatchers would not be far behind. 7 Rollins and Jacob had chosen a byway well back from the Tennessee River to avoid a chance meeting with any travelers. Jacob and Rollins sat up front on the narrow seat; they traveled in silence:

7 Most of these men were poor Whites, no education, no trade, no money, no hope of

bettering themselves. Often they were ex-cons, misfits, the kind of men hired to ‘get the job done’ without questions. These rough men patrolled at night, looking for runaways, slaves out without a pass; stories abounded of the harsh cruelty, the beatings, whippings, rapes, and kidnapping of freemen these ‘posses’ committed. ‘Pattyrollers’ is what most Black folk called them.

The Pattyroller song ‘Run nigger run, de patteroll get you! Run nigger, run, de patteroll come! Watch, nigger, watch, de patteroll trick you! Watch nigger, watch, he got a big gun!’ was a cautionary song taught to Black children.

~ 77

voices travel farther in the quiet of night. They had passed a campfire below down at the river’s edge, probably bargemen put in for the night.

It was late, well past midnight, when they heard a man singing softly up ahead by the side of the road. Rollins pulled the wagon up to a stop to listen; the voice went silent. Jacob reached down and pulled out his single barrel shot gun, cracked it open, inserted a shell, and sat still listening. Louis stuck his head up to look; Rollins pushed him right back down without a word.

“Who y’all doin’ here?” said Rollins in a low tense voice.

“Be Noah ‘ere Suh,” came the reply, a Black voice.

“You alone?” said Jacob, closing the gun, cocking back the hammer.

“Yas Suh, I be comin’ out, doan’t shoot.”

A thin silhouette of a man stepped into the road from the brush ten yards ahead. He was clearly holding up his hands; in one he was holding a small whiskey jug. He walked towards the wagon slowly. The Black man had on field slave clothes: rough cotton brown pants, worn blue shirt, thin wool jacket; his shoes were tied up around his neck.

Barefooted on a dirt road, clearly he was trying to walk with no noise.

“I’s come from Spring City, way to Rockwood,” he said slowly. He stopped six feet away from the wagon, looked it over. “Say, if you be goin’ dat way, I’s be tradin’ my whiskey fur a ride,” he said hopefully.

“Doan’t drink.” Rollins wasn’t buying any of it. “Where yo’ pass?”

“Well Suh, dat be kinna comp’cated. You doan’t be pattyrolles?”

“Why don’t you have a pass?” interrupted Jacob.

“I’s on my way to see my woman over t’ Rockwood, s’posed to be agoin’ Sat’day, but I got to go now as she’s be havin’ a baby, an’ Massa say no, I’s got to wait, an’ I ain’t gonna, so I’s agoin’ now.”

“Thirty lashes if you get caught’, said Jacob.

“Yas Suh, but ‘ow manna time a ma’ seen his own kin aborn?’

Jacob stared at Noah for a moment, looked at Rollins who shook his head no, gave him a ‘don’t pick him up’ look.

“Sit on the back, stay quiet, but you’ll have to leave the jug behind,” said Jacob.

~ 78

Noah blinked hard, nodded, went back to the side of the road, covered the jug with brush.

Louis, listening to this exchange, silently arched his eyebrows in disapproval. “I don’t trust him,’ he said softly from within the grain pile.

“He’s seen us, we can’t just leave him here for the slave catchers.

He’ll likely tell on us to avoid the whip,” said Jacob.

Noah came back to the wagon, jumped up on the rear. “I ‘preciate de ride.”

“Jus’ lye doawn, say nutten’, go asleep,” said Rollins.

Noah nodded, stretched across the back of the wagon, put his head on a bag of grain, and closed his eyes. Rollins flicked the reins, and the team walked on; Jacob kept his shotgun on his knees, still loaded.

The wagon had been making better time on the road the last hour; they were farther away from the river, and closer to Rockwood. Jacob was dozing off as they came to a large tree limb in the road, blocking the way. Rollins pulled up the horses to a stop, tied the reins, he and Jacob jumped down to pull the limb off to the side. Noah sat up, looked around, just as Louis, forgetting about their passenger, stood up to help.

“Well now, who yous be?” asked Noah.

Louis turned around, quickly realizing his mistake. “No one you need worry about,” he said.

“I thought so,” Noah said loudly.

“Quiet!” said Rollins.

Noah reached into one of his shoes, took out a cowbell and started to ring it loudly. “Runaway!” he shouted. “Runaway!”

Jacob dropped his end of the limb and ran back towards the wagon.

Noah was running off into the brush, still ringing the cowbell, shouting.

Rollins dragged the limb as far as he could, it looked to be enough to get around the end. Jacob jumped up on the wagon, jerked the reins, and snapped them hard. The horses, already jittery from the sudden loud bell, took off running straight down the center of the road towards

~ 79

Rollins who was running to get on. Jacob pulled hard to the left, too late. The right front wheel crashed into the limb, tangled in the smaller limb branches, and the wagon bounced up on its left side, wheels spinning, spilling out all over the road as Louis jumped to safety, landing on Rollins. The hitch pole snapped, and the team kept running off into the darkness, forcing Jacob to let go of the reins or be dragged away.

Stunned into silence, the three could hear the sound of horses riding hard, coming from both directions on the road. Jacob and Rollins were banged up and both were bleeding from scrape wounds. Louis rose to his feet, limping from the fall on Rollins and his river chain cut.

“Run for it,” said Jacob, “They’ll not hear you crashing through the brush over the bell and horses.”

Louis nodded to Rollins, turned and ran limping into the woods, going towards the river, now over two miles away.

In the dark, Louis couldn’t see the limbs of the thick scrub brush.

He was forced to hold his arms out in front of him as he plowed his way, following the fall line of the hill, so as not to get lost and accidently double back in a circle. Rocks and dead logs snagged at his feet, he fell twice before he slowed down in caution. His right thigh burned, and he could feel the wet in the bandage; he knew he was bleeding again. He had to stop to catch his breath.

His eyes burned, his throat was dry, arms and legs heavy with exhaustion. For a moment, the only sound was his own breath. Then suddenly, the distant barking of bloodhounds! They had put the dogs on him. Louis ran through the pain, into the deep dark.

Heart pounding, Louis careened down a small gulch through a stand of trees, and in a clearing came to a limestone cliff, too steep and too crumbly to climb. The dogs were close now, they would be on him in seconds. He turned his back against the wall, standing on his one good leg, hugged himself, his eyes closed.

~ 80

When the first dog hit him, ripping at his bloodied leg, he screamed, fell to the ground in a ball, and wrapped his head in his arms.

“Goodbye Momma,” he said, somehow hoping she could hear him.

~ 81

Chapter Eleven Friday July 12th, 1857 Louis woke, pain his only focus, looking up at the limbs of trees passing overhead. It was dawn, he was on a litter, and he looked down at his feet to see Rollins carrying him. His hands were wrapped in bandages, and new tight ones were on his legs.

“Did we make it?” he rasped out slowly.

“No nigger, yous agoin’ back where you come from.” It was the voice of Noah, who was carrying the head end of the litter.

“How you betray your own?” asked Rollins, disgust in his voice.

“Five silver dolla’ fo’ the each yo’, dat be how,” Noah chuckled.

“An’ a gallon o’ whiske’.”

“The Devil done got yo’ soul.”

“Quit the talkin’, keep movin’,” came a White man’s voice. “Gotta get him back afore he die.”

Louis knew the voice. It was Acock’s. It was then Louis noticed the chains on Rollins’ wrists. And then on his own ankles.

As they carried Louis out of the woods onto the road, he could see that the wagon had been put back together; there was a limb lashed around the rear axle to repair the crack from the accident. The horses had been recovered and hitched up, even the few remaining unbroken sacks of grain were stacked on the wagon.

Rollins carried the litter up on the wagon, set Louis down, Noah pushing his end on. Billy Brown the slave trader, stuck his cigar in his mouth, reached his rough hands across and ran a chain through Rollins chain and the one on Louis’s legs, and latched it to the rail on the wagon.

“I shoulda known,” said Louis, resignedly.

“Yeah, you shoulda, nigger. I’m always gonna get jou,” said Brown around his cigar.

“I’m a freeman, with papers,’ said Rollins.

~ 82

Brown turned to look at him. “No, you ain’t. You’re a runaway from Georgia, named Bob, belong to Mister Simpson, down Dalton way,” said Brown. Rollins took out a folded piece of parchment.

Handed it to Brown who opened and looked at it.

“My papers.”

Brown ripped up the parchment and let the pieces flutter away in the morning breeze.

“You ain’t got no papers, you ain’t never gonna get no papers.” He paused, smiled, “Bob.” Noah stepped up to the driver’s seat, took the reins, and turned the wagon about, heading south back to Cleveland. As the wagon started away, Louis could see towards the north; there, hanging from a high limb over the center of the road, was the lynched dead body of Jacob.

~ 83

Chapter Twelve Thursday, August 15th, 1857 Louis swung his legs over the side of his cot in the kitchen. It was well past noon, and the stove ovens had died out two hours ago, but he was sticking to the bed sheet in the stuffy heat. He just wanted to get outside into the shade, even if the soft breeze was as hot. He reached for the walking stick George had made him; it was extra-long so he could put it under his arm like a crutch, or hold on to it with two hands like a shillelagh. George had carved horses into it, “to help the spirit get you up walking.’’ He pulled on the pants Ma had made him, which buttoned down the right leg. The doctor had set the joint in place, tied what remained of his thigh muscles to his bone and joint. The knee would never bend again.

Nat and Carolyn had come by after church every Sunday; George, Elizabeth and Ma would pray together with him for his recovery. Ma was just glad he was alive, though she did keep telling him the whole thing was his own fault, up and running off like that. Ma, like many of the older slave women, made her own medicines from the bark, roots, leaves, berries, fungi of the forests. These recipes were handed down from mother to daughter, in the tradition brought from Africa; the teachings and knowledge of the Native Americans were mixed in. Ma had studied the Cherokee women’s ways when they first came to Cleveland, she was known for miles around to the Blacks and Whites to have a potion for what “ails a body”. She had wrapped Louis’s leg in a poultice made of moss, oak leaves, and pine tar. It smelled, but kept the flies off the wound, and soaked up the oozing puss. After the wound healed over, Ma insisted on a salve of walnut oil, twinleaf, and ground bay leaves. It kept the scar soft, eased the healing.

Just as he pushed himself up with the shillelagh, George came into the kitchen. “Marsa Thom wants to see you in the rail office.”

~ 84

Three days after Louis’s return, after the fever broke, Marsa Thom had come to see him. He had come in with the doctor, to check Louis after the surgery, watched in silence. When the doctor was finished with the exam, and announced that the wound wasn’t infected, Marsa Thom had left without a word. He’d said nothing about the running away, or Louis’s condition.

George walked with Louis, taking the road around the hill instead of the shorter path that went straight down to the rail yard. It was slow going, even so. Eventually the pain would reduce, but he would be reminded of that night with every step; Louis walked with a peg-legged limp that he would have the rest of his life.

“He say anything’?” asked Louis.

“Not a word around me. The Sunday after you were back, I drove him and Miz Susan to church, nary a word between ’em. Last Sunday, they were talking, not a word about you.”

Marsa Thom was working in his office in the back of the train yard.

He put down his pen, gestured with his hand. “Come in, boys.” Both men walked in, removed their hats, and stood waiting for Marsa Thom to speak. “I hear that you’re much better, Louis.”

“Yas, Suh,” said Louis, “Much better, Suh.” Marsa Thom nodded. “You’ll be resuming your duties in the front rail office and continuing with the bookwork that Henry left behind.”

Marsa Thom stood and walked down the long narrow hallway towards the front. As Louis and George followed, he stopped in front of a new narrow door on the right-handed side.

“This is your workstation,” he said, pointing in the small room.

Louis and George stepped up to look in as Marsa Thom stepped in.

“You’ll do the bookwork and paperwork in here and answer the front desk bell if Jack isn’t around.”

The small space had shelves, a chair, and a small, frosted glass window above the built-in desk. On it was an oil lamp, and Louis’s writing cigar box.

“No one can see you working here,” he said.

~ 85

Marsa Thom reached into his coat pocket and handed Louis a document tied in ribbon.

“Take this deed up to Clerk Payne and see that it gets filed. George, you walk with him, bring back the mail.”

“Yas Suh,” they said in unison. ≈ The dappled sunlight stretched across the lawn as Mary Payne descended the city hall steps, opened her parasol, and walked towards the street on the brick pathway that would lead her back to the bank.

She stopped for a moment, as she watched Louis, limping slowly along, with George at his side. She was taken aback by his stooped countenance, and though tears welled in her eyes, she blinked them away; she would not let it show.

Louis and George turned onto the brick path, saw Miss Mary coming, and stepped aside onto the grass to allow her to pass. Louis, aided by the shillelagh, forced himself to stand up straight, balanced on his good leg.

“Good afternoon, Louis, George,” she said, as she stopped and turned towards them.

The two men removed their hats.

“Afternoon, Miss Mary,” Louis replied.

“You look like you’re getting on well,” she said to Louis.

“Why yes ‘em,” Louis said.

The three smiled for a long moment before Mary spoke. “Well, I have to get back.” She started to turn away, and then turned back.

“Louis, there’s a packet for Mister Calloway in the bank. Come by on Monday afternoon at three, and I’ll have it ready.”

“Could come by now if—” “Monday afternoon, Louis,” she interrupted.

“Yes, Miss Mary, Monday afternoon.”

George waited until Mary was two paces away before donning his hat. When he looked up, Louis was still watching her walk away.

“Quit your lookin’ at her, before you’re in more trouble.”

~ 86

“What was that Monday afternoon at three about?” said Louis, turning towards the city hall.

“Half the time I don’t know what women are goin’ on about,” shrugged George. “‘Specially White women.”

George could remember the day Miz Susan came to live at the Big House. She was of the Lea family, the foremost merchant in Cleveland, late of Rome, Georgia. She and Marsa Thom had just returned from their honeymoon in Savanna. He was thirty-four years old, she, nineteen. She assembled all the slaves: Pappy Jim, Ma, Charles, twentythree, George, seventeen, Louis, twelve, Harriette, ten, Henry, nine, and Becky the baby. And her personal slaves, a gift from her family, Uncle Pete and Old Sally. She looked over the slaves carefully and turned to Marsa Thom.

“Harriette will help with Old Sally. I think these two will continue to help out in the office,” she said pointing at Henry and Louis.

Marsa Thom nodded. She looked steadily at Thom.

“And Ma will move out to the kitchen house, to make the porch ready for Henry to be the house boy, help alongside Charles and Uncle Pete.”

Marsa Thom looked at Henry and looked back at her, nodded again, “Fine.”

And that was that.

George knew he and his sister and brothers were Marsa Thom’s children.8 No one mentioned it, that’s just the way it was. The White women pretended it never happened, at least in public. George overheard quiet conversations between Miz Susan and Miz Grant while he was driving them in the carriage.

8 This is the family oral history and I’m following this narrative, though DNA tests do

confirm an indirect family relationship. We’re parallel descendants of the Callaways, (probably through Ma), but do not know who her father was.

~ 87

“The Christian thing for Mr. Brown to do is keep them out of the fields, but he’s mean, that one,” said Miz Susan.

“This ‘parental relationship’ problem is all around,” said Miz Grant.

“Not at my house.”

“Nor mine. If it ever was, it’s not anymore.”

Talk about it, you would get a whipping, or worse, sold off. But that didn’t take away Ma’s tears the day as she stepped off the rear porch towards the kitchen house. In her arms she held her few things; her good dress, the red petticoat that Marsa Thom had given her, her tiny silver spoon. George had wanted to know what the matter was. Ma looked at him for a moment, lowered her voice.

“I’s cared fo’ him since I can ‘member,” she said. “We’s chilens t’gether, him a year older ‘n me. We growed up de same way. Ol’ Marsa Joe didn’t mind us always bein’ t’gether. And when Marsa Thom’s mammy up and died… I was given to ‘im.”

Ma looked at George.

“Charle’s born de winter befo’ Marsa Thom went offen school.” She smiled thinly. “He just popped out, wid dose blue eyes, jus’ like his’en.

Ol’ Marsa Joe pinched up his face, didn’t say nothing’.” Marsa Thom say he take good care of all us. He say, he do.”

George reached out to hug his mother. After a brief moment, she pulled back, “You’s never repeat what I’s say.”

George nodded.

“I’s have’n to call my own son a liar, iffen you do.”

Ma handed George her things, and turned away, headed for the woods. She didn’t come back until well after dark. Neither George nor Ma would speak about it again.

The wide red oak counter in the Clerk’s office looked more like a bar than a counter, with a carved edge molding and a brass foot rail on the front. Polished by the years of documents pushed across, it deemed the room a place of importance. It was long enough for five men to stand shoulder to shoulder, though that was only at tax time, as the

~ 88

property owners came in to pay the annual tax levy on their land and slaves. Behind the counter were two matching red oak desks; behind them, rows of bookshelves, built wide for the large ledgers into which the business of the county was logged: deeds, marriages, births, deaths, maps, tax records, court cases, trials, slave schedules. Real Estate and slave schedules were carefully kept by the county Clerk, and taxes on same collected by him; he also maintained the Court schedule. Two large multi-paned windows in the far wall let daylight and fresh air into the high-ceilinged room.

John H. Payne, Esq., sat at his desk, slowly inking an entry into one of the ledgers. He was a squat man, a widower, not from a good family, not schooled in fine manners, but he had studied law in Knoxville for two years and made something of himself. Hard work and honesty were his words to live by. Mary, his only child, had gotten the benefit of his position, she had been schooled, ‘finished’ at the Masonic Female Institute; T. H. Calloway had donated the money and land to build it, and he was now President. So when Mister Calloway’s slaves came in, he would stop what he was doing to help them. Unless a White person came in. Then they had to wait until all the Whites had been helped.

George and Louis had stood patiently by while Jacob Tibbs, slave trader, recorded his sale of two women: one cook, one body maid, ages 28 and 17, to Abigail Cosby, widow. The recording fee of one dollar each was paid and a receipt issued.

“What can I do for you boys?” asked Payne.

“Yes Suh, Mista Payne. Marsa Calloway sent this here,” Louis said, handing over the deed. Payne opened it and started to read.

Just then, Billy Brown came in, thumped down a sheaf of papers. “I ain’t payin’ it.”

“Good afternoon, Mister Brown,” said Payne. “Is this in reference to the tax on Plato?”

“You damn right. The nigger was sickly when I got him, and ‘fore I could get him healthy, he up and died. I ain’t payin’ no tax.”

~ 89

“I understand, Mister Brown, but the law is clear. Even as a trader, if you own the slave for more than six months, you have to pay the full twenty dollars property tax.”

“You’ll have to come get it, and I don’t advise doin’ that.”

For a moment, not a word was said. “Well, sir, you can appeal to Judge Campbell. He’ll be here the end of this month to hear the complaint against Nat Grant,” said Payne.

Louis, standing quietly to the side, shuffled nervously, leaned against the wall, dragging his shillelagh. What complaint against Nat? Brown turned and looked him up and down, ignoring George.

“See you got your leg back under ya,” said Brown.

“Yas Suh.” “Good thing. Hate to see Mister Calloway lose his money,” he smiled insincerely.

“Yas Suh.” ≈ Louis, leaning on George, eased down the City Hall stairs. It was now a quarter past six, and Payne was following close behind, locking the doors for the day. It had taken most of the time in the office to file Brown’s complaint, but Payne had recorded Calloway’s deed before closing, and placed his seal on it before returning it to George. Louis sat heavily on the stoop, George stepping off the pathway to allow Mr. Payne to pass.

“You boys be sure and tell Mister Calloway how I stayed late to see to his deed, now, you hear?’ said Payne.

“Yas Suh, surely will,” said George, to Payne’s retreating back.

“I gotta get that newspaper fo’ Marsa Thom. You rest here ‘till I get back,” said George.

Louis nodded, “That would be good.”

As George hurried off to the Cleveland Banner office, Louis stretched out his leg, leaned back against the stair rail. The air had grown still, a few birds in the trees above, and the low din of Poe’s bar.

Across the street, making their way towards the bar, he could see

~ 90

Brown walking, talking with Acock. Louis noted that Acock was wearing a new set of woodman’s boots and cotton-duck pants.

Suddenly, Acock stepped up short in front of Brown, standing close to him, his finger in Brown’s face. Louis could hear their voices rising. “…I shoulda got more’n that! I knows you got way more than fo’ hunert!”

“Never mind how much I got fur ‘em! Any reward woulda been no more’n that, and that’s all you get!”

Louis knew without asking what they were getting heated up over.

Guilt overwhelmed him; it wasn’t his fault, but regret and anger denied forgiveness. Rollins, a free man, had been sold into slavery; there was no way out, no White man would listen to him, or care much if they did. ≈ George helped Louis onto his bunk. He had to shoulder Louis’s weight on the way back from town; Louis’s leg was still too weak to cover that much ground. Ma was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, checking the rising breakfast bread dough, clearly listening while pretending not to.

Supper was well over, the kitchen cleaning done for the day.

“Only you on the wagon,” said George. “Lotta blood, that’s all.”

“His name was Rollins. Sold him into bondage, like a stray dog,” said Louis.

“Heard tell of a runaway shipped out to Georgia, that next week.

But nobody could get near the slave barn to see what he looked like.”

“Best be yo’ keep yo’ nose out dat. Yo’ lucky yo’ ain’t wid ‘em,” shot Ma from across the kitchen. Louis started to reply, George placed his hand on Louis’s shoulder, gave it an older brother squeeze.

“Louis knows how lucky he be, Ma. We all do.”

Louis shrugged, shook his head. “What’s this about Nat’s trial?” he said. Louis had waited to ask until they were home, inside.

George went to the door, looked around outside, came back and sat next to Louis.

~ 91

“Kincannon and Acock filed a complaint against Nat, saying that since he’s a freed slave, he has to be shipped to Africa,” he whispered.

Louis opened his mouth to speak, and for once, had no words. He looked over to Ma, who just nodded.

“Those two crackers are evil itself,” said Louis.

“Nothing cain be done. Captain Grant hired a lawyer to help Nat,” replied George. “Just have to wait for the trial the end of the month.”

~ 92

Chapter Thirteen Monday, August 19th, 1857 The leaves in the oak and maple trees rustled with a dry end of summer sound, milkweed silk floated on the late morning breeze, the browneyed susans open in the full sun. George rested his foot on the edge of his shovel, wiped his brow, looked down the slope at the wagonload of limestone rock, now almost empty. The Douglass brothers had arrived just after breakfast; Ian, Raif, and Sean stacking the rock for the new foundation of the church, as George and Nat dug out the holes for the footings. Several of the old men, White and Black, had heard about the goings-on, and had come up to give their unheeded advice from the comfort of the shade.

Even Pappy Jim had walked up to see. “Nothin’ tire me out worst tha’ watchin’ peoples workin’ in de hot sun,” he said.

The old men found this hilarious, had repeated it several times throughout the morning.

George walked down the hill to the road and thanked the Douglass’ for the rock, shook their hands, and passed on his regards to their parents, Mister Jerry and Miz Tina. He could hear the bell ring over to the girl’s school around the corner, knew that Elizabeth would have dinner on the table. Tom, the Pulliam family slave loaned out to the school, rang the noon bell, even in the summer when the school was closed.

In the afternoon, Nat would begin digging out the small basement vault under the new church. George would help him build it, just the two of them. They planned to line the sides with stone and put a trap door in the floor of the church under the altar. It would be deep enough for a man to sit up in. It would prove useful in times to come. ≈ Elizabeth was especially quiet, even for her. George sat at the kitchen table eating, tired from the morning’s building on the church, reading

~ 93

the Chattanooga paper, careful to keep any beans off the paper and refolding the pages as he read.

“I am going to teach the Black children in Frogtown to read,” she finally said. Elizabeth sat down heavily in the chair opposite him a slight smile on her face. She placed her hands, fingers interlaced, on the table. “This is my calling to God.” George looked up at his wife, a spoonful of beans midair, unmoving. He lowered the spoon slowly and waited. He could see from the look in her eyes, she wasn’t going to be easily dissuaded.

“And I mean to serve Him. Learning to read His word is the right of all Christian people.”

George nodded slowly, sighed, shifted in his chair uncomfortably.

This wasn’t the first time Elisabeth had talked of her calling of service to God. “All good Methodists must serve God by doing good,” she had said many times. George knew that this was the teachings of her father Nat, and George agreed with it. As good a servant of Christ as she might be, women just didn’t preach or sermonize, that’s just the way it was. But teaching children to read. That was alright for White people.

Black ones would wind up blind or dead. George folded the paper carefully, set it aside. Elizabeth was still looking at him.

“Elizabeth now, I cain’t…”

Elizabeth put her hand up in front of her, palm out, shook her head no, “God calls.”

“God has better things to do.”

George knew he should have kept that opinion to himself the instant he saw the look on her face. Elizabeth’s chest rose and fell rapidly.

“If God didn’t want me to teach those kids, he wouldn’t have taught me to read and write,” she said, and snapped her head in one exaggerated nod.

George looked at her, knew better than to keep on talking. He would have to think more about this. He nodded, picked up his spoon, and returned to his meal. Elizabeth smiled, got up and opened the pie

~ 94

safe, took out a large piece of apple pie on a plate, poured honey over and dusted cinnamon on top, just the way he liked it best. At that moment, George knew that Elizabeth knew he would give in even before he came in for dinner. He was never going to win this one. He would have to keep her safe. ≈ Louis rode with George in the wagon into town. George was on his way to pick up Pappy Jim from Nat’s church, had waited until the afternoon so he could take Louis to see Miss Mary. In spite of the heat, Louis was wearing his suit, the same one he had run off with, it somehow making it back with him. It had gotten wet, and had a bit of blood on it, but Ma had gotten it clean, and steam pressed it with hot stove irons; she had put a row of buttons on the right leg seam, same as his work pants.

Louis stretched out his good leg, stiff and slow, then slid off the seat into the dusty road, touched his shillelagh to his hat as thanks.

Louis watched George drive off and turned towards the bank. It was a moment before three, as requested. He opened the door as the big wall clock struck the hour, walked into the empty bank, save for himself and Miss Mary, who looked up from her desk, putting away her ledgers and ink.

“Punctual as always, Louis.”

“Yes, ‘um. Good afternoon,” said Louis.

Miss Mary stood and approached him, swung open the banister rail gate, and held it for him as he passed through, leaning heavily on the shillelagh.

“Have a seat there in front of the desk,” she said, motioning him towards her desk.

“Pleased to,” said Louis.

She continued on to the bank door, closed and locked it, put up the closed sign, and pulled the shades of the door and windows down, returned towards her desk. Mary was acting odd, thought Louis. She stopped and looked at Louis, looked at his buttoned pant leg, looked at him directly in the eye before she took her seat behind the desk.

~ 95

“Does the leg hurt still?”

“Only when I walk on it,” smiled Louis.

“They say that in time it will get better,” she nodded, not returning his smile.

“So they say,” he replied.

She opened her desk drawer and withdrew two ribbon wrapped bundles of parchment.

“This is the mortgage that Mister Calloway needs to sign today,” she said handing him one of the packets, wrapped with a blue ribbon.

She hesitated a moment.

“How many times have you run off?”

“I…” he stopped, surprised by the question. What did she want for an answer? She shouldn’t be talking about this. He shouldn’t be talking about this, especially with her.

“I suppose you plan to run off again?” she said before he could search out an answer.

Was this a trap? Surprised by her question, Louis’s eyes welled with tears of despair and pain, but he didn’t move a muscle, or say a word. He just stared at her. Understanding his confusion, she pushed the second parchment, bound with a red ribbon, across the desk.

“This is all I can do.”

Louis’s shaking hands opened the folded parchment; he blinked past his tears. The page was blank. Except it had the official seal of ‘John H. Payne, Bradley County Clerk, Cleveland Tennessee’ affixed to the lower right-hand corner. He looked up at her, expecting nothing, everything. She looked at him steadily before she spoke.

“Do you know how official papers of manumission are worded?”

~ 96

Chapter Fourteen Thursday, August 29th, 1857 The door to the side office that served as the judge’s chamber swung open.

“All rise,” said the Sheriff, there was a shuffling of feet and chairs as all in the room stood, “the honorable William Jay Campbell, presiding.”

It was eight thirty in the morning and already sweltering inside.

The town hall great room used for meetings, elections, most anything official, had been converted into a courtroom. The benches normally against the walls were now arranged in neat rows, an isle in between. A few office doors along the side stood open, most were closed, as it was late summer and farms and gardens needed tending, food put up for the winter. The large windows at each end of the room were open, a slow breeze passing between, sun filtered by the yellow tinged dry leaves on the trees outside.

Campbell strode purposefully to the desk and sat down; the assembled courtroom sat immediately after. He wore his black judge’s robe, his face flushed with obvious discomfort, sweat on his upper lip, which he daubed away frequently with his handkerchief. He placed a thin, legal-sized black leather portfolio, the ribbons tied neatly along the three open sides, upon the desk, which he deliberately untied and opened.

“Good morning,” he said, striking the table with his gavel.

“Good morning,” echoed the crowd.

A large desk had been set up at the north shady end, an empty captain’s chair set behind it. Sheriff Low was seated next to the desk, a sheaf of papers in front of him. Two small tables, one on each side of and forward of the desk, had two chairs each. Seated at the table on the right was John Payne, County Clerk, and for this day, the prosecutor.

Seated on the bench behind him was Will Brown and Rich Acock. At the

~ 97

table to the left, sat Nat Grant, and his attorney, Robert Hoyl, Esquire.

Behind them sat Captain Will Grant. In the far back of the room sat Caroline, George, Elizabeth, Louis, and Leander. Despite the heat, all the men, save Brown and Acock, had on a tie and jacket, the women their Sunday best.

“Court is in session,” said the Sheriff.

“First on the docket, petition regarding Nat Grant. Mister Payne, please read the complaint and particulars.”

“Your Honor.” John Payne nodded, rose, and began to read from his notes.

“On July the twelfth of late, Mister Richard Acock appeared before me and signed a sworn complaint against the free colored boy who calls himself ‘Nathaniel Grant’.’ Payne held up the complaint, and Sheriff Low got up and handed it to Judge Campbell.

“The charges are as follows: that Nathan, a free colored, has remained in the Sovereign State of Tennessee in violation of the Act of the General Assembly of February twenty-fourth, eighteen fifty-four, Chapter L, Section 1.”

“As you know your Honor, the law requires that an officer of the court file a petition against any freed person of color and provide for the removal of said person from the State of Tennessee, to be transported to the West Coast of Africa.”

Sheriff Low again carried the paper to the Judge. “A copy of the law is hereby entered into evidence.”

“I so order the petition to be filed,” said Judge Campbell. “Do you have it prepared?”

“I do, your Honor.” Payne walked to the desk and handed it to the Judge, who started to read it over before signing. Payne prepared the ink and pen for the Judge’s signature in the intervening silence.

George sat still as a stone, staring straight ahead, hardly believing what he was hearing. Caroline dabbed at her eyes, handkerchief pressed to her mouth. Elizabeth squeezed George’s hand, her gaze steady on the judge. Louis looked down at his hands, shook his head,

~ 98

pursed his lips. Leander put his head in his shaking hands. They knew what the charges were, and though no verdict had yet been reached they knew too what the Supreme Court’s “no colored has any rights that a White man has to respect” meant.

The Judge signed the petition, Payne blotted it, then took it over to Hoyl for inspection, who read it over quickly, handed it back.

“Mister Payne, on what evidence do you prosecute this case?” asked the Judge.

“I have the Record of Manumission of Nathaniel Grant, dated June thirtieth, eighteen fifty-three, your Honor. He became free seven months before the passage of the law requiring exportation. However, the original contract for his release was to take effect June thirtieth, eighteen fifty-four, making the effective date a full four months after the passage of the law. Therefore, he must be sent to Africa.” Payne walked the ledger book and contract over to the Judge. Judge Campbell checked the dates, nodded, and turned to Hoyl.

“Mister Hoyl, does the defense have a statement?” asked Judge Campbell.

“We do, your Honor,” said Hoyl, standing. “Nathan would like to address the court.”

“Objection,” said Payne. “As stated in the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850, no colored has any right to testify in court, and no statement of his can be entered as evidence.”

“Sustained. Mister Hoyl, anything further?”

“Yes, your Honor, I call Captain William Grant to verify his statement he filed on Nathaniel’s behalf, which I will now read.”

Sheriff Low and Payne exchanged glances; this was new information to them. Acock turned around on the bench and stared at George and Louis. George stared back.

“Let me see the statement,” said the Judge. Sheriff Low carried it to the Judge, who examined the signature at the bottom of the second page.

~ 99

“Captain Grant?” said the Judge looking up. “Would you please take the oath?”

Captain Grant stood, nodded. “Your Honor.”

“Please hold up your right hand,” said Sheriff Low, approaching him with a bible. Captain Grant placed his left hand on the bible. “Do you swear the testimony you’re about to give is the truth, only the truth, so help you God?” “I so swear,” said Grant.

“Is this your signature on this statement?’ asked the Judge.

“It is, yes.”

“Very well. Mister Hoyl, please proceed.”

Hoyl began to read. “Nathaniel had been a faithful, obedient, and good servant,” Hoyl began, “and on this account and for other consideration, I did contract and agree to set him free and have done so.

Nat endeavored to serve me honestly and faithfully for many years, and in eighteen forty-nine, I agreed, out of kindness and the fact that he had served me well, that if he served me in the same faithful manner for five more years, then I would discharge him from his bondage. I had no apprehension nor did the law, as it is unclear, then, when African slaves thus acquiring their freedom would be transported to the West Coast of Africa. During the course of time, Nat was able to amass the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars which he paid to me for a releasement and full discharge from bondage a full year before the time at which he was to be discharged under the original contract, the time of this payment of said sum was June thirtieth, eighteen fifty-three. I executed in furtherance of our original contract a discharge and full release from his service, which has been duly acknowledged recorded and registered in Bradley County Tennessee. I hereby beg leave to state that I was not aware that the boy Nathaniel would be required to leave his family and go to Africa and yet he desires to remain here, but his right to do so is a question of law submitted to the Honorable Court. Signed, Captain William Grant.”

~ 100

The courtroom, dead silent during the reading, was filled with sighs and shuffling in the moment it took Sheriff Low to retrieve the statement and return it to the Judge.

“Are these the facts as you know them?” asked the Judge.

“Yes, your Honor,” said Grant, and sat down heavily.

After looking the statement over once again, and rereading the wording of the law, the Judge shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“The court greatly appreciates the kind gentleman’s interest in this case. It is rare that such a distinguished a member of the community appears in our court. However, the law is clear and I am charged to enforce its provisions.”

The judge leaned forward and looked at Nat. “Stand up, Nathaniel.”

Nat stood, as did Hoyl.

“It is the opinion of this court that the provisions of Chapter L, Section one of the Act of February twenty-fourth, eighteen fifty-four, apply to you and you are bound to obey under the law.”

Nat sagged visibly, Hoyl shaking his head in silent disagreement.

Acock and Brown smiled broadly and shook hands, glancing back at George and Louis. They glared directly at the two White slave traders; which prompted Brown to smile wider and shake his shoulders in exaggerated laughter. Caroline wept openly, stood, and left the courtroom. Elizabeth’s tears fell from her face unwiped, a silent defiance to injustice. She placed her arm around Leander who, head bowed, silently wept for their father. George knew the two spiteful White men were the instigators of this kangaroo court. They had caused him unchristian thoughts. He would not forget nor forgive.

“The original terms of the contract apply, even if executed on an earlier date, making your date of manumission June of eighteen fiftyfour, not fifty-three.”

“Before I pass judgment, it is my duty to inform Captain Grant that he, as the owner, has the legal right to controvert the freedom of the boy, and reclaim it as his property. Do you so claim?” asked the Judge.

~ 101

Captain Grant looked at his Black son, smiled wistfully, then looked at the Judge, and spoke resignedly.

“No, your Honor, I do not.”

“Nathaniel, you can be re-enslaved to Captain Grant to satisfy the law. Will you sell yourself back to him?”

Nathaniel looked back at his son Leander for a long moment.

Turning to the Judge, he hesitated, then said softly, “No, your Honor.”

“Then I order that you, Nathaniel, are to be transported to the West Coast of Africa, to the territory known as Liberia. I further order that a fund of one hundred fifty dollars shall be collected to provide transport and six months expenses in Liberia. Do you have said sum?”

“He does not, your Honor,” said Hoyl.

“Then I order that the colored boy Nathaniel shall be paroled to Sheriff Low, and that he is to be rented out for his labor, and that all sums up to one hundred fifty dollars shall be collected, by the Sheriff, to be used at the earliest moment to remove Nathaniel to Liberia.”

For the rest of his life, George would remember the slant of the yellow sunlight and Elizabeth’s tears falling on the back of his hand.

~ 102

Chapter Fifteen Monday September 2, 1857 “Caroline has been cryin’ for three days,” said Nat, standing, along with Charles, George, Louis, and Leander in the Calloway barn. The morning milking complete and the cans set in the milk house water bath to cool, Pappy Jim had come in and sat down on a bale of straw. The beat of the pouring rain on the roof and the distant peal of thunder punctuated the quiet conversation.

“Word a gotten out t’all the Black folk in Frogtown,” said Pappy Jim. “It’s all the talk in the Big House,’ said Charles.

“And in the nearby farms, it seems,” said Louis.

“They’re all wishing you well,” said George, “want to know what you gonna do.”

Nat had been thinking about that question: when he fell asleep it was the last thing on his mind; when he woke up, it was the first.

“I’ve thought hard on this…” he paused and looked around at his family, “I must go to Liberia.”

Everyone spoke at once. Nat raised his hand for silence.

Louis’s voice broke through, “Canada,” he said. “You’d be free there, and closer to family.”

“I’m under parole, not free, cain’t go on my own. If I run, get caught, I’d be re-enslaved, and we all know the chance of getting caught is greater than not,” he said as he looked down at Louis’s leg. “And with Caroline heavy with child…” his voice trailed off.

The men stood in silence for a moment, each trying to defeat the logic of Nat’s thoughts.

“I cain’t take anyone with me. I don’t have the money to buy everyone’s freedom, even if Captain Grant would sell. Which he won’t,” he said looking at his son Leander, “he’s told me so. He doesn’t want everyone shipped off. I’ve got to do what the law tells me to do.”

~ 103

“The law!” said Louis. “When it comes to me and freedom, law ain’t got any hold.”

With a heavy sigh, “Only in Liberia,” Nat replied, “the land of our ancestors, can we truly be free. Where no White man makes the law.”

“Liberia ain’t our home, it’s here,” said George.

“That’s a tall price to pay,” said Charles.

“What happens to us?” asked Leander. “What’re we gonna do?”

“You all belong to Cap Grant. You’ll have a home with your mother, food to eat. My plan is to establish myself, and in good time, with the help of Jesus, buy each of you, bring you to Liberia.”

“No White man, even Captain Grant, cain be trusted all the way,” said George, “hard times come, they’d sell us, break up families, we’ve all seen it happen.”

“What would you have me do? What would you do?” said Nat. “I was born in America, this is my home, our home” George said.

“Could jus’ stay ‘ere,” said Pappy Jim from across the barn. “Be slaved ‘gin.”

“I thought about it. Long time.” Nat looked at each one of them in turn. “I have been a free man. I have gone about my business without the permission of another. Is there any one of you that would not trade with me? Would you die a slave, or as a man of freedom in another land? I’ll be free, or die tryin’.”

“Amen,” said Louis.

The men sat in silence, listening to the rain, each lost in their own careworn dreams of freedom.

There was a bright flash and a cascading crack of thunder close overhead.

The deal with the Devil had been struck. Death or freedom.

~ 104

≈ George walked into town with Nat. He stood beside Nat in the Clerk’s office as Payne and the Sheriff served Nat the official papers for transport to Liberia. He watched as Nat was required to “make his mark” on the three sets of papers.

Even though Nat could read, write, and sign his name, he did not: Nat would give no reason for more retribution on his family after he was gone. One set of papers would be served on Capt.

Grant, one left in the County files. 9 George and Nat parted as they stepped off the sidewalk, into the muddy street in front of the town hall; the storm had passed, the sun was out, it was noon, it was muggy, steam was rising from the ruts.

As he watched Nat’s retreating figure, pains of sympathy surged up his body, his heart hurt. Fear and grief overcame George. Anger.

And then resignation. He could see no way things could be different, no way to have the family stay together. He admired Nat for his convictions, but he longed for things to stay the same.

He stood for a moment, listened to the day; it was so still that George could hear the passing insects zipping by, making up for the lost 9 Trial record from Cleveland TN courthouse.

~ 105

rainy morning. The occasional mud dauber swooped onto the road, picked around, then staggered into the air with as much of the sticky stuff as she could carry back to her nest. She would build her nest, lay her eggs, and in the spring, there would be a new generation to replace her.

“What the Lord givith, the Lord taketh away,” he said to himself.

He turned, started to walk back to the farm.

George passed the train station office, no one was at the front desk, it was a slow day. Only the passenger train from Knoxville would stop late in the evening. He entered, walked to Louis’s back room, carefully picked up the box of thin slate tablets he had made up this past week.

Getting the slate was easy enough, the hills were full of it; he’d had to learn how to strike the rocks just so to get flat pieces, but he’d gotten the hang of it quickly. He had made wooden frames to make them sturdy enough for children to handle. Over the past few weeks, he had collected a handful of discarded chalks found around the railroad cars as they came through, too short for the yard men to use, but just right for small hands.

Bundling the tablets under his coat, he pulled the office door closed behind him. He knew dinner was on the table, Elizabeth would be watching for him to return home.

~ 106

Chapter Sixteen Saturday, September 21st, 1857 The full moon was bright, the night clear. Not a cloud in the sky. George could see for miles. The day had been long, what with the regular chores and putting extra feed in the barn troughs and pig pen. The harvest had been good this year, extra hands hired out of Frogtown, and looked to be a good slaughter with plenty to go around.

Tomorrow, George would get out early to hunt for deer. Raif Douglass was going with him, they would sell the venison for extra money to buy sugar and coffee.

Saturday nights, after supper, Elizabeth and Ma would watch the kids while the Black folks went to the juke joint for music and drink. It was a good way of covering the school for the children, and besides, Miz Susan was usually busy with her own social engagements.

Marsa Thom was away to Knoxville on railroad business. Miz Susan had a bad cold and had been nursing it with hot whiskey and honey most of the day. Like her brother Billy, her temper grew short when she’d had a few. Tonight, was no exception. She had come down to the kitchen for yet another “headache reliever” and happened to see the Black children walking into the barn, one of them carrying a book under his shirt. A little boy had dropped it, quickly picked it back up, too late. Miz Susan made a straight line out the back door, down the hill to the barn, threw open the door, looked around at the chalk boards and the primer, stood speechless for a moment and then began yelling and cursing out Elizabeth. George had run in, stood between Elizabeth and Miz Susan as the White woman cursed out “know-it-all niggers” and wore herself out slugging George in the chest and arms. George saw Raif take off like a shot out the door. That Raif would run instead of help hurt more than the volley of punches he endured. Miz Susan was weak from the cold and the drink, and soon had to stop, sit to catch her breath. George thought she might actually pass out.

~ 107

Just then, Miz Tina hurried in the door with Raif in tow. She was holding a spelling book, “McGuffey’s Eclectic Primer for Christians,” and rushed over to Miz Susan.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said displaying the book. “Meant to be here at sundown, got behind in my chores.”

Miz Susan looked up at her, clearly bewildered. So did George and Elizabeth.

“This here is my class. I teach the picaninnies to read the Good Lord’s Scripture, every Saturday.”

Well, that was news to everyone, as Miz Tina had never been to the class, though she had known about it when Elizabeth had borrowed a primer.

“I see,” said Miz Susan, “This is your class?”

“Yes’um. Should of told you about it. My apologies.”

The room was silent as Miz Susan stared at Elizabeth and George, gauging the veracity of this explanation. George smiled and nodded.

After a long moment: “You look like you’re getting a chill,” said Raif, “May I escort you up to the fire at the Big House?” he said extending his arm. Miz Susan looked relieved, stood, took his arm and walked out without a further word.

George looked at his wife, both raised their eyebrows. He rubbed his chest to ease the pain, and smiled.

“God works in mysterious ways,” he said.

“Amen,” said Elizabeth.

And so, the Saturday Scripture School for children of all colors was founded in the old barn. George would apologize to Raif for thinking harmful thoughts. A couple years later.

~ 108

Chapter Seventeen Friday, October 4th, 1857 Louis looked out of the train depot office window and watched the carpenters building the new warehouse for the storage of freight, both inbound and outbound. Though fairly large, Marsa Thom had decided to expand it even more, was making the warehouse even larger than planned. He had told Louis that the copper market was not good because of the big bank failures in Ohio, New York, and Europe. Marsa Thom expected he would have to store more copper and other freight for longer, as cash money was getting tight.

“A full-on financial panic,” Marsa Thom had said. Louis had just listened as Marsa Thom talked, nodding politely. It really made no never mind to Louis, he didn’t have any money anyway.

It was already half past eight in the morning, but there was still a chill in the air; red, yellow, and brown leaves blew off the trees in the sharp wind, ending their brief lives stuck in the brown stubble of the hillside grass. The soft sighing of the wind through the trees comforted him. It was the time of harvest, of plenty, the work done, time for thoughts and play. Louis watched the men work. The crew chief was Raif Douglass, along with his brothers Ian and Sean, and two freemen; Nat Grant, hired by Marsa Thom from the Sheriff, was the colored foreman alongside of George, working on the building now that the last of the corn, wheat, and oats had been put up.

Louis looked at the clock as it chimed the half hour. The train to Dalton would be here in 90 minutes, and he had to check all the bills of lading before it arrived. Which meant he needed to walk to the bank to check with Marsa Thom, get the list signed. He took his eye shade off, rolled down his sleeves, tightened his string tie, and put on the jacket of his brown suit. He knew Miss Mary would be at the bank. He checked his reflection in the glass cover on the clock, smoothed his hair with his free hand, stepped out the door.

~ 109

Louis opened the door of the bank, walked in, and crossed to Marsa Thom’s open office door. He smiled and nodded to Miss Mary, she smiled back. He stopped short as he saw three farmers sitting in the office, backs to the door. Standing in the doorway, he could see that from the way the men sat stiffly in the chairs and the dead silence, that the conversation had been tense. Marsa Thom looked up from his desk, waved him away.

“Close the door and take a seat outside,’ he said.

One of the men turned and glanced at Louis. It was Joe McMillian, local farmer, slave trader and owner. He barely glanced at Louis as he turned back. The other two, Bill Morrison and Asa Fitzgerald, Louis had seen, knew them to be small farmers, who hired free Blacks from time to time. Louis nodded, shut the door, took a seat closest to it. He sat as still as he could, listening to the conversation. Seemed as though the price of wheat was so low, that the farmers couldn’t pay their mortgage, which Marsa Thom’s bank held. They had all bought more land when wheat was at two dollars ten cents a bushel, two years ago. But now with the bank panic, and so many farmers expanding their wheat fields, the price of wheat had fallen to sixty-one cents. In Chicago. Which meant by the time they paid the freight, they were making thirty-five cents. If it could be sold, which wasn’t a surety. After several long pauses, chair scrapings, and throat clearings, Marsa Thom spoke.

“The best I can do is twenty cents credit to your accounts,” he paused. “You bring me your wheat; I’ll carry the shortfall to next year.”

The farmers shuffled around, didn’t say anything.

“The price might drop even more, and the bank would lose money.

But to keep things even between us, I’ll promise that price now.”

“Agreed,” said one voice, and then another.

Louis heard the chairs scrape back, a pause, and the door opened, the three farmers strode out silently. Louis stood as they passed, watched them go out, McMillian slammed the bank door behind him.

Like to knock the glass out, thought Louis.

“Come in,” Marsa Thom said.

~ 110

Louis crossed the office to Marsa Thom’s desk, handed him the Bill of Lading list. He glanced at it, signed it without reading it.

“All in order?” he asked, handing it back.

“Yes Suh.” “Tell the Douglass boys to make the storage shed twenty feet longer, I’ll talk to them later.”

“Yes Suh.” Louis backed up a step, turned as he exited the office and crossed through the lobby. He stood at the rail in front of the row of desks watching her work until Miss Mary looked up and spoke.

“Yes, Louis?”

“I wonder if there’s anything you need done while I’m here,” he said smiling.

She cocked her head inquisitively, “Why, no.”

“I’ll just say goodbye then… and be on my way.” Louis smiled, nodded. Mary looked at him for a moment, nodded, her eyes watched him closely. Lewis looked back at her directly, for longer than was considered polite: he saw her eyes soften. She knew. Louis turned to leave, stopped and turned back for just a moment, nodded and quickly left the bank. ≈ The gloaming twilight outlined the hills behind the depot as George opened the door, carried in two full five-gallon coal scuttles, and set them beside the potbellied stove in the corner, next to the counter.

“Hey Loui’,” he shouted out.

He shook the ash grate into the metal bucket below the stove, then opened the fire door and placed a half dozen pieces of coal in a neat stack on top of the fire. Latching the door as he turned, he walked to the back of the depot.

“Louis, if you want supper, you betta get up to the house. Ma is done waitin’,” George yelled to the back hallway. It was nigh on seven o’clock, and Ma would be going to bed soon. Sometimes she left out food, sometimes she didn’t, depending on how cross she was with you that day.

~ 111

Hearing no reply, George opened the door to Louis’s cubby office startling Louis awake. Louis sat up, turned around, and quickly stood up, papers sitting around his desk in neat stacks. His pen and ink were open, a half-written page now smudged with the fallen quill.

“You better not let Marsa Thom catch you sleepin’ with the night train due any minute.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, he’s already been by,” said Louis as he reached for his shillelagh and pushed past his brother, heading to the front desk. “The train whistle wakes me up, all well and good.”

A train whistle blew in the near distance, and George watched his brother quickly stiff-walk on his bad leg.

“I already lighted the station lamp,” George said, so Louis wouldn’t have to run. “And hung it up.”

Louis leaned against the counter, reached under it, brought out the red oil lantern used to flag the engine to a stop, and lighted it with a punk from the stove.

“Thanks,” Louis said as he went out to wait on the train. George followed him outside, the two brothers stood in silence, watched the train approach. Louis swung the red lamp for the engineer, marking the spot to stop.

“Marsa Thom came by the kitchen to tell me to start on another storage house on the far side of the track spur,” said George as he pointed.

“Yeah,” nodded Louis. “he be getting’ two new box cars to load the new wheat up.”

“Gonna be sendin’ it to Chicago,” said George, turning to look directly at his brother. Sadness surrounded his eyes as his face drooped in thought.

“I know I cain’t talk you out o’it, you’ll be agoin’ in one of those cars,” said George, “sooner or later.”

Louis looked at George for a long moment, said nothing.

“So, I’m gonna say good-bye now, so’s if I don’t—” “Maybe you should think about going along,” interrupted Louis.

~ 112

George smiled at his brother, nodded.

“I have thought, Loui… much as I might want it, what happens to Elizabeth, my children? I just cain’t. A man has to take care of his own…” George’s voice trailed off, “…good luck.”

Louis nodded and extended his hand. The two brothers shook hands for a long moment, just as the night train blew her whistle, and with steam billowing, rumbled to a halt.

~ 113

Chapter Eighteen Tuesday, October 15th, 1857 The new warehouse on the sidetrack kept getting bigger than originally planned, with a twenty-foot addition on the west side. J. E. Raht, Marsa Thom’s partner in the copper and silver mines, wanted a repair shed for the heavy wagons. Now that the smelting had been expanded up in the mountains near the coal veins, the load of copper bars was even heavier.

Axles and hubs could make only a few round trips before they had to be rebuilt. Paschell Carter, the blacksmith, would repair the iron wheel rims at his shop, but the axles and wheels were of wood, so Nathaniel was rented to Marsa Thom for the construction of the buildings, and later, for repair of the axles and wagons.

On the east side of the warehouse, the downwind side, a new stable was to be built. Raif Douglass had hired on six more White hands, rented three more slaves just to set up the stone foundations for the three new buildings. Beyond the buildings, a large patch of trees had been cleared and leveled for the stacks of firewood for the steam engines. And with that, a new water tower that caught water from Mouse Creek on a short causeway from the Calloway farm. Marsa Thom had hired eight new men, White and Black, just to cut wood. And more men and wood would be needed soon when the track to Chattanooga was finished.

A fine operation, thought George who stood on the hill just below the Big House, axe in hand. He had been thinning out the overgrown hazelnut bushes, now that Ma and Elizabeth had picked what they wanted for the holiday cakes. It was just before noon, the bright sun warm in contrast to the chill breeze, the cool air welcome to a man working hard. He looked down on the rail yard, watching the dozen or so men working, moving about, building, each area in a different stage of completion. He had helped Marsa Thom lay out the grid, carefully making the best use of the land. Rock foundations set in an orderly

~ 114

fashion, straight and level; heavy beams stretched on the foundations, joists nailed in for the warehouse floor.

The morning train had been late, and was now backing down on the side yard, pushing two box cars onto the sidetrack. The fireman, a thick armed White man in his late twenties, had jumped off the slowmoving train, and was standing alongside the big pile of rocks that marked the end of the sidetrack. He swung his soot covered arm up and down, signaling the brakeman, standing on top of the second box car, to apply the wheeled hand-operated brake, and the train came to a squealing stop, half on the sidetrack and half on the main line. The brakeman, a skinny White kid, sixteen at most, shimmied down the side ladder, carrying a heavy club. He stood on the link and pin coupler, and whacked the pin two good, loud blows releasing the boxcars. The train jerked back with a bang, and he had to jump back not to get hurt by the flying steel pin.

The carpenters, both Black and White, had by now stopped, leaned on whatever tool was in their hand, and watched the show. The brakeman hopped up on the rear of the caboose, as the fireman blew his whistle, signaling the engineer the all-clear. A big hiss, a column of sooty steam, and the train began to move; the fireman swung up on the fire box with a practiced one hand leap. He grinned at the men and tipped his hat goodbye. A few men waved back, the train gaining speed, on its way to Knoxville.

Raif looked up at the sun, then blew his whistle three short blasts.

The men dropped their tools where they worked, lined up for the lamb and venison stew that Ma had been cooking since first light. The White men were served first, then free Blacks, then slaves. There was plenty of hot corn bread, and apple pie, and hot boiled coffee. The tin plates heaped full, the men sat on the framing, and fell quiet, eating.

George walked down, took a plate of food, and sat next to Nat, nodding, not speaking. They ate quickly, the food getting cold about as fast as they ate. George took both plates and spoons and put them into

~ 115

the large wooden bucket that Elizabeth would come fetch and take up to the house for cleaning.

The two men walked a few dozen yards down the track, downwind, so their voices wouldn’t carry back to the others. George packed his pipe, lit up with a match. Nat pulled out a partly smoked cigar, shared the match, relighting it with several deep pulls, inhaling the smoke deeply. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the tobacco take effect, exhaled, then turned directly to George.

“Pappy Jim came down here earlier,” said Nat. “Yeah, I saw him,” said George, “‘bout an hour ago.”

“He says there’s a young mulatto girl with two bitty kids hiding out in the woods along the old Alabam’ road, just east of Craigmiles farm. Been on the run a couple weeks. Looked wore out and raggedy.”

“I kin put them up for a day, only, out in the cabin in the high pines. They got to keep movin’. Pap cain’t keep a secret—” “I’ll take ‘em up there when I finish here tonight,” said Nat, interrupting George.

“There’ll be food and clothes waitin’,” said George.

“Getting’ to be more and more runnin’ north,” said Nat. Raif blew the back to work whistle, all the other men pulled themselves together, walked back to their tools.

George tapped out his pipe, stepped on the ashes.

“They need to get on the other side of the river, go north up the Cumberland Gap. Never make it through the Cherokee Mountains,” said George. “Too late in the season.”

“Should maybe make the space under the new altar a little deeper,” said Nat. Both men nodded, not speaking, agreeing in a bond of silence. ≈ Louis sat his lamp on his desk, watched the Dalton night train fade down the track, and dropped heavily into his chair. The cold was bothering his leg, and the construction noise was irritating in its irregularity. Jack the telegraph operator and station master, was gone

~ 116

now; chores done, Louis was glad to sit still for a moment. He turned the wick on the lamp up higher, reached under the desk, withdrew a small cloth draw bag. He opened it and removed the precious piece of paper from Mary, with the seal on it. With it was another sheet, this one with several different versions of John Payne’s signature on them. One looked especially accomplished; this one he began to copy onto the bottom of the page near the seal.

“No point in writing the thing if this doesn’t work,” he said softly to himself.

With care and deliberation, Louis scribed the signature of “John H. Payne, Esq.” Satisfied with his work, he added “Clerk, Bradley County Tennessee”, all words capitalized, with well embellished letters to convey their importance. Under this he wrote “recorded this Eighth day of August Eighteen Fifty-Five”. He turned the paper over and gently blotted it on his desk blotter, careful not to smear. He reached into the bag and withdrew another paper, unfolded it. He had written down the words of Nat’s freedom paper as best he could remember; Nat had let him read it after the trial. He placed it near his lamp and began to write on the top of his new document. In large letters, he wrote “Deed of Manumission” at the top, followed by the full text.

“I, John H. Payne, Acting Council of Cleveland, Tennessee, hereby certify, to all to whom these presents, that Louis Thomas Calloway, a mulatto Negro male, twenty-one years of age or thereabouts, of the height of Five feet, Three inches, black woolly hair, blue eyes, with a stiff right leg, has this day produced to me proof, in the manner directed by the laws of Tennessee, that he is a free Black man, without bond, now and forever. Witness my Seal.”

Louis sat back, blotted the paper, and looked over his handiwork with a nod. He reached behind the stack of ledgers, took out the dark blue document cover Mary gave him at the bank. He placed his freedom paper in, folded it carefully, and tied it with the red ribbon that was attached. With the signature, seal, and portfolio, the paper was complete. It was impressive. It would have to be.

~ 117

≈ George could see his breath in the dim moonlight. Even though the gibbous moon was waxing, it was only just past half full. The night sky was clear, but a low band of clouds was stacked up in the east. He sat on an old stool in front of the upper pines cabin. The small log cabin was high in the hills behind the farm, in the far corner, nearly two miles from the Big House as the crow flies. Pappy Jim had built it when George, Henry, and Louis were younger, as a place to stay the night during the spring gathering of pine sap for turpentine and tar pitch. The boys had been too young to make the trip up and back in the same day; they would have more time to work without the hour and a half walk twice a day. Now days, coal oil and tar were cheaper and easier to get; nobody much came up here, except to hunt.

George heard feet on the path below. Four figures, two large, two small were coming towards him. He recognized Nat by his walk; he waited for the small group.

Few words were exchanged. In the dark, George couldn’t make out their features well, but the woman was tall, large boned, field hand stock, strong hands. The two boys, six and four, were big for their age.

As the three went in the cabin, George whispered “No fires. Plenty of food, change of clothes inside.”

The woman nodded, and before she closed the door, grasped his hand in thanks. George pressed two silver quarter dollars into her hand.

“God be with you,” he said.

George and Nat made their way down the mountain, not saying a word until they were out of the woods on the flat pasture. George carried his musket over his shoulder, his arm hanging on it to balance the weight. They’d say they were hunting ‘coon if they were stopped by the pattyrollers. Not likely, as they were on Marsa Thom’s land, but still, can’t be too careful.

“Her master is a horse thief, got caught, got away somehow. He chained up all his slaves by the neck and started to Texas. Kept all the people barefoot, so’s they wouldn’t run off. Comin’ through the

~ 118

mountains just south of here, her mother, legs swoll up, couldn’t walk, feet bleeding. The man shot her, then kicked her ‘till she died. He had to open the chain to get her body off, one of the men strangled her marsa with the chain. They’re all on the run, she hasn’t seen any of the rest in three days.”

“Think it’s time to spend that money we’ve been holdin’,” said George.

“Thinkin’ the same.”

“Saw an old wagon out on Craigmiles place. Might make a good wagon for helpin’ these lost souls move north.”

The two men walked in silence for a few minutes, listening to the night.

“The Swans could buy it for us,” said George. “Cain’t be worth mor’ than ten, twelve dollars.”

Nathaniel nodded. “We’ll work it over in the new wagon barn.”

“The mules cain be lent from the Swans… but won’t do to keep the wagon layin’ about,” said George.

Nathaniel smiled. “We’ll just hide it in plain sight.”

~ 119

Chapter Nineteen Thursday, November 28th, 1857, 10 Thanksgiving Day. The air was clean and crisp, the sun glowing magenta through the haze over the Appalachian Mountains. The kitchen smelled good; Ma had been up well before the chickens. That meant Louis had to be up too, feeding the fires in the stoves, bringing in the two turkeys from the smokehouse that George had killed and plucked the day before. Two large hams had been soaking all night on the stove to remove the salt; Louis changed the water on them for the third time at dawn. Ma made cornbread and sausage stuffing, sweet potato pie, mincemeat pie, apple pie, biscuits, baked potatoes and cheese, and greens.

Ma was kneading the dough for the butter-soaked rolls she was famous for. Louis and George had peeled white potatoes, sweet potatoes, and carrots. There would be plenty for all.

“I ain’t seen you’ Elizabit,” said Ma, “why you here instead her?”

“She’s been feelin’ poorly in the morning,” said George, grinning at Ma.

10 Isham G. Harris, Democrat, newly elected Governor of Tennessee, had declared the last

Thursday in November, the twenty-eighth, to be a Thanksgiving Day. Not every year had a Thanksgiving Day; it was up to each state to declare one, or not. The custom had become to have them more often, and many states had them on the same November day every year.

Congress had declared a Thanksgiving Day in 1777 and a few thereafter. President Washington declared the first one under the Constitution in 1789, and again in 1795. President Adams declared the next in 1798 and 1799. President Jefferson declared none (he believed that as a Pilgrim religious holiday, a national thanksgiving was a violation of the separation of church and state). President Madison declared the next in 1814, at the close of the War of 1812; two in 1815.

Popularity of the holiday grew, and by 1857, twenty-five states and two territories had proclamations of thanksgiving issued by their governors.

On October 3rd, 1863, President Lincoln would declare the fourth Thursday in every November to be a national holiday.

~ 120

Ma turned to him, clasped his face with her flour covered hands, and gave him a kiss. “’Bout time, too,” she said, “need more chilens.”

As the sun had passed its zenith, the hour approached One O’clock Post Meridian; soon the guests would be arriving, and the preparations for the Two O’clock dinner were underway. The Calloways were hosting dinner for their immediate friends, the Swans and the Grants, by way of settling the year’s various social obligations. The Calloway children had eaten their Thanksgiving feast of fried chicken and mashed potatoes, apple pie and English cream, and were now safely out of sight upstairs in the nursery with Harriette. Soon Billy and Margret Swan, and Captain William and Abigail Grant would arrive in their buggies; all must be ready.

“Let’s see your hands,” said Charles, standing in the Big House pantry. A taciturn man, Charles was little given to loquacious conversation; exceptionally detail oriented, he was the perfect Big House butler. Charles was dressed in his head-of-wait-staff finery and was inspecting George’s and Louis’s uniform of polished black shoes, pressed grey pants, black coat, starched white shirt, and black cravat.

“Be seen and not heard,” Charles said standing in front of and looking directly at Louis.

“How many times you gonna say that?” asked Louis, in the irritating rhetorical way that only one brother to another can ask.

“As many as it takes,” said the three brothers together at the same time. Even Charles had to smile.

“Put these on before the table service, and try to keep them clean,” he said handing each of them a pair of white gloves.

Pappy Jim and Leander carried in the food from the kitchen house, the hot turkeys on platters and surrounded by roasted apples, into the butler’s pantry, where the three brothers were standing. With a nod, Pappy Jim and Leander placed the food on the oak carving table, left the way they came in.

~ 121

The pantry was large, with cabinets and counters all around the wall, the large stout table in the center used for carving and re-dishing the food as it was delivered from the kitchen. The cabinets above the counter had been built to hold the china, crystal, and silver each in its own place. Clean, well-oiled oak wood floors, white walls, and cheerful yellow trim emphasized the tidiness of the room. Ma, Elizabeth, and Harriette kept it spotless. Highly polished silver bowls and service-ware were arranged in the order they would be used.

Miz Susan entered the pantry, “George, Captain Grant is arriving.”

“Yes ‘em,” he said as he went out the back door and hurried around the house to help with the arrival. Miz Susan looked around at the feast. “All is ready?” she asked.

“Yes ‘em,” said Charles, nodding.

Miz Susan nodded. “We’ll begin with the punch in the parlor,” she said, returning to the vestibule to greet her arriving guests, “And then the ladies will view the food presentation.” ≈ Charles swept crumbs from the white linen tablecloth in front of each of the diners, as George and Louis cleared the side table of the last of the desserts and set out the port, bourbon, and brandy. Coffee was served, the guests refused another morsel. The dinner had taken over two hours to serve and clear; all had gone well.

Louis watched as Marsa Thom nodded faintly to Miz Susan. She smiled, and gathering her napkin, rose to her feet.

“Ladies, shall we allow our husbands a small time to talk business?”

The women stood, the men rushing to their feet to help with the chairs. Margaret Swan and Abigail Grant were both close in age to Miz Susan. They were all younger than their husbands by about ten to fifteen years, as was the custom, not yet out of their childbearing years with both toddlers and teenagers at home. The three women wore their hair in a conservative style, parted in the middle with Spaniel curls framing their faces. They all had on elegant afternoon dress, moderately

~ 122

hooped long-sleeved dresses of dark silks; they were said to be the best dressed in the county. The men, save Marsa Thom, wore short, clipped beards; all were attired in finely woven dark wool three-piece suits, with long tailed jackets to befit the occasion.

George, carrying the women’s coffee, retreated behind them into the drawing room as Charles passed the glass cigar humidifier around and set out the silver cigar scissors and the matches. Louis poured each man a glass of port, tilting the bottle basket carefully, so as not to stir up the settlings in the bottom. Charles signaled Louis to stay with the men, as he exited into the pantry to begin the supervising of the cleanup, and to get a bite to eat.

“I suppose you two have noticed that the price of wheat is up twenty-eight and a half cents a bushel?” said Captain Will, “Yesterday’s close was sixty-four cents.”

Both Marsa Thom and Mister Billy nodded, while lighting their cigars.

“I think it’s time to sell our wheat,” Mister Billy said.

Marsa Thom nodded. “Agreed,” he paused for effect. “We have possession of twenty-one thousand six hundred bushels in all the various barns and the train yard.”

“How much is transport?” asked Captain Will.

“By using the night rail rates, and provided a discount for volume, I can ship the wheat for six cents a bushel.”

“All the way to Chicago?” asked Mister Billy.

Marsa Thom nodded, “We’ll get the inter-rail exchange rate. We can deliver the first two box cars by next week.”

“That means the net to us is nearly twice what we paid,” said Captain Will, “we’ll take away over eight thousand dollars.”

“Eight thousand two hundred eight, to be exact,” Marsa Thom smiled.

Mister Billy looked over at Louis, standing quietly by the side table.

Marsa Thom followed his gaze.

“Don’t worry Billy, Louis would never say a word.”

~ 123

To prove his point, he stared at Louis, who stood gazing at the opposite wall, not moving.

“Would you Louis?” he asked after a long moment.

Louis turned and looked at the floor in his direction.

“Suh?” “Repeat what you hear.”

Louis was always amazed at how White people thought Black people were dumb. Even Marsa Thom who knew better, would use such a trope if needs be.

“No, Suh, not never. I doan’t listen to the talkin’.”

“Good. Bring us that bottle of aged bourbon and fresh glasses. This is cause for a toast.” ≈ Ma carried the platters back into the kitchen house, where she had set the big sugar maple table for her family, Charles, Elizabeth & George, baby Caroline, and Louis; Nathaniel & Caroline, and their other children, Leander, Sarah, John, Susan, and baby Phoebe. They had to eat in shifts, as they were still working the Big House party, but all came together briefly to hold hands and give thanks.

“Lord, thank you for the bounty we are about to receive and thanks to those who toil in the fields,” said Nat. “We pray for guidance as we pray for freedom, Amen.”

“Amen,” repeated the group.

“Short but sweet,” said Caroline. She lowered her voice.

“You cain’t keep making that prayer where the White folks might hear,” she whispered.

“Not much they cain do to me now,” he smiled weakly in defense.

“And the rest of us left here?”

Louis had overheard the quiet conversation, watched as Nathaniel nodded and pursed his lips, saying nothing. Louis nodded to himself, agreed with Caroline.

~ 124

≈ The shadows were getting long, and a chill had set in on the light wind.

As he walked into the Big House, Louis’s leg hurt, his back hurt, and he just wanted to sit for a few minutes. Nodding to his brother, he changed places with Charles on the bench in the servant’s hallway. As he watched Charles walk out, he listened to the men’s voices in the dining room.

“Met the new governor last week. Not much of a replacement for Andrew Johnson,” said Mister Billy. “Too bad Johnson was so badly hurt in that train wreck.”

Captain Will spoke, “Harris has typical West Tennessee opinions.

An anti-free state, expand-slavery-at-any-cost platform.” 11

11 Governor Harris, Democrat, had just taken office, November the third. He had won a

hotly contested election, running on a platform of states’ rights, pro-slavery expansion, and the gold standard. The race was so heated that at one point he and his opponent, Robert H. Hatton, of the Whig party, had gotten into a fist fight at a debate. The Whigs represented modern industrialization, economic protectionism, and the establishment of public schools for all children.

Most of the Whigs, particularly the northern Conscience faction, were against the expansion of slavery into the new territories. Most Northern Whites weren’t strong abolitionists; many thought of ‘the peculiar institution’ as an unfortunate necessary evil for the sake of the rule of law and the constitution. But they were strongly opposed to the expansion of slavery beyond the border of the Southern states. ‘Free-soilers’ were afraid that expanding slavery would mean that all laborers would have to compete with ‘slave wages’ and be reduced to no more than ‘economic slaves’.

The Kansas-Nebraska act of 1854 negated the Missouri Compromise of 1820, opening all new territories to the establishment of slavery by popular vote. As a result, a new political party, the Republicans, sprang into existence, coalesced around the idea that slavery must be limited to the South, and not allowed to expand North or West.

The land grab was on. Free White males, both pro-slavery and anti-slavery, flooded the Territory of Kansas. The result was ‘Bloody Kansas’, with raids, ballot box stuffing, and murder, all in an attempt to gain the upper hand for each side. The ‘Sacking of Lawrence’ in May 1856 by proslavery forces, followed by John Brown’s raid ‘The Battle of Black Jack’ by anti-slavery forces in June 1856, were later said to be the first battles of the Civil War. Some Members of Congress from the Southern slave states threatened secession if Kansas were admitted to the Union as a free state.

James Buchanan, Democrat, elected President in 1856, was for admitting Kansas as a slave state.

The Dread Scott decision in 1857 constitutionally extended slavery to all territories and the rights of slavers in the entire country, effectively negating any previous compromises on slavery expansion.

~ 125

“And,” said Marsa Thom nodding, “his talk about secession from the Northern states does not fare well here in East Tennessee.”

“That’s only if Kansas goes Free State. Which it won’t,” said Mister Billy.

“Buchanan is a strong pro-slavery Northerner. If anyone can find a compromise, he’s it,” said Captain Will.

“Let’s hope. Two nations divided from one, both would be the weaker for it,” said Marsa Thom.

“One thing for sure,” said Mister Billy, “The Northern States need to return our runaway slaves to us. Anything less is theft.”

“Anything less will split the country,” nodded Captain Will.

There was a scrape of a chair, and Marsa Thom interjected, “Shall we join the ladies?”

Louis could hear the glasses landing on the table; he quickly rose and scurried into the dining room. The White men ignored him, walked toward the drawing room, the conversation turning to the cooling weather.

In the off-year elections of 1858, anti-slavery Northern Democrats and the new anti-slave expansion Republicans swept into office in the legislatures of many Northern states, and a Republican plurality in the House of Representatives.

~ 126

Chapter Twenty Friday, February 12th, 1858 George tramped through the snow on Ocoee Street, heading back to the Rail office. He had just picked up the mail, dropped a few letters at the bank, and was carrying the bulk of it up to Marsa Thom. He heard the noon bell ring, watched his breath as he walked along. The sun appeared through a hole in the low clouds, the town looked neat and clean under the seven inches of new snow. The snow would be gone in just a few days, but for now, all looked peaceful.

No one had seen Louis since the first of December. George had searched through Louis’s few possessions, finding little to indicate his planning to run away until he searched his cubby office in the Railyard.

George noticed the blotter on the desk, and holding it up to a mirror, was able to make out most of the content of the ‘freedom paper’ that Louis had forged. George had rolled it up and put it into the pot-bellied stove in the front of the Rail station. He waited until he heard the roar of the consuming flames, then went about his business, not telling a sole, not even Elizabeth; he knew that when she found out, she would forgive him his loyalty to his brother.

Marsa Thom was working at his desk, sitting in his captain’s chair facing the window in his Rail office; as George came in, he nodded and set the day’s mail down on the desk, and started to return to the ledger book he was working on in the little side office, his now that Louis was gone. Marsa Thom was working in his fingerless gloves; it was cold in the back of the station. George hesitated, walked over to the small stove in the office, noted it was out, and stuffed in an old newspaper, a few pieces of pine fat wood, chunks of dry oak, then lighting it with a match. He blew on the paper until the fat wood caught, then closed the stove, adjusted the damper, and turned quietly to the door. George watched Marsa Thom working, now scratching through a draft of a document, making notes for Mary down at the bank.

~ 127

Marsa Thom had not said a word about Louis, hadn’t posted a reward, never even told the Sheriff. George wasn’t about to bring it up; he supposed that Marsa Thom was working off his guilt about seeing Louis so tore up the last time he ran off. Ma had decided that Louis had froze to death in the mountains, and the wolves or the bears or both had eaten him. Might be true, he thought, but the crows would have got his eyes, they always get the eyes first.

Marsa Thom put down his pen, picked up the mail, and sorted through the handful of envelopes. He stopped at one, set down the rest, and examined the stamp and return address carefully.

“Chatham, Ontario, Canada,” he said out loud, swiveling around to face the waiting George.

He unsealed the envelope, took out the letter, began to read. He shrugged, smiled slightly, in the way that George knew was his way of being both pleased and annoyed. Slowly, he folded up the letter. Then he shrugged again and turning back to his desk, reached over his left shoulder with his arm, holding the letter.

“Take this up to Ma and read it to her,” he said, handing George the letter.

George looked at the address; he knew the handwriting. It was from Louis. ≈ “Dear Master Thom, I write to inform you that I am well, having arrived in Ontario, Canada, after a difficult journey in the freezing weather.”

George read aloud to the family in the Big House kitchen, for the fourth time. Ma wept into a tea towel, the rest, Elizabeth, baby Caroline, Charles, Nat, Pappy Jim, Harriett, Leander, John, and Caroline, all smiled, hung on every word.

“First, let me tell you of the journey. I hid in a burlap bag when you sent the first two box cars of wheat to Chicago. It was identical to the others, and under a layer of filled bags. I used four old iron wheel rims from the oar wagons to make a barrel of burlap strong enough to

~ 128

support the other bags. I put two jugs of water, a ham, a round of cheese, two loaves of bread, and a blanket in my carpet bag in with me.

It took two days to get to Louisville, with one whole day and night sidetracked somewhere cold and damp. The freight cars were barged across the river and boarded by slave hunters on both sides. One man came in and walked on the stacked wheat, kicked at a couple with his boot. He found nothing, the train was reassembled, then made its way north to Chicago in another three days. Chicago is very cold, colder than I thought. I cut my way out of the bag, waited for the ticket window to open, and bought a third-class ticket to Detroit. My freedom paper worked just fine even though the ticket agent called over his boss, and they made me show them my bad leg. When I got to Detroit, I had no money, and no food. I walked to the colored section across from the railroad tracks, found a church with the door open, and asked if I could stay the night. They kindly let me in, and in the morning, gave me breakfast. The minister said he had business in Windsor, across the river, and would I like to go with him. I said yes, I was on my way there, too. He said he was sure I was.

“Second, please can you see your way clear to tell Ma and the family I’m in good health, found good work, and have met many fine colored folk from the US States. It’s freezing cold and the snow piles higher than a man is tall. Tell them I think of them every day, and hope them well, and that you are too. I have changed my name here, I’m told everyone does. I am, most sincerely, your former slave, Louis Thomas Calloway.”

Ma wiped her eyes, blew her nose.

“He doan’t say nuttin’ ‘bout his new life,” Ma complained.

“He cain’t, Ma,” said George.

“George is right,” said Caroline. “If Marsa Thom were to turn over the letter to the slave hunters, they would go grab ‘im. This way, they doan’t know where or who they’re lookin’ for.”

“A new man in the promised land,” said Nat, nodding.

~ 129

George handed the folded letter to Ma, who pressed it against her cheek, a small smile came to her lips. That was the last that anyone in the family would ever hear of Louis.

~ 130

Chapter Twenty-One Sunday, April 4th, 1858 George looked up from his cold breakfast of bacon, boiled egg, bread, and cheese, watching the large group of parishioners eating in the early morning sunlight. The morning had been cold and crisp, damp; but the dawn clear. From his seat on the rough wood bench at the front of the new church, he could see through unfinished walls, the warming light raked the dew off the steaming rooftops along the street. The Easter Sunrise service in front of the church had gone well, it had been his first sermon, and Nat had sat in the front row smiling the whole time. The whole family had come to hear him; George had preached redemption, resurrection, and acceptance. Acceptance of that which you cannot change. Acceptance of what you are in life. There had been much nodding and a few ‘Amens’; all the while the crowd studiously avoided looking at Nat. Not a word about freedom. He knew there were spies here that would report to Sheriff Low. George would be taking over the preaching until Nat’s replacement, Mr. Edejiah Inman, could arrive and in turn replace him.

Elizabeth had been the one to urge George to take up the call to replace Nat. She had laid beside George, snuggled into the bed covers against the morning chill. This was often when the two of them would have important talks; it was the only time of day, first dawn before the household was up, that they could be alone, measure their thoughts.

“You know the Good Word,” she’d said. “And I cain’t do the preachin’.

You’ll have to.” She was right, and George knew it. He would do as she asked.

The building of the new church had gone fast, once Marsa Thom and Captain Will spoke with Sheriff Low and promised him that Nat wouldn’t preach any longer. The Sheriff had objected to the construction, as Acock, Kincannon, and Brown had openly threatened to burn down the new church, as long as Nat was around. But a deal

~ 131

was struck, and the troublesome Whites had all ignored the new church. Still, George had made the stone vault below the altar deep enough to sit in and could now hold five or six people at the same time.

The only way in or out was through the cabinet door on the back of the altar which, in turn, faced the crucifix on the front wall. Nat and George had built the large altar over the vault, then cut the hole through the floor, making a hidden door that dropped seamlessly into place. You’d have to know it was there to find it. The extra bibles and hymnals were stored on top, bought with some of Henry’s blood money. They planned to hide runaways there on their escape north; the salve of one sin on another.

Elizabeth sat down next to him with baby Caroline and began to chew small pieces of bacon and feed them to her. This child wouldn’t go to sleep until well after dark, was a late sleeper and really didn’t care for the early morning; rubbing at her eyes, she had slept through the whole sermon.

“You did well, everyone is saying so,” Elizabeth said.

“Not your father, he ain’t said a word,” said George.

“He’s just of a different spirit than you, is all. He’s missing home already.”

“I guess,” he said, tickling under Caroline’s chin, “Charity begins at home.” ≈ Nat stood among the parts of a wagon, staring at each piece for a long moment, getting a measure of each in his head. It was nearly sunset, Easter dinner was over; Nat had gone home, changed into work clothes, and come back to the new wagon shed next to the rail yard. This was the wagon that George and Isaac had bought from old man Craigmiles, through the Douglass boys, as Craigmiles wouldn’t sell to them direct: “Now why would a nigger need a wagon?” The axles were pretty much shot and the wooden leaf springs would have to be replaced with iron, but he could see the spot where a hidden box would fit. It would do just fine.

~ 132

“You workin’ on Sunday?”

Nat turned to see George in the wide doorway to the shed and smiled.

“Sunday is the only day I have to work on the wagon.”

George nodded, still dressed in his Sunday best, took off his coat, started to roll up his sleeve.

“Well, then, I guess it’s God’s work on God’s day,” he said, smiling back. “What’re you plannin’?”

“Jockey boxes underneath each side, connected by a wide hidden box in the middle, should hold three,” Nat said.

George pursed his lips and nodded slowly.

“False floor?” he said.

Nat shook his head as he bent over and using a long thin batten, marked the distance between the axles with his pencil.

“In and out through the back of the side boxes. Safest way.”

“So even if the wagon is empty…”

“There’s nothin’ to see.”

Nat walked over to a stack of old weathered boards, took one off the top, and placed it on a set of sawhorses. He transferred the measurement from the batten to the board, picked up his saw, and started cutting.

“And they cain get in and out even if loaded.”

George watched Nat work, sawing a clean straight square cut by eye. Many previous cuts had gone into that one.

“Practice make perfect,” said George, impressed.

Nat looked up from his work and leaned on the saw, nodded.

“I cain say the same of the sermon today,” Nat paused.

George stood stock still, felt the chill in the breeze blowing through the wagon shed.

“You did good for a first time, you’ll get the hang of it quick,” said Nat, “everybody starts at the beginning.” Nat stopped, searched for the right words. “Speak from your heart, and all will be fine, with you and the Lord.”

~ 133

George exhaled, he didn’t even know he was holding his breath.

George watched as Nat went back to work, finished the cut.

“You’re gonna be missed ‘round here.”

Nat shrugged and nodded, and picked up another board, measured against the cut board.

“Jesus has other plans for me,” he said as he placed his thumbnail against the edge of the saw to guide the cut into the wood, “He will reveal them as He chooses.”

~ 134

Chapter Twenty-Two Thursday, April 15th, 1858 George, Nat, and the Swan brothers, Walter, and Isaac, had been practicing taking the wagon apart and putting it back together for a week. The three younger men, George, Isaac, and Walter could get the wheels off the wall, the axles and tongue down from the rafters, the box from the lean-to in back of the wagon shed, and bolt it together in under an hour, without saying a word. And take it apart in half the time.

Pappy Jim was the eyes and ears of the operation. He would pick up mail and deliver it out to the homes on the edge of town to earn a little pocket money. He was a trustworthy sight: old man walking alone, carrying a canvas bag. Most of the runaways would beg food, ask where they were. Pappy Jim would tell them to wait at sundown in the thicket next to the big oak at the edge of town, near where the Old Dalton Road crossed the rail tracks; someone would come by with food. He’d go about his business, never in an attention gathering hurry, and return with a description of the lost souls that needed picking up.

This day, the weather was fine, sunny and dry, the heat of the sun overhead making the wildflowers smell especially sweet. Dust rose from his shoes with each step, drifting in the still air, as he made his way up the long drive to the Big House. Two new runaways, young men, were in the woods, one had recent whip cuts. They’d have to get them early tonight, as the pattyroller dogs would catch the scent of new blood.

“I neber heard of jus’ givin’ ‘way nice new blanket to no shiftless niggers in Frog Town,” said Ma as Pappy Jim came in the kitchen door, “An’ den ‘spectin’ me to air out de ol’ raggedy ones.”

Pappy Jim set down his bag, picked up a plate with cold fried eggs and cornpone, sat on his stool by the door, and began to eat.

“Now Ma,” Pappy Jim started to say around his lunch.

~ 135

“He don’t need ‘em fur de calves, neither, like he sayin’, it be warm spring.”

“Now Ma,” Pappy Jim repeated, “I sure he got his reason. An’ Lizbit too heavy wit’ chil’ to be doin’ such.”

Pappy Jim knew that George needed the blankets for the runaways; new blankets would make them stand out, get noticed, get caught. Not that he’d tell Ma; she just could not keep a secret. Course, she said the same of him.

The tromp of George’s footstep proceeded him into the kitchen, carrying two buckets of cool well water. He placed them on the sideboard near the sink basin, and picked up another plate, sat at the table.

“Gettin’ hot out,” George said.

“Doan’t be needin’ dose blanket no mo’,” said Ma, a small note of disapproval in her voice.

George looked over at Pappy Jim, who shrugged.

“I’ll take care of them,” said George, “don’t worry ‘bout it. Get ‘em in the barn today.”

“Best you gets ‘em in ‘fore Miz Susan sees ‘em and start axin’ questions,” said Ma. “And just when you two plan tell me ‘bout dem runaway you been feedin’?”

George looked over at his mother.

“Ma,” George started to speak, “…” but nothing came out in a timely manner.

“You jus’ make sure you doan’t tell your name, nuthin’.”

George nodded. Pappy Jim just smiled.

“And doan’t be keepin’ dem here in dat barn.”

George realized once again that Ma knew more about things than people gave her credit for. She’d always told him that survival depended on not knowing too much of other people’s affairs. Black or White, slave or free, “Know nuthin’.” At least they had to think so.

~ 136

≈ The sun had already set as George walked down the hill to Frogtown, carrying a couple of the old blankets, some corn cakes, hard cheese in a cloth satchel, and a jug of water, to the small stable where Walter and Isaac kept their mules on the overnight layovers. It was a long low ramshackle lean-to, built against a split rail fence, of stripped saplings, with a thatched roof. One end was open to the mule yard, the other opened with a rope hinged gate and kept the stacked hay and straw out of the greedy jaws of the mules. Two of the oar wagons were parked in front by the road; George knew that one or both of the Swan brothers must be about, as he had seen the wagons come down the road in the late afternoon.

“Walt, Isaac,” George said in a loud voice.

Walt stuck his head out from around the far end.

“George, be right out.”

George looked about, didn’t see anyone else around, as most folks, like George, had already finished the evening chores. Walt walked up to the split rail fence, wiping his hands with a rag.

“Just finishin’ the muckin’,” said Walt, “seems like there be mor’ and mor’ ever day. These long days de mule eats mor’ and put out—” George raised his hand, smiled, “I get it.” He lowered his voice.

“We got two in the wood, got to go now, tonight.”

“Isaac up to de mine camp,” reflected Walt, “we has to do de wagon our ownself.”

“Ain’t got time for that. Pappy say one of them is cut up pretty bad from the whip, the patty dogs will get ‘em by the smell of the blood.”

“Den I’s hitch up de copper wagon wif two mule. Where we gonna put dem?”

“Under these old blankets under some o’ your straw. Just for the wagon ride up to the old cabin.”

Both men nodded in silent agreement.

~ 137

≈ “Whoa,” said Walt and tugged back on the reins. George looked around in the darkness, hoping he’d see movement in the thicket, and wouldn’t have to call out.

The creaky copper wagon rocked to a stop, Walt’s foot pushed on the wheel brake. He tied the reins off to the dashboard rail, hopped down, and went around to the heads of the mules, held the bit leads.

George whistled out softly, both men straining to hear any sound from the bushes by the old oak.

“The old man sent us,” said George, louder, in a voice whisper. No sound or movement.

“I ain’t comin’ in after you. If you be runnin’, best you come out now ‘fore the pattyrollers git you,” said George.

Another long silence.

“Alright, let’s be gone,” said George.

“Naw, wait!” came an urgent whisper from the thicket, “dis one hurt too bad to walk.”

“Come out and show yourself,” said George.

Slowly, a thin young man, barely twenty years old, stood up and walked out on the road.

“Where’s the other?” said George.

“He be bad wid de fever, Suh,” said the man, “and de flies be all on his whippin’.”

George took one of the blankets from the back of the wagon, made his way into the thicket. The man started to follow.

“You stay right where I’s cain sees you,” said Walt.

“Yas Suh,” said the young man, stopping.

After a moment, George emerged carrying an unconscious boy of maybe twelve years, wrapped in the blanket.

“He’s barely breathin’,” said George as he looked at the young man, “help me get ‘em on to the wagon.”

As they lifted him up, Walt came around to look.

“He be too sick to take to de cabin,” said Walt.

~ 138

George nodded his agreement.

“We’re gonna take ‘em to the church.” ≈ George led the young man through the front doorway of the unfinished church while Walt waited with the boy in the wagon. It was getting late, past eight o’clock, and the few lights they had seen in windows through town were beginning to go out. Several dogs had noticed the wagon, one barking, the rest watching to see that they were passing by and not stopping. The men had talked softly to one another as they moved along, discussing what to do about the unconscious boy. Clearly he couldn’t stay hidden in the church vault without tending. They would hide him in the rail yard shed. It was the best they could think of.

George walked to the altar, opened the cabinet doors, pulled up the floor, and gestured for the young man to get in. He looked into the dark hole, hesitated, and looked back at George. George handed him the food and pointed at the hole again.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night to let you out, get you a change of clothes,” he whispered.

The young man nodded and touched George’s arm.

“The boy’s name be Zeus…” his whisper trailed off, then he slipped into the vault. George nodded silently, put down the floor, and closed the cabinet, taking care not to make noise. ≈ George opened the back door to the kitchen, where Ma was cleaning up the last of the pots, scraping the leftovers from the Big House into the soup pot on the back of the stove. She kept that pot going all day, to feed anyone who came by, hungry.

“Ma, we need your help,” said George.

Ma turned to look at George.

“Who we?” she asked.

“Me and Walt.”

“What now? De two you gets together roamin’ ‘round—”

~ 139

“Yas, Ma, but I think the boy is dyin’.”

Ma looked at him, dried her hands, and followed him out the door to the wagon, carrying her small brass lantern. Walt uncovered the boy as they walked up.

“Breathin’ real shallow,” said Walt.

“What he come from?” said Ma, bending over him to listen to his breath, “he smell like he dyin’.”

George took a deep breath, “He’s a runaway and he’s like whipped to death.”

Ma put her hand on his bare belly.

“He got de chill ‘o death on ‘em,” she said, “cain’t nothin’ be done.”

George looked at Ma, then back at the boy, and gently rewrapped him with the blanket. Ma watched her son, carefully, then shrugged.

“Get yous some warm soup, ‘n iffen he take dat, maybe he got a chance. De bad blood done gone all through ‘em. No ‘mount herbs fix dat,” said Ma. The two men covered the boy with hay, waited for Ma to bring out an old white enameled iron cup with the soup, a piece of bread for the top. She was carrying one of Pappy Jim’s worn shirts.

As they turned the wagon around to head down the hill, Ma said “Be sure to change dat raggedy shirt, an’ keep de cuts dry, I’s be prayin’.” ≈ Walt stopped the wagon right next to the copper platform in the rail station and waited. George hopped down, reached under the hay, picked the boy up, and carried him into the dark machine shed. He quickly fixed up a pallet of straw on two long boards in the back corner by the spare wheel parts. He laid the boy down and lifting his head, George gave the boy some of the thin salty soup, who swallowed a small amount, choked, and dry heaved, fell back. George tried to rouse the boy, who just lay there, making shallow breathing noises. George changed the boy’s filthy shirt, wrapped him in the blanket, and covered him with straw, leaving his face uncovered. He stood, looked down at

~ 140

the boy. He had a choice to make: death and freedom or revelation and slavery. George knew the boy was dying, knew he could do nothing to save him. If he got help from a doctor, then he and Walt would be accused of helping runaways, and the other young man would be chained and sent back to Georgia; the whole scheme would be discovered, church and all. Walt would be re-enslaved or killed; he would be whipped, or worse, sold. And there would still be no way to know if the boy would live.

“Better for one to die, and the other be free,” he whispered to himself. “God have mercy on all our souls.”

George heard the soft footsteps of a horse approaching, and walked quickly out the doorway, pulling the doors closed behind him. As he stepped away from the building, he recognized Captain Will Grant riding into the station yard, went right over to him as he reined the horse to a stop. He waited until the White man spoke.

“George, you’re working late,” he said, turned towards Walt, “you too.”

“Cap’n Will, Suh,” answered George as he smiled, “Jus’ lookin’ over de yard, now Nat be agoin’ away soon.”

Captain Grant turned to Walt. “And you? What are you doing here in the dark, and no lamp?”

“Jus’ puttin’ the wagon here so’s Nat can look at the back axle in de mornin’, Suh.” Walt held up his unlit lamp. “Done run out o’ oil, cain’t get mor’ ‘till mornin’, the depot stor’ be open.”

“You boys best be getting home,” said Captain Grant, “there’s patrols just south of town looking for runaways from down by Rome.

Ain’t safe out tonight.”

“Yas Suh, Cap’n Will, goin’on now,” said George.

Captain Grant turned his horse around and rode off towards town without a reply.

George watched him recede until he was out of earshot, while Walt unhitched the mules.

~ 141

“Out of oil?” said George, “Your lucky he believed it. What if he’d checked the oil?”

“Dat’s all I could think of. I din’t hear you sayin’ nothin’.”

“Well maybe next time you should be out of matches.”

“I am out o’ matches.”

George rolled his eyes, looked up the hill to the Big House.

“You best be stayin’ in the barn tonight, not be goin’ off of Marse Thom’s land. ‘Sides, we got to get the wagon together in the mornin’ to move the other one.”

“You means bof of dem.”

“The boy ain’t gonna make the night,” said George shaking his head.

“Den I’ll stay wif ‘em, so’s he don’t die a-lone,” nodded Walt.

~ 142

Chapter Twenty-Three Friday, April 16th, 1858 Nat opened the shed doors, pushing one to each side, and stepped into the dark interior. He walked across the straw covered dirt floor, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, then opened the doors at the far end, by the rail tracks. The bright morning sun flooded the shed as he paused and examined the wagon parked by the copper platform.

“I lef’ de wagon dere,” came Walt’s voice from the corner behind him, “I spend de night here wif the boy.”

Nat turned, saw Walt sitting with his back to the rear wall, cradling a boy in his arms.

“God tooks ‘im just a bit ago,” said Walt. “He pass just ‘fore dawn, I try gives ‘im water, but only take a swallow and den choke up.”

“He’s a runaway,” said Nat, as a statement and a question, “you moved him in your wagon.”

Walt nodded as he shifted the boy aside and stood up, stretched.

Nat knelt down, dipped his finger in the dust, and put a cross on the boy’s forehead.

“Go on about your business and get back here after supper. We’ll bury the boy after dark.”

“We’s got to put de wagon together fur tonight,” said Walt, “to gets de udder one.”

Nat looked up at Walt.

“What other one? How many are there?”

“Just de one young man, he be to the church, in de hole.” ≈ It was well after dark when George and Walt went to get Young Man. First they had picked up the dead boy; Nat had helped them put the body in the wagon, covered it with a deep pile of straw. Nat put his foot up on the sidestep, started to get up on the wagon. George stopped him.

~ 143

“Too dangerous for you, if you get caught, they put you in chains forever. And you leave soon… I got to do this.”

Nat nodded. He stepped off and looked at George for a moment, then smiled and nodded again.

“Elizabeth is lucky to call you husband,” said Nat, and turned quickly away, walked into the night. George looked after Nat’s retreating back, amazed at his father-in-law’s forthright endorsement. It had been a long time coming. ≈ Captain Grant had seen the wagon pull up from his window and walked the two hundred yards down to the church. Walt and George had brought some extra lumber in the ‘Sweet Chariot’, as they had named the wagon, and were unloading it into the church to cover their real reason for being there.

“Working late again tonight, I see,” said Captain Grant, holding up his lantern to throw light on them.

“Yas Suh, only’s time we got fur God’s work today,” said George.

Captain Grant looked at his pocket watch, back at the two men, who had stopped still, holding a long board between them, waiting for permission to finish unloading.

“It’s almost nine o’clock curfew. Finish up quick and be on your way,” said Captain Grant.

“Yas Suh, thanks you Suh,” said Walt.

The Captain watched them carry the board into the church before he turned and walked back up the path and onto his porch.

As Walt returned to the wagon for another piece of wood, George stopped at the first window, watched Captain Grant put out the light, enter his house, and close the door. Setting down the board, he stooped, opened the altar, removed the floorboards, and whispered into the opening.

“Come on up, real quiet, say nothin’,” said George.

Young Man rose silently, unfolding out of the dark hole. Like the dead on judgment day, thought George.

~ 144

≈ George and Walt had moved Young Man and the boy outside of town, north past the Swan farm, along the Knoxville Pike next to the rail line.

The three men stood over a shallow grave under a tall pine in the woods not more than twenty-five feet from the track, brush so thick that no one walking along the side road could see them.

“Did he pass poorly?” asked Young Man, looking down on the boy’s body, now tightly wrapped in the death shroud made of Pappy Jim’s shirt, and lying in the grave.

Walt leaned on the shovel, resting his foot on the back of the blade.

“He passed peaceful, quiet, took one last breath, den over de ribber Jordan,” said Walt.

Young Man tilted his head down, closed his eyes and began to speak.

“He just wantin’ a little more food, he growin’ so fast. Went to help ‘imself to some bread, got caught by the Marsa’s son. Our Marsa is mean, laid to ‘im with the whip bad. Our mammy tried to stop the whippin’, got a couple ‘o lick too. After, she say ‘you gots to get ‘im out, that man kill ‘im next time.’ So’s I promise I get him safe…”

The Young Man began to sob silently, tears rolling down; as he knelt to place his hand on his brother’s covered face, a drop fell onto the shroud, surely a blessing.

George placed his hand on the Young Man’s shoulder.

“He’s safe now, in the hands of the Almighty,” he said softly and then began to pray, his voice rising with the certainty he knew as Truth.

“Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done, in earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread.

And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.

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And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever.

Amen!”

The three finished the prayer together, as Walt handed the shovel to Young Man. “Fittin’ you should bury ‘im, he be kin,” said Walt.

Young Man nodded slowly and set to work. George pulled out his pocketknife, cut off a low branch, and fashioned a cross, pushing it into the soft soil.

“Now Jesus will know where to find ‘im.”

The three men made their way out of the brush to the road, looked carefully, stopped to listen. Hearing and seeing the road clear, they put Young Man in the hidden compartment, made ready, continued along the north Knoxville Turnpike; on through the night, for three hours, not talking, listening past the mules’ footsteps, nervous sweat, cold seeping into their hands and feet from the night air.

It was just past midnight when Walt pulled up the reins, brought the wagon to a stop at the end of a backroad, on the downstream side of the Hiwassee River just out of Charleston. Walt stayed at the ready, reins in hand, while George opened the jockey boxes, pulled out the dividers and the backing plank. Young Man scooted out, looked around.

“You’ve got to ford the river, it’s shallow here, walk slow, feel out for footing on the big rocks,” said George.

“I cain’t swim,” said Young Man slowly.

“You don’t need to swim, just go slow, careful.”

George handed Young Man an old blanket made into a bundle.

“Blanket, ‘pone, cheese, dried ham. Travel only at night, stay off the big roads, ask for nuttin’, you be okay.”

Young Man shook Georges’ hand long and hard, nodded.

~ 146

“Look here,” said George pointing at the heavens, “you see how those bright stars look like a dipper?”

Young Man nodded.

“The front lip points direct to the North Star. You just keep walking towards it, it take you straight up north. Then when you cross a big river into a place called Ohio, you free.”

Young Man nodded again.

George continued, “If you see quilted blankets hanging at a house or barn that have a wagon wheel or a bear’s claw on it, it’d be safe to hide there for a day.” George pressed two silver quarters into Young Man’s hand. George walked back to the wagon, took his seat, and watched as Young Man walked down the riverbank, took off his shoes, tied them around his neck, and stepped into the cold black water, his bundle held high.

“God speed,” whispered George, just in case He was listening.

~ 147

Chapter Twenty-Four Tuesday, April 27th, 1858 George stood on his small front porch, holding his daughter Mary, born during the night, watching the dawn flood the clouds over the hills to the south. It seemed to him the sun was taking its own sweet time in rising today, just like Mary had taken in arriving; it had been a hard labor. She had come early, two weeks early, said Ma, and she was small, but she was strong, loud, and even though only three hours old, opened her eyes, staring unfixed, at her father. George watched her, wondered at the miracle of life, another mouth to feed and clothe; felt the weight of someone else’s life on him.

Elizabeth was sleeping at last, Ma had taken Little Caroline up to the kitchen with her, after cleaning up the birth bed, and ordered George to get her if anything was needed. Most of the family had already been by to look at Mary, except Caroline and Nat, but they would come before breakfast.

George looked down at the pasture to his right, watched the three milk cows ambling out to the pasture, and noted that the oldest, Millie, would have to be bred again, as she was getting old, nearly eight, and her milk was drying up early. Calving her would fix that. Maybe he should get another heifer calf for milking, as there were now five White Calloway children, and his two. They could use the extra milk for cheese.

George gazed past the cows to the wheat fields, noting how well the spring wheat was growing. Many of the other farmers were converting to short stalk wheat, bred for the new combine harvester machines. Marsa Thom was still planting the old-fashioned wheat, which grew tall, five feet or more; it grew well in hard scrabble soil, and because it didn’t need much water, had good yields even in dry years.

George would run the cutter in late summer, and everyone, except Ma and Harriett, would rake and put up the sheaves. After the wheat was

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good and dry, George would bring in the sheaves for threshing and bagging. The milling was done on a share basis, the miller got a tenth for himself. The straw would make fine thatching, the bundles of long four to five-foot shanks were needed for the slave cottage roofs; Ma, Elizabeth, Harriett, would sell the extra shanks for pocket money.

George looked to his left, past the Big House, and saw Nat’s small two-wheel cart appear over the rise on the road from town. Caroline was sitting next to Nat, both in their work clothes, Caroline waving as they stopped the cart at the foot of the path to George’s house. Nat tied up the small grey mare while Caroline made a beeline to the porch. She carried a large basket of clean towels and linens, and on top a blue knitted baby blanket, trimmed with a yellow silk ribbon all around.

“Lemme see the newest member of the family!” said Caroline, taking the baby, “What’s her name?”

“Mary, after Ma,” said George, smiling, “Seems fittin’, seein’ Caroline’s named after you.”

“Mary is a good strong name,” she said, grinning down on the baby. “Too much light for new eyes, I’ll be takin’ her inside.”

Caroline stepped across the small porch and through the door, just as Nat came up.

“Never think we’d just had a baby of our own, the way she goes on,” said Nat. “How is Tena? What, five weeks old?” Said George.

“She’s a good, quiet baby,” Nat said nodding, looking through the doorway in Caroline’s direction. “Her first time out without the baby, but she really wanted to see Elizabeth.”

Both men nodded, there being really nothing more to say about babies. The two men looked out at the fields, the new day.

“George, I’ve come to give you this,” said Nat, reaching in his pocket, and taking out the small red purse of gold coins, the ones from renting Henry.

“You’re goin’ to be the head of the family when I’m gone,” said Nat.

~ 149

George looked down at the purse, hesitated for a moment, then took, hefted it. It seemed like the weight of the whole family.

“Charles is the oldest,” said George.

Charles, though the oldest, wasn’t married, and didn’t like stepping in to help others with family problems. If asked he would help, that’s about all.

“He’s not bound to our family like you are.”

George considered debating with Nat, but then put the purse in his pocket without looking inside.

“I’ll do the best I can.”

“Yes, I know you will,” said Nat, “you always do.”

~ 150

Chapter Twenty-Five Friday, May 14th, 1858 “Tell them the train will sit here until I decide to let it go,” Marsa Thom said. He was speaking to Rupert Moss, who Marsa Thom had hired as the new telegraph operator, since Louis had run off and Jack the station master had taken off west for the Kansas Territory to “make his fortune”.

“Yes sir, Mister Calloway,” said Rupert, fast-walking back into the depot office.

Marsa Thom turned to George, standing behind him and to his right, three feet away. “That boy means well, just cain’t seem to settle into the job.”

“Yas Suh,” said George, nodding.

They stood on the train station platform, the steam engine right in front of them. It was made up of extra cars to accommodate all the folks who wanted to be the first to ride through the new tunnel. Many townsfolk had turned out for the occasion, there was a general air of festivity, banners and bunting hung from the eves of the depot. The steam engine was spiked with American flags, three to a side, a flagship of progress and enterprise.

Marsa Thom had started taking George more places with him, keeping him busy with learning the ledgers at the depot, as well as running the farm. It made for a long day. George had to wear one of his new suits when out with Marsa Thom, even when it was hot, like right now. The weather had been overcast, looked like it might rain, but about noon the clouds had blown away, and the warm spring sun shone brightly, perfect for such a momentous occasion. The leaves in the trees had grown in, there were merciful spots of shade for the crowd to stand in.

This day was a big occasion, the opening of the new rail tunnel to Chattanooga, a direct line to the Tennessee River, connecting the west

~ 151

side of the Appalachians all the way up through Kentucky, Virginia, Pennsylvania, and on to New York to the north; to Atlanta, Savanna, Mississippi, Alabama, and the southern seaboard to the south. The tunnel had been worked on for three years. Many Scot and Irish immigrants were brought in from Boston to do the dangerous work along with rented out slaves. As luck would have it, only a few dozen had gotten killed. After the rail project finished, many of the men settled into the area, working in mining, timber, and farming. They were a proud, hardworking, hard scrabble lot.

George was surprised to see Nat walking up, carrying a carpet bag suitcase, dressed in his blue suit, a new gray felt hat upon his head.

Captain Grant walked beside him, hands in his pockets, a firm smile clenched on his lips. The two men stopped in front of Marsa Thom and George. Nat set down his suitcase, took off his hat despite the heat. The two White men shook hands, exchanged pleasantries; the two Black men stood silently, nodding to one another. George realized that the dreaded moment had indeed come at last. Nat was leaving.

“I’m turning Nat over to you now,” Captain Grant said, “He has fifty dollars, and he is discharged from the jurisdiction of the court.”

Captain Grant took out a folded portfolio and handed it to Marsa Thom who then reached into his coat, took out a packet of papers, and added them into the portfolio.

“Your train ticket to Savanna, letter of credit for your boat passage, and a letter of passport to Liberia,” he said as he handed them to Nat. Nat looked grim, face chalky, he clinched his jaw and nodded.

“Thank you Suh,” he said looking down at the papers, “I appreciate all you both have done for me.”

The two White men stood for a moment, nodding. Captain Grant looked carefully at Nat, eyes examining him slowly, as if he wanted to remember Nat’s face. It was the last he would see of his colored son.

“Goodbye, Nathaniel Grant,” said Captain Grant, using his full name, “God keep you safe.” He turned on his heels, and walked away,

~ 152

not looking back; Nat watched him walk away, then picked up his suitcase.

“I s’ppose you two should have a moment,” said Marsa Thom, walking away towards the group of important town fathers sitting on the review stand nearby.

George and Nat walked through the crowd towards the back of the train.

“You leavin’, just like that?” asked George, despair in his voice.

The two men stopped at the open door of the baggage car; George knew the answer to his question, but he had to ask anyway.

“Captain Will told me this morning this was to be the day,” said Nat, “Kept it from me ‘till today.”

“What about sayin’ goodbye to everybody?”

“Been to see most everyone this mornin’,” said Nat. George nodded.

“Elizabeth?”

“First thing. I just missed seein’ you.”

George waited, said nothing.

“She and Caroline are up to your place cryin’ away, even though I promised to get Caroline and the children to Liberia.”

“And your boys?”

Nat nodded. “As well as could be. You are the last, I’m glad for the chance.”

Both men stood awkwardly for what seemed to George a long time, both, unusually, at a loss for words.

“The family be yours now, George,” said Nat quietly.

The train whistle blew, long and loud, George turned to look down the track to see if Marsa Thom was signaling to him. He was talking to the dignitaries, ignoring George. When he turned back, Nat had moved to the freight car door and thrown his bag up into the opening. He stood waiting to climb aboard. George stepped over to Nat, grasped his outstretched hand with both of his.

“You’ll not be forgot.”

~ 153

Nat started to speak, choked up, tried again, couldn’t. Nat quickly withdrew his hand, and putting both hands on the floor, jumped up into the baggage car, joined a small group of other Black men.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of them,” said George watching his retreating back, “Good care,” he shouted above the hissing steam.

Nat, kept his back to the open door, reached in his side pocket, produced a small cloth, wiped at his eyes. Without turning around, he just nodded his head.

With a loud chug, and bellow of steam, the train began to roll. The train engineer leaned on the whistle, and the crowd stood on their feet, shouting goodbyes. The conductor waved his flag, the band at the other end of the platform began playing ‘Hard Times Come Again No More’, as loud as they could, effectively denying anyone to be heard above the din. George walked alongside the baggage car, hoping to wave Nat goodbye, but he didn’t see him among the Black faces in the baggage door. George was almost running as he reached the dignitaries and Marsa Thom. George waved to the receding train anyway, hoped Nat might see. As the train turned on to the main track, a dull anger overwhelmed George. Henry, Louis, Nat; men of his family gone, gone forever, forced away from home by the whims and needs of other men.

~ 154

Chapter Twenty-Six Tuesday, October 19th, 1858 George stood, admiring the church; it was finished. It looked fine in the light, the new white cross on the top catching the morning sun. George had worked on the last trim with both of Nat’s sons, Leander and John, that previous Sunday. The boys were bored with the pace of the work, but had a heightened interest in their father’s craft of carpentry now that he was gone. Many Blacks were now attending services, proud of the community effort. Mister Edejiah Inman, late of Maryland, a free Black and minister, had given his first sermon that day. He had quoted Mark 12:17: “And Jesus answering said unto them, Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's.”

This was the word for all the folks: live honestly, work honestly for those that owned them, but give honestly to God, give to God before Caesar. For the Promised Land is in Heaven. George had listened, agreeing mostly, but long ago had decided that the best way of giving to God was helping others here on Earth. And that meant he wasn’t going to tell the good Reverend about the crypt under the altar.

George turned away from the church, Marsa Thom was expecting him in the bank with the morning mail. As he turned the corner into town, he saw Edejiah walking towards him at an excited pace, quickly closing the distance to him.

“Mornin’, George. You should come with me to see Caroline, I’ve received a letter from Nathaniel.”

“Good morning, a letter from where?” said George, turning to follow, “Africa?”

The two men hurried up the short rise to Nat and Caroline’s house, knocked on the door, waited, knocked again. Footsteps, then Caroline opened the door; she had clearly been sleeping, she had baby Tena in

~ 155

her arms. She quickly ushered the men into the parlor, called in the boys, and offered a drink of water to the two men, who declined.

The Reverend opened the letter and began to read.

“Clay Ashland, Aug. 18th, 1858 Mr. Edejiah Inman Dear Sir, I beg leave to drop you a few lines respecting my arrival in Liberia. I arrived safe in the Caroline Stephens and am on free shores. I have engaged one agent of real estate. I have been here and have not experienced one days sickness. There are a great variety of fruits in this country among which are the pineapple, Guava, mango plum which is a delicious fruit. Our vegetables consist of potatoes cassava and the Tania which nearly resembles an Irish Potato. The game and rice of a superior quality together with many other articles too numerous to mention. However I must also mention the plantain and the banana which are among the best most delicious fruits and which grow in the country in abundance. The forest here is covered all the year around with continual green and full of the largest timber. Some parts are covered with cane brake but by far the most of the land in this country is heavy timbered. I am now at Clay Ashland which is a fine farming settlement on the banks of the St. Paul River with a small town of about 350 inhabitants attached to it.

There [are] 4 churches in the

~ 156

town well attended, 1 Methodist, 1 Presbyterian, 1 Baptist and 1 Episcopalian. Coffee grows here in abundance in the development of Clay Ashland and Mr. Leaper has from 15 to 20,000 trees this time of the year. The coffees are covered on nearly every limb with the coffee. The coffee grows here in abundance, it is an easily cultivated plant and everyone that wishes it can have it in the country. Sugar Cane also grows here it is said larger than in any other part of the world. There are some persons on the St. Paul river that raise large plantations of it. The syrup made in this country from the sugar cane is of a superior quality.

I beg leave to render my best wishes and (?) to you and your family and friends and wish very much to hear from you all. You will please say to (?) (?) bring me 1 barrel of flour and 1 bolt of Blue Jane cloth for (?). You will much oblige me if you will see my wife and let her see this letter.

Also please give my best respects to all inquiring friends and inform them of the contents of my letter to you as I cannot write to them all there is a great difficulty in getting letters wrote in this country and also a great difficulty in receiving letters here unless you write to the (?) me (?) direct to Clay Ashland St. Pauls river Liberia. I wish you would find out and send to me when I first got my church license. This you can find out by inquiring and looking at the records when Russell Rennow had charge of the circuit—Cleveland Cirquite. This you will find out and send to me. Please say to Brother Price that he will please send me the date of my license as it is very important and I believe had the correct date of my license from the start. It was on the first year that Russell Rennow rode circuit at Cleveland that I got my license. So you can find out by searching the records of that year.

I Humbly Subscribe Myself Yours in Christ, Nathaniel Grant” Halfway through the letter, Caroline had put her face in her hands, and begun to rock, and to cry silently. Leander and John stared at the

~ 157

floor, George had put his hand on Caroline’s shoulder to comfort her and to keep himself from crying too.

Edejiah finished reading, refolded the letter, and handed it to Caroline.

“You should keep it,” he said.

She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, and took the letter, holding it to her breast.

“This’ll have to do until I see him again,” she said.

Everyone smiled and shook their heads.

“I will write to him, and enclose a letter from you,” said Edejiah to George.

“That would be good,” said George, “very good.”

~ 158

Chapter Twenty-Seven Thursday, August 25th, 1859 The Calloway home in Rome, Georgia, looked good to George, as the heat of the late day gave way to the slanting sun. It was a modest plantation home, one story with a hall through the center, painted white, a pair of small columns framing the front door, a covered veranda across the front. Built of wood, it was the old family home of the Leas, but now Marsa Thom had bought it before Miz Susan’s father had passed away, to save it being sold out of the family.

Marsa Billy, Miz Susan’s younger brother, needed the money, as all his business dealings went wrong. He thought he knew better than everyone else in the family; anyone anywhere for that matter. And now he was living in the old house, staying, he said, “to look after Ma”.

Course, everyone knew different. The man couldn’t hold on to a dollar; high living and bad judgment took it all.

George had been at the Georgia farm for the last four months, ever since Marsa Thom and Miz Susan had come down to tend to her dying father, who had passed in early May. He had wanted to die where he was born, be buried alongside his parents. Staying on to help her mother, Miz Susan had grown large with child, and didn’t want to make the trip back to Cleveland. So little baby Susan had come into this world in Georgia, on the sixth of August, near on three weeks ago.

Tomorrow Marsa Thom would return to Cleveland, to see about buying land to build a new house in town. Miz Susan was tired of living up on the hill, and now that her father had passed, she wanted to be in town to be closer to her aging mother, whom she was taking back to Cleveland. They would need a bigger house anyway, as more children came into the family.

George was anxious to see about the farm, he’d had to leave it in the care of Charles, who he knew would be busy polishing silver and not tending proper care to the fields. He knew “each of us does his

~ 159

own” would be Charles’s answer if challenged, not that George would say anything, as Ma wouldn’t like it. And he looked forward to getting out of the pressing heat of the Georgia summer.

George missed Elizabeth; she had stayed up at the Big House in Cleveland, as their babies were now one and three, and she was needed there. Hard to believe that his youngest was over a year. The chores there still had to get done; the canning of the peaches, making jams, putting up of tomatoes and beans. Ma would need help, and anyway, there was a full staff of house slaves here, and Elizabeth wasn’t really needed. He knew she was okay, he’d asked Marsa Thom about her a fortnight ago, and he’d smiled and said all was well. Still, George missed the smell of her hair, the soft sound of her sleepy breathing. He was looking forward to holding her body close to his.

George finished brushing down the two grey mares, washing them for the trip back to the Cleveland farm. He was working in the shade, and stopped, leaning on his horse broom, to look about the place.

Things should be tidier, trimmed a bit better he thought, but he couldn’t be both places at once. The new foreman, Timmy, a light skinned young man, would do; he had been born and raised on the farm, knew the seasons well. George had told Timmy to ask Marsa Thom if he had any important questions, as Marsa Billy didn’t seem to know which end of a cow the milk came out. Marsa Thom had bought the land but not the slaves, as he had told Marsa Billy (right in front of George) that he, Billy, needed a financial reason to stay and work the farm. There were seventeen; seven in the house and ten in the barn and fields. They worked the farm of one hundred acres, and even though Timmy needed to learn that more was produced with carrots than sticks, the crops brought in enough in cotton money to keep the Lea family, along with their other business interests, comfortable and out of debt.

Marsa Billy had been sitting on the front porch most of the day, drinking whiskey and water, muttering to himself. Earlier that morning, Marsa Billy had announced that he was going to put up half the slaves for sale. Marsa Thom didn’t say anything. Just “George, saddle up the

~ 160

chestnut and bring him around front.” Marsa Thom had gone into Rome to make arrangements for the trip back to Cleveland; he and the White family would take the morning train, they would be home tomorrow night. After taking them to the station, George would take the wagon and horses back by road, a two-day trip, including crossing the mountains.

There was a woman’s scream, and George turned in time to see Molly, a light mulatto house slave, fall to the bottom of the front stairs to the house; Marsa Billy was standing at the top of the stairs, drink in hand. Molly was only twenty, and had two small boys, four and three years old. They looked a lot like Marsa Billy. Molly stood up, crying, wiped at her mouth, her hand came away with blood.

“Don’t ever turn your back on me when I’m talkin’ to you, nigger!” said Marsa Billy. He lurched down the stairs, and struck her again across the mouth, she fell backward, and lay there sobbing.

“You’re gonna be the first to go,” he said, “And I’m keeping your pickaninnies ‘till old enough to work, sell them!”

Marsa Billy kicked her hard in the ribs, and she just lay there. He staggered off towards the barn, singing a song without any words, just sounds.

George put down his broom and quickly walked over to Molly, helped her up, just as two of the house maids came out to help. George heard the footfalls of the chestnut come up the drive at a quick pace and turned to see Marsa Thom ride up. Without a word, George took the reins of the horse, and watched Marsa Thom follow after Marsa Billy into the barn. Miz Susan came out on the porch, carrying the new baby, watched Marsa Thom walking into the barn.

“Bring her inside,” she said, gesturing with her free hand, “no more cryin’ over this, now.”

George helped Molly up the stairs, and into the house, and didn’t hear a word out of the barn. Everyone knew when Marsa Thom talked in a low voice, he was the most angry.

~ 161

Chapter Twenty-Eight Saturday, September 3rd, 1859 George poured the lye water through the ash-filled oak barrel for the third time. He’d saved all the hardwood ash from the smokehouse and the fireplaces in the Big House, packing it into the barrel, covering it with soft rainwater. Pine wood ash wouldn’t work, too much resin and no lye; hard well-water made soap that wouldn’t lather-up well. After soaking for a day, he’d drain it, start the soap process. This year he planned to add a little salt to help firm the finished soap, and a bit of honey to help it lather well.

George had been out honey hunting yesterday afternoon. He had gone up to the woods by the old cabin on the ridge road, near the limestone caves. The whole hillside was full of caves, some with large openings, some with small, that opened up into big caves. Some extended deep into the mountain, some shallow. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of caves all over the high ridges in these hills. George sat in the mouth of a limestone cave, letting the cool air from inside wash over him. He smiled, remembered playing in the caves as a boy, he would have to bring Caroline and Mary up when they were old enough.

He had started about a quarter mile below, sitting still on a stump, listening for bees. As soon as he saw a bee pass close, he watched the direction it went, until he couldn’t see it anymore. Then he would follow to that spot and wait until another bee passed, then on to the next spot. When the bees were passing in both directions, he would know he was on the beeline from the hive to the flowers they were working. On one end the flowers, on the other, the hive full of honey.

George had followed the beeline up the hill to find flame azaleas, the last of the summer, realized that the beehive was the other direction. It was getting on towards sunset, and the bees were working the mountain laurels hard before dark.

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After cooling for a bit, George picked up his gloves, hatchet, pail, small shovel, and netting he had carried up the hill, and started to retrace his footsteps. No more than four hundred yards from where he started, in an old, hollow, lightning-struck tree, was the hive. He set down the equipment, and moving slowly, shinnied up the tree to the broken branch about twelve feet off the ground. He was careful not to get too close to the hive, just close enough to see where the entrance was. Slowly moving back down, he made a small fire, gathered up dead and green leaves. He put on the gloves and netting over his hat and head, tied up his pant legs and sleeves with twine, and smeared mud on the back of his neck. The sun had disappeared behind the hill as he started to chop a hole in the tree about waist high. After the first few bangs, the bees were out and angry. He kept moving fast, got a few stings, but got the smoldering, smoking leaves in the hole in the tree, the smoke rising through the hive and out the entrance hole. Dark was approaching, and the bees hunkered down in the hive, wings beating, trying to drive out the smoke. Quickly, George whacked at the hollow limb, felled the rotted wood with just a few strokes. He split it open, scooping out the honeycombs into his bucket. He raked into the hive with his shovel, getting a goodly amount of honeycomb loaded with honey. When he had taken all the stings he could, he quit, quickly putting out the fire and making his way downhill a safe distance from the hive. He brushed off the few remaining bees on his netting, removed it, humming to himself. More than enough for the family, and some to sell for pen money. Elizabeth would be pleased, worth all the stings.

George tested the lye water coming out of the wooden spigot at the bottom by placing a chicken feather into the solution. If it dissolved the feather in five minutes, or a fresh egg would float, it was ready for the soap making. He waited five minutes, but the feather was not gone enough; he would have to boil it down in the soap kettle first. Careful not to splash, he slowly poured the lye-water through a flour bag into the large iron kettle used for rendering.

~ 163

Soap making was always done after the fall hog slaughter. There had been fifteen large to medium sized hogs this year; George, Charles, and Ian Douglass had spent the better part of two days bleeding and butchering. They worked behind the barnyard out of view and downwind of the Big House. The sights, sounds, and smells of the slaughter were best kept out of view of Miz Susan.

Marsa Thom always gave the Douglass family a hog for their household each year, after the meat had been put up as ham and bacon, and the rest boiled, salted, and packed in an oak barrel. The meat packing was finished, and the rendering of the skins and blubber into clean fat was done, itself a two-day job. George had strained the hot fat through burlap, filling the large fat kettle about three-quarters full. He guessed he would need two wood buckets of lye-water for the large kettle of fat as he lit a fire under both kettles.

George watched the lye boil, careful not to get into the corrosive fumes. After half an hour, another test feather disappeared in five minutes. All would be ready as soon as the lye and fat cooled to body temperature.

He would pour the lye into the water, stir, and watch the clear fat turn white. When enough lye had been added, the mixture would thicken and ‘thread’ when it was stirred. Too little lye, and you got greasy soap. Too much, and it would take the skin off your hands. Then he’d let it cool before it was ready.

He checked the soap molds, cleaned out the corners of any old soap and laid them out on several knee-high planks, ready to be filled. The loaves would be covered with sackcloth, dry a couple days, then be sliced into bars. The bars would be wrapped in newspaper, then set in the rafters of the barn to finish-off and dry for eight to ten weeks.

It was late morning, and the heat of the day was rising, he and Charles would start mixing right after noon dinner, as soon as George could get back from the errands at the bank and post office.

~ 164

≈ George passed by the train yard, noticed Sheriff Low tie up a couple of scrawny White men, vagrants most likely. Since the bank failure in New York and Chicago, companies had gone bankrupt, there’d been no work, no jobs for many poor Whites. There’d been more and more small thefts along the railroad as men worked their way north to find work.

Most of them were just looking for food and drink while they waited for the next freight train. If they were lucky, these two drifters would get rented out to a local farmer for a couple of weeks. Most wound up in prison breaking rocks or working on the roads. 12 As he approached the post office, George saw the Reverend Elijah walking slowly in his direction, solemnly reading a letter as he walked.

He looked up, saw George, didn’t smile, started to speak, then just withdrew another letter from his coat pocket, unopened. It was the letter George had written to Nat in Liberia. The Reverend told George that Mr. Leaper had written with his condolences for the death of Nathaniel, from ‘Black water fever’.

George entered the door of the summer kitchen where Ma and Elizabeth were grinding the hard field corn to make cornmeal. The two women saw the anguish hanging on his person. They stopped and waited.

“Nathaniel…,” George choked up, his mouth dry, his eyes filled with tears.

Without explanation Ma and Elizabeth knew. ≈ Elizabeth, Ma, and George walked together, each grieving in their own way. They walked, arms linked, each with black cloth bands on their arms to Caroline’s house. The few people on the street at the noon hour respectfully gave them peace and privacy.

12 The poor White in the south was economically insecure even in the best of times. Most jobs

were farm related and seasonal; the south had a small industrial base with few permanent jobs. The skilled labor jobs were mostly filled with trained slaves on the large farms, leaving little opportunity.

~ 165

Caroline opened the door of her cottage, looked at their armbands and knew something was terribly wrong. As she saw the unopened letter, Caroline wailed, hugged herself, fell to the floor. George and Elizabeth helped her to stand and get to the davenport. Ma sat beside her, both wept. Elizabeth clung to George, and wept. George sobbed silently, his hands shaking, his knees weak. “He died a free man” they all said. At least there was that.

~ 166

Chapter Twenty-Nine Monday, September 12th, 1859 George held the marker rod straight up, looked at the plumb bob to keep it level and straight. Marsa Thom was one chain length away, peering through his transit sight, taking the angles off the stick, surveying the handful of acres he would be selling with the house.

The family was back in Cleveland, things running well around the farm; Charles had not messed anything up too much, except maybe the cheese that went bad—which he should have known—but that could have happened to anybody in the heat. But the pigs had made short work of the smelly mess, fattened them up nicely. Looked like the wheat and corn crop would be heavier than usual this year. It had been hot, extra hot for the past few weeks, and no rain; the grain would dry out quickly, with little spoilage. The day was clear and cloudless, now noon, hot and still, even the bugs knew to get into the shade.

George picked up the rod and placed it in the end link of the chain that ran from Marsa Thom’s transit. A chain was sixty-six feet in length, exactly; each acre was ten square chains, one chain by ten chains. Marsa Thom signaled George with his hand, and George moved the rod and the end of the chain to his right two inches. Marsa Thom looked through the transit, then looked up and nodded. George withdrew a wood stake from his pocket, tied a red ribbon onto it, picked up his hammer, and drove the stake into the ground at the exact end of the chain. Marsa Thom was selling the house with ten acres, in a rectangle of five by twenty chains. This was the second time they had laid out the stakes, as Marsa Thom hadn’t liked the shape of the land the first time.

“Distance, elevation, and angles, George,” said Marsa Thom that morning as George had looked over the sheets of numbers and symbols from the day before.

“Mighty important, Suh.”

~ 167

“Those numbers tell us who owns what property,” said Marsa Thom, “Very important for a civilized world. Can’t have one man helping himself to another man’s property, can we?”

“No Suh,” George said. He didn’t say the rest of his thought: it seemed to him a man is his own property, but that didn’t stop White men from helping themselves, either. The Whites had stolen the land from the Cherokee, and his family from Africa; Nat had been right to worry.

George’s gaze drifted on to the Big House, Molly was carrying a platter into the back door from the kitchen. Miz Susan had insisted on bringing Molly back to Cleveland, would not leave her with Marsa Billy. There had been words between them over it, Marsa Billy telling Miz Susan that he’d be up to sell Molly shortly and take his two slave boys back. When Molly and the boys rode back with George, she’d hardly said a word the entire trip. Except that she would never give up her boys.

George walked down the hill to where Marsa Thom was standing noting the readings, picked up the end of the chain, and began to walk in a straight line up the hill. He heard the noon lunch bell ring, and looked down at the kitchen house, saw Ma take the last few strokes on the bell, and turn back into the kitchen. Lunch would be ready for him and the rest of the Black family, as soon as the White family was served.

He continued with his task of stretching out the chain to its full sixty-six feet, laid it carefully in the dry grass. Without a word, Marsa Thom closed his notebook, and walked down towards the house. George walked down to the transit, threw a white cloth cover over the entire tripod, to keep it cool, and the birds from sitting on it and doing what comes naturally. In about an hour and a half, after lunch and nap, Marsa Thom would return and George would be there waiting.

George took off his hat putting it on the peg board outside by the backdoor, washed his hands and face at the bowl, and entered the kitchen. Mondays were wash days, and Elizabeth and Ma had large washing caldrons heating in the yard, back of the kitchen; Elizabeth was

~ 168

out tending them. Even so, the kitchen was a hot box from the morning baking and cooking. George walked over to the table, took a plate, served himself ham and beans, picked up a chunk of bread, and turned to walk out the door.

“How’s Caroline?” asked George.

“She won’t get otta bed. Cryin’ when she be wake, moanin’ when she be sleep.”

“Gonna eat outside,” he said.

“Don’t forget de apple. Ever day,” Ma said without turning around.

George stopped, backed two steps, and took an apple. Ma turned to him; they were alone for the moment. “’Bout time fo’ yous and Walt make another trip wid yous wagon,” she said.

George stood and looked at her, said nothing, a look of ‘what wagon’ on his face.

“Harriette done heard Miz Susan say her broder Billy be comin’ up to fetch Molly and dem,” she continued. “He like beat ‘er to death.”

George nodded but said nothing. He would talk to Walt.

~ 169

Chapter Thirty Wednesday, September 14, 1859 George opened the door to Marsa Thom’s bank office and addressed the tall thin young man waiting in the outer office area.

“You may come in, Mister Mowry,” said George, stepping clear of the door to allow the White man to pass.

Mister Jeffery Mowry was the apprentice architect from the office of David Morrison, Architect, Knoxville, Tennessee. He was finely dressed in a dark brown wool suit, shiny black shoes, and black bowler, now in his right hand. In his other hand, he carried a large flat black leather portfolio by its handle, shrouded in a matching cotton canvas dust cover.

“Welcome, Mister Mowry,” said Marsa Thom, extending his hand.

George took the hat from Mister Mowry and closed the door. The two White men shook hands and exchanged pleasantries as George cleared the desktop and sat on the bench against the wall inside his office. Mister Mowry opened his portfolio on Marsa Thom’s desk.

The rendering of the house was of a fine ‘Adamesque’ English style brick house, with plenty of large windows, columns framing the large front door, the entrance topped with a railed balcony, and chimneys at both ends of the house.

“We made the changes, and you can see the added bedrooms upstairs, as well as the enlarged servants’ quarters attached to the summer kitchen. We’ve plotted the other servants’ cabins on the site map…”

~ 170

Mister Mowry shuffled the large sheets of paper one upon another and pointed to a location on the top one. “…Here and here. The carriage house and stables are now in the back corner on Cedar Street, on the other side of the gardens.”

Marsa Thom looked through the papers, carefully inspecting them.

He lifted each one, then pulled one out on top.

“And the winter kitchen? It will have the well as discussed?” Marsa Thom asked.

“Yes Sir, as discussed, there will be two wells, one pump in the winter kitchen in the main house, the other in the center of the cabin yard behind the summer kitchen, here,” said Mister Mowry, pointing.

Marsa Thom smiled and nodded.

“Excellent. Where do I sign?”

“On the top sheet, then please initial each lower right corner,” said Mister Mowry.

George carried the pen, ink, and blotter to the desk and set them by Marsa Thom’s right hand. George glanced at Mister Mowry, and thought he was smiling too much for the occasion. Marsa Thom had that effect on people; his money talks, and talks big. Marsa Thom signed, then returned the pen and ink to George.

“I will expect the final cost and contract by the end of the month.

And a copy of the plans by the end of next week,” said Marsa Thom.

The young man’s smile faded for just an instant, then recovered its pose on his lips.

“Respectfully, Mister Calloway, that is less than a fortnight away.

We have—” “Then you should get to it immediately, should you not?” interrupted Marsa Thom.

The young man did not hesitate.

“Why, yes sir. I will convey your requirements to Mister Morrison.

I’m sure he will be most pleased.”

The smile grew even larger, as Mister Mowry gathered his portfolio and accepted his hat from George at the open door.

~ 171

Closing the door, George turned back to Marsa Thom, who looked at him expectantly.

“It’s goin’ to be a fine house, Marsa, from what I could tell,” George smiled, “and a pump in the house kitchen too. Mighty fine.” ≈ A loud boom, with the force of an explosion, came from the direction of the train tracks south of town, rattling the windows at George’s desk, and causing the yard dog, Gumbo, to crawl under the desk with a whine, shaking. George leaped up from his desk and rushed out the door to look down the tracks. He could see down the Dalton line, and just beyond the rise, fire, smoke, and sparks were billowing into the clear afternoon sky. Rupert, the telegraph operator, rushed up beside him.

“I’ll get a work party and head out there,” Rupert said.

George nodded, “Right behind you.”

Marsa Thom was trailing George, both out of breath, as they arrived at the ruined steam engine. It was in pieces, spread along a hundred feet of the track, the fire still burning, but not much left of anything recognizable. Even the wood-car behind the engine had been peeled back like a big tin can, splayed out on both sides of the track. Nat Bell, the conductor, was standing there staring at the wreck, transfixed, covered in blood. He had been riding on top of the last car, as the train slowed to barely more than walking speed, coming up the grade with the heavy seventeen carloads of cotton. Next to him was the headless body of Jerry Douglass, the engineer. He turned as Marsa Thom arrived, staring as in a trance.

“I heard a boom, the train lurched to a stop, I like to fell off… then before I could think, I was hit by a somethin’ big and hard… it… it was Mister Douglass’s head. Still back there.” He gestured at the rear of the train. His report given, he sat hard upon the ground, spent, watching the men fight the fire. More and more townsmen were arriving, shovels and buckets in hand. George took his place in the bucket brigade, his back to the headless body. He felt sick to his stomach as he heard the

~ 172

three Douglass boys discover their father’s body, reacting in tears, rage, silence. George was glad he wouldn’t have to be the one to tell Miz Tina. ≈ The second week of the harvest of that first year in 1847—twelve years past— the Douglass family showed up. All they had were the clothes on their back. Marsa Thom had gotten them from out in Boston. Grateful for enough to eat and a safe place to sleep, they worked without complaint through the harvest. The crops, if late, got put up. George had let the pigs have run of the field corn they couldn’t get in; they’d gotten big and fat that year; everyone on the farm had plenty to eat.

The Douglass’s were from Scotland. Skinny, pasty, they coughed a lot. Seems there was a great famine over there across the big water, many sick and dying, and they looked it. There were only five of them, as the youngest three had died on the ship. ‘Coffin ships’ is what they called them. Their Scottish master, lacking food to keep them alive, had put them on a ship for America, packed in tight like slaves, gave them little to eat. They were met at the dock by a man who gave them a meal and a train ticket. Next thing, they were here. Marsa Thom had bought them for seven years, then they went free. Jerry Douglass had worked on Marsa Thom’s railroad driving the engines; he was a tall, quiet man, reliable, given to hard drinking. Miz Tina, barely four and a half feet tall, was tough, like her hands, and determined. The three boys, Ian, Sean, and Raif, now grown tall as their father, worked in Marsa Thom’s copper mines and on the railroad doing construction. They still worked for George at harvest. Miz Tina had taught all her boys to read, write, and cipher; she’d taught George and his three brothers, Charles, Louis, and Henry, too. The better to read the bible. “We’re all God’s children,” she said. Though it was against the law, Marsa Thom approved; religion was, after all, civilizing. ≈ A shout, as two men came out of the nearby scrub with the body of the wood tender, a boy barely sixteen. Found about two hundred feet to the

~ 173

west, his clothes had been blown clean off his body, the men respectfully covered him with a shirt.

It would be the better part of two days before the debris could be hauled off and the tracks repaired. They never did find the body of the fireman. Everyone remarked how lucky that it happened on the Dalton line and not the Chattanooga line. Still, the trains stacked up clear to Atlanta to the South, and Chicago to the North. Took better part of a week to get all the rolling stock on its way again; time would grow the stories, especially the headless engineer. It was said Jerry Douglass’s ghost could be seen at the station on a moonless night, waiting for the next train.

~ 174

Chapter Thirty-One Saturday, September 17th, 1859 “Cain’t nothin’ be done? He be here Sunday next,” said Ma. She was talking about Marsa Billy. Ma had taken the unusual step of bringing George his lunch in his rail office. It was just past the noon bell, the sun was high and bright in the sky, the air warm, and George had opened his window, listened to the sounds of the busy depot. Ma had come in the door without knocking, which meant that she had something on her mind. After she set out the lunch, she had sat down heavily in the small chair by the door.

“Ain’t right a man be rippin’ up a woman like dat. Even if she be Black,” said Ma. George took a bite of the ham and cheese sandwich and looked over at his mother. He started to speak with his mouth full; Ma’s forehead began to furrow, he thought better of it. He swallowed hard.

“Soon’s I get caught up with the farm and the railroad books, I’m gonna get Walt and take a trip. Cain’t do nothin’ ‘till he gets back from the mine.”

“When dat be?”

George looked directly at Ma. “Why you care so much?”

“She done told me ‘er story. You jes cain’t imagine what dat man done to her. She all rip up inside. Be evil itself.”

George nodded, sighed deeply. He’d always misliked and never trusted Marsa Billy. He knew Ma was right. He’d just have to make time. ≈ It was near dark when the last of the copper wagons rolled into the freight yard and began to unload. There was a large stack of ingots, as the mine had been expanded to meet the increasing industrial demand.

The Armory at Harper’s Ferry in Virginia had ordered as much as the

~ 175

mine could produce; the weekly train would be loaded on Monday and sent north, the copper melted and mixed with zinc, to make brass, or tin to make bronze. It would be cast into canons, rolled into plate and sheet; hot forged into shell casings and cartridges for the army and navy.

Marsa Thom had built another long building next to the copper platform and installed new copper rolling machines; now he was making copper and bronze sheet plate for the armory at Harper’s Ferry.

Good money to be made, as they were the only mill in the South, and the closest by far.

As he walked to the depot, George looked down the hill in the dim light, watched the hands unload the heavy twenty-pound ingots. He disliked the loud noise the mill made, but it was especially profitable.

He spotted Walt and Isaac checking the count of the dull red bars as they were stacked. He nodded, then walked by them deliberately into the wagon shed. After a moment, Walt followed.

“You actin’ all urgent,” said Walt, “Or is you just angry at Ma?” “Ma? Why Ma?” “She done ‘ready sent Harriette down to say we’s got work tonight.”

“I swear…” said George, thought better of his next words, clinched his jaw. “I’ll talk to Ma later. Just now, we do have to get Molly out.

Marsa Billy be comin’, malice in his heart.”

Walt nodded. “Big dance be tonight in Frogtown, lot’s ‘o people be about, comin’ and goin’. Nobody notice us.”

Without a word, they began to gather up the wagon parts, each to his own task. ≈ The fiddles were loud, the crowd louder, lots of dancing and singing going on. It was hot and close inside the ‘barrelhouse’ juke joint, smoky, the people sweating and having a good time. Most everyone had on their next to best clothes, those saved for church the next day. The building was a ramshackle hay barn, used by a freeman, Big Jack Cursor, to throw dances on the occasional Saturday night for the

~ 176

colored folk. Big Jack was the head of the woodcutting crew for the railyard; a tall bull of a man, shoulders that filled a doorway, hard calloused hands, his arms thicker that most men’s legs. The Whitewash had fallen off the dull grey wood outside long ago, and was, like many of the dwellings in Frogtown, up on three-foot pilings to avoid the gooey mud whenever it rained. It was a place of refuge really, a world of their own for the slaves and freemen to come together to forget their daily woes for a brief while. Moonshine was for sale to those who had a couple of pennies, and the willingness to pay the price either with the devil, as Ma said, or with a hangover, as George said. He had been inside only once, when he was seventeen. Ma had found out and made him sleep outside in the yard for three nights, getting eaten alive by bugs.

This night, George was standing a good thirty yards from the open door. He sighed to himself, shifting his weight foot to foot to keep his feet from going to sleep. He would have to wait for Molly to come out, but the crescent moon would soon rise, and he wanted to get on the road. She was going to be sure everyone knew she had been there; it was the last place anyone would remember seeing her. Walt had the wagon hitched up, ready to go up at the station yard. Loaded with supplies for the mine camp, he had the two boys ready, and the food Ma had made for them; enough to last the week if Molly were careful.

Molly’s graceful frame filled the door, as she flirtatiously pushed a tall thin man away from her, and laughed, stepped into the night. After a moment of watching her retreat, the man turned and went back inside. George lifted his lamp, the agreed signal. She glanced once more over her shoulder, and walked towards him, momentarily disappearing in the darkness.

A large hand clamped down on George’s shoulder from behind, spun him around. Big Jack stood there, drunk, wobbly on his feet; he thrust his face up close to George’s. “Well, well. I come out j’here to take me a piss and now just who do I see?” he laughed. “You lookin’ for

~ 177

somethin’, or yous just out to cause trouble?” he laughed at his own drunken non-humor.

“Just passin’ by, heard the music, stopped to listen for a while,” said George.

“Now George, you know the music ain’t free, got to buy a drink,” he said leaning in so close George could smell the booze and the chitlins he had for dinner. He leaned back to get George into better focus, dropping his voice and his smile. “But you don’t drink.”

George smiled and pulled a shiny new Indian head penny out of his pocket. “Then this will have to do,” he said, shoving the coin into Big Jack’s hand. “Payment for listening.”

Big Jack looked at the coin, regained his smile as he put it in his pocket, began lurching back to his bar. “Yous okay, George, yous okay,” he said without looking back.

After a short moment, Molly appeared out of the shadow, stood next to George. He looked at her, tilted his head to say “let’s go,” began walking quickly towards the rail yard, Molly close behind.

They walked on the dark quiet path, stayed off the road at the edge of town, and into the rail yard. Walt and Molly’s boys had fallen asleep on the seat, he with an arm around each of the boys, to wake him if they moved. Molly stopped short, looked at the three huddled together, smiled wistfully.

“I would surely love to have a pappy for them,” she whispered. She looked at George, an unasked question on her face.

“We can never know what waits for us, only that God will provide.” He turned to Walt, gave him a poke; he startled awake.

George picked up the oldest boy, wrapped him in one of ‘Henry’s blankets’ and put him in the bed of the wagon next to the bags of flour that Walt would later haul up to the mine camps. Molly did the same with the youngest and hopped up on the seat next to Walt.

“Stick to the rail roads, travel at night, get to Philadelphia if you can,” said George, pressing eight silver quarters into her hand.

“Pray for us,” Molly said.

~ 178

“Safe passage to the freedom land,” nodded George. He hesitated; he knew he was sending them into the unknown. “Whatever happens, you can’t come back. Marsa Billy whip you to death for a-running.”

Molly nodded, sighed deeply. “Thank Ma for me,” she said, turning forward in her seat.

With the expertise of years of driving, Walt snapped the reins and with a low “whup”, the wagon began to roll. George watched until the wagon was past the curve in the road; Molly did not look back. It was anybody’s guess how they would make out. But then, beautiful women never went cold or hungry for long.

~ 179

Chapter Thirty-Two Sunday, September 25th, 1859 Marsa Billy was drinking, cursing in front of Marsa Thom’s children.

He’d taken the train up to Cleveland the day before, enraged, stunk of drink, stumbled off the platform and had to be carried to bed by Charles and George. He’d started drinking again this morning, the Sabbath, and Miz Susan had ordered him out to the garden house to sober up.

“We haven’t seen her in a week,” Miz Susan had told him, holding her perfumed kerchief to her nose.

“You told her I was coming!” screamed Marsa Billy.

Miz Susan shook her head slowly. “No. I suppose she heard that we were expecting you.”

Marsa Billy picked up a small table and smashed it against the outside of the garden house, cursing and shouting, spittle coming out of his mouth. Watching him, Miz Susan started to cry.

That’s when Marsa Thom had come outside and intervened. “At my house, you will act like a gentleman.”

Marsa Billy, unsteady, glared at Marsa Thom, who didn’t back away, if anything, leaned forward. Miz Susan stepped between them, faced Billy. “She’s hiding out somewhere. We’ll send the boys to look for her.”

Too bad Marsa Billy couldn’t be good to Molly, thought George.

Seems like every family has a bad brother; it was a shame it was Miz Susan’s.

Marsa Billy’s chest heaved, he stumbled backwards, tripped and fell on the makeshift day bed, exhausted. He sat like a defeated dog, eyes vacant, then he vomited. Miz Susan and Marsa Thom glanced at one another.

“Lot of trouble for a colored girl,” she said as she retreated towards the house.

~ 180

Marsa Thom off-handedly pointed at Marsa Billy. “Take him out to the barn, clean him up,” he said to George. “I’ll be out presently.” ≈ Marsa Thom came into the barn with a change of clothes for Marsa Billy, who had refused a helping hand from George in getting washed up. Sitting with his back to a pile of straw bales, he’d fallen asleep in the warm sunshine coming in the open doorway, his mouth hanging open.

Marsa Thom kicked Marsa Billy’s boot to waken him. Startled, Marsa Billy looked up. Frightened, thought George.

“Susan and I are going to buy Molly and the boys from you. Two thousand dollars.”

Marsa Billy’s face fell. He hadn’t expected this.

“That’s a good five hundred over market,” said Marsa Thom.

“I don’t want to sell.”

Marsa Thom bent down face to face with Marsa Billy, looked at him for a long moment. “You need the money.”

Marsa Billy didn’t offer a reply.

“I’m doing this for your sister, not you.” Marsa Thom waited.

Finally, Marsa Billy nodded, stuck out his hand. Marsa Thom looked at it for a moment, shook it once, turned and walked out of the barn. ≈ George hitched up the buggy and pulled it out in front of the house. Ma had packed a large dinner basket for the White family and with everyone aboard, Marsa Thom drove the family off to church.

George didn’t go to church at all. He stayed and tended to Marsa Billy, who went to sleep, awoke hungry, but still wouldn’t wash up.

George helped him into fresh clothes, brought him a plate of the noon dinner, and made him fresh coffee. Afterwards Marsa Billy laid down and went back to sleep.

The long shadows of afternoon, the food, and the quiet of the day allowed George his own thoughts. He worried over his own family, Mary’s cough, Elizabeth’s continued grieving over her father, the stacks

~ 181

of wheat that had to get into the warehouse in the train yard. He closed his eyes, just for a moment. ≈ George woke with a start. Marsa Billy was standing over him with a knife at his throat.

“I know you’re up to no good,” Marsa Billy said.

George’s heart raced. This was one crazy White man.

“Yas Suh, I be sorry Suh.” Marsa Billy thrust the blade up to George’s neck enough to hurt, but not cut.

“You tell me what you did with Molly!”

George swallowed hard. “I don’t know where she is, Suh.” “Any more tricky-nigger double-talk’s gonna be the end of you.”

“Hope dat knife doan’t slip any, Marsa Billy,” said Pappy Jim from the barn doorway. He was walking slowly, a pitchfork in his hand. He stopped as Marsa Billy turned and looked at him. “That knife slip, this here fork slip too.”

Marsa Billy’s mouth dropped open, surprised, then angry. He whirled towards Pappy Jim, then lunged towards him. George stuck his foot out, tripping Marsa Billy, who stumbled past Pappy Jim, fell, and cut his hand on the knife.

“You fuckin niggers!” Marsa Billy screamed and started to get up off the floor, but Pappy Jim pressed the pitchfork against his back.

Marsa Billy froze, in a tableau of changed expectations. ≈ It was near five o’clock before the family returned from church. George went out into the yard to tend to the horse and buggy. Harriette and Charles came out and hurried about. When Marsa Billy heard Marsa Thom, he started screaming like a stuck pig. Marsa Thom looked at George, then back at Miz Susan. She looked worried.

“Take the children inside.” He gestured to George to follow.

“Help, help! They’re gonna kill me!” Marsa Billy shouted. He was seated on the ground, in the corner of the barn, his right hand wrapped,

~ 182

soaked red. Pappy Jim was seated in front of him on a milking stool, the pitchfork laying across his lap. George followed Marsa Thom into the barn. Pappy Jim stood as they came in. Marsa Billy leaped to his feet, and as he stepped across the stool, punched Pappy Jim in the stomach as hard as he could, felling the old man, and then kicked him in the gut.

Marsa Thom and George rushed and grabbed Billy, who was shouting and cursing. He struggled, but was too weak to overcome the two men.

Marsa Thom sat on Marsa Billy. “Grab that rope, tie him up,” he said to George. “And then tell me what happened here.”

George told the story exactly as it happened. Marsa Billy’s refusal to have Ma look at his hand, insisting that they were all in on it, and trying to kill him. Marsa Billy shouted obscenities throughout the retelling.

George left out the details of Pappy Jim threatening Marsa Billy with the pitchfork and the intentional tripping. He didn’t like telling an incomplete truth, but the spirit of the truth was there. And they were trying to help Marsa Billy, no matter what he thought.

“Go get Doc Thompson.”

George nodded, looked over at Pappy Jim laying on the floor, not moving much, holding his gut.

“Yas Suh.” ≈ It was already dark when Doc Thomson walked into the kitchen house with Marsa Thom. Pappy Jim was laying on the cot in the corner, eyes closed, breathing shallow. A thin blanket thrown over him, Ma was seated, holding a bible, whispering the Lord’s Prayer.

The big lanterns over the kitchen table were turned down, and a pie and pot of tea sat at the ready. In the dim light, a few shuffles were all that broke the silence. Charles was there, as was Harriette, though she came and went as her duties required. Elizabeth had taken the children down to their cabin, George smiled to himself as he thought of her asleep with them in the bed.

~ 183

Doc Thompson held up his lamp, then handed it to George as he swapped places with Ma. “Can you hear me Uncle?” said Doc Thompson. ‘Uncle’ was what White people called old male slaves when they didn’t know their name.

Pappy Jim opened his eyes, nodded. “Yas Suh.” It was barely above a whisper.

“Good. Where’s it hurt?” He pulled back the thin blanket, laid his hand on Pappy Jim’s extended gut.

“Alls ‘bout my middle.”

Doc Thompson laid his head on Pappy Jim’s swollen belly and listened. Then he pushed at him, then thumped the tight skin, like a ripe watermelon. Pappy Jim winced. Doc Thompson looked up at Marsa Thom, said nothing, but opened his bag and brought out a small bottle of brownish-red laudanum. Marsa Thom shrugged, exhaled slowly, then walked out into the dark yard.

Doc Thompson handed the bottle to Ma. “Give him this as needed for pain. Start with a teaspoon every two hours, more if he needs it.”

Ma leapt into action now that she had something she could do. Doc Thompson closed his bag, and he joined Marsa Thom outside. George, carrying the lamp, followed.

“He’s bleeding inside, probably a busted spleen,” said Doc Thompson to Marsa Thom. “I could cut it out, but he’s already lost a lot of blood. Reckon he wouldn’t live through it at his age.”

Marsa Thom nodded.

“He looks to be past sixty, so you cain’t sell him… not worth the money trying to save him.” Doc Thompson was referring to the law prohibiting selling or freeing slaves over sixty; they were broken-down and would just have to be put in poor houses, at public expense.

George, his jaw clinched, slowly exhaled, felt his face get hot in the dark. After all these years of being loyal, good, kind. Still a slave, thought George. He didn’t dare say a word.

“That’s my decision to make, Doctor.” He glanced at George.

~ 184

“Of course, Mister Calloway. No offence meant,” said Doc Thompson.

“None taken,” said Marsa Thom, the tone of his voice betraying his irritation, “I want him to have all the medicine he needs.”

The Doctor smiled weakly as George handed him his lamp. “I’ll have another bottle of medication ready tomorrow morning.”

George watched him leave, waited for Marsa Thom, who stood until the doctor was out of earshot.

“The doctor is right. We can’t fix him,” he hesitated, “Make sure he’s not feeling any pain, George,” then turned away and made his way towards the Big House. “Send Charles in as soon as you tell your folks,” he said over his shoulder.

George watched him go, was sorry he was the one to tell Ma, but as the head of the family, it was his job. It was too much for one day. ≈ The night was still, it was late, and George couldn’t sleep. There was nothing he could do to help or change what happened in the barn, no matter how many times he went over it in his head. He got up, stopped to watch Elizabeth, with Baby Caroline and Mary tucked into her arms, sleeping softly. Sure that they were undisturbed, he walked up the hill to the kitchen in the pitch dark of the New Moon. Ma had blown out the big kitchen lamps; the one beside the bed still burned, the soft glow throwing large shadows on the walls.

Ma was still up, her hand rested on Pappy Jim’s who was propped up slightly to ease his labored breathing. Ma looked up at George, her eyes puffy from crying and the late hour.

“He rest easy,” she said.

George nodded, walked to the end of the bed, felt Pappy Jim’s toes.

They were cold as stone. He bent over and kissed Ma on the forehead, “I’ll set with him, you should lay down for a spell.”

Pappy Jim opened his eyes, looked at them both. “De boy right, I kin see de river from here.” He closed his eyes and sighed his last breath. Ma sobbed and put her forehead on Pappy Jim’s still hand. As

~ 185

the clock passed the midnight hour, Pappy Jim, the man who had raised all Ma’s children, went to meet his maker.

~ 186

Chapter Thirty-Three Monday, September 26th, 1859 The shroud and ties were made of flour sacks, large enough to wrap Pappy Jim and tie the corners together. First was laid a large willow bough woven basket, then the shroud. George and Charles put Pappy Jim in the basket, wrapped the white sheet tightly around him, cinched the ties. Charles stepped to the end of the basket, George to the other.

Ma, a black shawl wrapped about her, stood at the door of the barn, back to them, facing the sunrise. She had been up all the night washing Pappy Jim’s body in the African tradition, talking to him, telling him not to forget the family, as they too would be along someday. Charles and George lifted Pappy Jim into the back of an ore wagon, the Swan brothers seated in front, waiting. Outside the door, stood Elizabeth, baby Caroline and Mary, Caroline, Leander, Harriette, John, and a few of the local coloreds from Frogtown. Most everyone had on their best Sunday clothes, except Harriette in her uniform, who had to get right back to the Big House after the funeral to tend to the White children.

Isaac snapped the reins and the wagon rolled out into the sun, Pappy Jim’s shroud glowing in the bright light. As the wagon passed Ma, George and Charles each took one of Ma’s arms. They were joined

by Reverend Edejiah, and the procession fell in behind. They made their way up the hill, past the big pine, to the flat spot at the edge of the rise.

George and Charles had spent the hours before dawn digging the grave, next baby Becky’s so they could keep each other company. This high clearing was where all the coloreds in town were laid to rest, out of sight of the town, but yet, thought George, closer to Heaven. Wooden crosses marked the graves, many faded and rotted away, a few renewed by their families, but most were gone.

All the men grasped Pappy Jim’s basket, slid him off the wagon, slowly carried his body to the grave, and then lowered Pappy Jim into

~ 187

the hole. The women whispered prayers between sobs. Reverend Edejiah recited the Lord’s Prayer, and Genesis 3:19: “Thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”

One by one the mourners put a handful of dirt in the grave; Ma dropped in Pappy Jim’s hat. “Gonna need it for Heaven, bein’ so close to de sun.”

As the rest of the family and friends walked with the wagon back down the hill to the barn, George shoveled dirt back into the hole. They would go about their day, but first Ma would insist that all got a piece of pie and a cup of coffee.

George was warm and stopped to rest, watching the retreating backs. Behind him, he heard a gun cock.

“Don’t move an inch,” said Marsa Billy, “or you die right now.”

Marsa Billy walked around to George’s front; a pistol leveled at his head. “I expect nothing but lies and trouble out ‘o you, but I’m givin’ you a chance to save yourself.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Where is she?”

George could only think about the sweat running down his neck onto his freshly starched collar, and that a bright flash might be the last thing he ever saw.

“She run off with both the children, last week, not sure what day.”

George heard the sound of his own voice like someone else was doing the talking. Even now knowing he wasn’t going to tell the whole truth.

Marsa Billy stood there, waiting, clearly wanting more. He waggled the tip of the gun in a circle, as in ‘what else.’

“Go on,” he said.

George spoke reluctantly, slowly; his story was all there was between him and Heaven.

“I heard tell she went up the old Cherokee trail. Towards Kentucky along the river.”

~ 188

“That’s what I thought, you knew all along.” Marsa Billy suddenly swung the pistol towards the woods and fired. George jumped, a nervous release of his fear.

“Someday, nigger boy, I’m gonna kill you for tripping me in the barn.” Marsa Billy smiled at the look of surprise on George’s face. “Oh yeah, I know you done it. Just gonna kill you when it suits.”

He laughed, turned, and walked back down the hill.

Not if I see your drunken ass first, thought George. ≈ The damp evening chill had already set as George herded the three milkers into the barn for the night. Twilight was failing, the dim greyness was all that was left. By the lamps on the second floor he could see Miz Susan and Marsa Billy in the windows, moving, but going nowhere. Their voices loud and jumbled, three voices rising, and then louder still, Marsa Thom’s voice above the rest. “You will accept the money, you will leave in the morning, and furthermore you are not welcome in this house!” And then they all went to shouting.

George wondered if he should go up to the Big House. It was rare for Marsa Thom to raise his voice. But Charles or Harriette would come out to fetch him if needed, and he could see by the oil light they were busy in the pantry. George went about his tasks; took in the firewood for the next day’s cooking, drew clean water for Ma, checked to make sure the chicken coop door was latched. As George walked up the hill to the Big House, Marsa Billy, properly dressed but reeking of drink and sweat, stormed out the door, down the hill toward the station, Charles hurriedly carried his baggage behind him.

Watching him descending the hill, George decided that whatever he was going to do about Marsa Billy would have to wait for another time. He would be sure Marsa Billy would never harm another member of his family.

~ 189

Chapter Thirty-Four Friday October 21st, 1859 The Cleveland Banner was out on the street with a special edition.

“HARPER’S FERRY REBELLION.” it said. “Northern Abolitionists Implicated!” In smaller print below the headline, “Revelations of Captain John Brown.”

George walked in the middle of the street, back to the bank with the day’s mail; he had stopped to pick up the paper for Marsa Thom. A thick layer of clouds had piled up, but there hadn’t been any rain; there was a cold wind out of the north, cutting right through his thin wool jacket. There were few White people out in the street, nor a Colored person to be seen, and the two groups of White men he had passed stopped talking as he walked by, watching him closely. George tipped his hat respectfully, and the one White man he knew, Doctor Thompson, had nodded, but not smiled.

Word of the rebellion had shot all over town. The Whites had been in an uproar the past few days, ever since the news of Harper’s Ferry had come in over the wire on Tuesday. The past Sunday, October 16th, 1859, Abolitionist John Brown had led his small army of White and Black volunteers, twenty-one strong, in an attack against the Federal Armory, armed with their righteousness and Brown’s new American Constitution, in an attempt to spark a slave rebellion. The aim was to occupy the Armory, steal rifles, and distribute them to the slaves in the area. Though a failure, the news of the attempted slave rebellion had taken the country by storm. The story was on the front page of every paper, North and South.

George had heard talk of dispatches sent to the railroads, the Governors of Virginia and Maryland, the Secretary of War John Floyd, and President Buchanan. Floyd had ordered Colonel Robert E Lee to take immediate action and had mobilized both the Marines and the Army. With ninety Marines under his command, Colonel Lee soon

~ 190

discovered that Brown and his men were trapped by the local militia in the Armory fire house. Lee telegraphed that no more troops were needed, as the incident was caused by but a handful of ‘Banditti’ and he would soon have them in hand. Lee ordered Lieutenant J.E.B. Stuart to demand a surrender from Brown; Brown refused. Lee ordered an immediate attack. The Marines battered down the doors, killing or mortally wounding many of Brown’s ‘army’ of twenty-one men. Brown was wounded, but captured; his son Watson Brown died of his wounds. One Marine was killed, a few more wounded but survived. “The whole was over in a few minutes,” Lee wrote in his report. “Have given telegraph up to reporters, who are in force strong as military,” he wired. 13 George read the front page, stood alone in the alley, and knew that this meant a time of coming troubles. ≈ In spite of the late hour, George sat up in the warm kitchen and waited. Warding off the night chill, he sat with the door ajar, overlooking the

13 Exaggerated with each retelling, the worst fears of the South were confirmed: Northern

Abolitionists would stop at nothing to extinguish slavery. In addition to a sizable cache of weapons, papers had been found in John Brown’s possession linking him to prominent Northern Abolitionists Garret Smith and Frederick Douglass. Talk of secession, already strong, became threats from prominent Southerners. Mississippi Senator Jefferson Davis: If “we are not to be protected in our property and sovereignty, we are therefore released from our allegiance, and will protect ourselves out of the Union.”

John Brown’s trial in Charleston, Virginia, was the sensation of the entire country. Headlines for weeks called him “insane,” a “Nigger-Worshipping Insurrectionist,” “a wild and absurd freak.”

Brown refused an insanity plea on principle, and was hanged on December second. His last note of that day read: “I John Brown am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty, land: will never be

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side yard to the house. Marsa Thom had gone to the big meeting at the town hall. All the Whites, including farmers who could get to town, and the town leaders were there. George had offered to hitch up the buggy and drive Marsa Thom, but he had declined without explanation, though the night was wind-whipped cold.

Elizabeth had left out an apple pie, the smell of warm apples and cinnamon drifting through the kitchen. The kettle was on the stove, so George could make Marsa Thom a hot cup of tea when he returned. As it closed in on midnight, George helped himself to a little of each, and braced up against the door jamb standing to keep himself from deep sleep, he nodded off catnapping. Soon he heard the soft step of Marsa Thom’s horse, brushed at his face to chase away sleep, walked out to take the reins.

Marsa Thom dismounted, removed his gloves, pulling at one finger at a time to loosen the tight fit.

“Tell everyone to stay on the farm unless they are in the company of one of the family,” he said, “until I say otherwise.”

“Yes Suh. There’s apple pie and hot tea in the kitchen for you,” said George, turning towards the barn with the horse. “Shall I bring you some?”

Marsa Thom shook his head no.

“And spread the word, your folks, even the free boys, should only walk alone and only in daylight, sunup to sundown anytime outside of Frogtown. New law, no Blacks outside in town at night.”

Marsa Thom slapped his gloves into the palm of his left hand, shook his head, and walked into the house.

“Yes, Suh, ‘night.”

People act ornery when they’re scared, George thought. For him and his, safety was in staying neither seen nor heard.

purged away; but with Blood. I had as I now think: vainly flattered myself that without very much bloodshed; it might be done.”

~ 192

Chapter Thirty-Five Sunday, October 30th, 1859 It had been raining for four straight days. The winter rains rutted the roads, the thick dark mud clung to wheels and shoes, slowed wagons and people alike. This morning, early, George gathered up the cows that had gotten out of the main pasture and wandered into town. At least they had stuck together, huddled around the Courthouse trees, chewing their cud. Even they hadn’t wanted to walk back to the farm in the freezing downpour. He had to twist their tails to make them move along, their hooves cracking through the thin ice that had begun to form on the puddles.

Anything that got wet during the rain would not dry until the weather turned; it would be days until George could dry out his wet clothes, despite hanging them near the stove in the cabin. Hurriedly getting into his suit, he pulled his damp coat around him. Elizabeth declined to take the babies out in the sleet and cold rain, she citing the great chance of the chilblains or worse. He told the girls goodbye and strode downhill towards the church. He was to give the sermon today, as Reverend Edejiah was in retreat. Whatever that was.

Staying off the road and on the grassy shoulder as much as possible, he was toying with what to preach today. Acceptance for what you can’t change, work is its own reward, or never give up in the face of difficulty?

The sleeting rain had let up for a few moments, expanding his view farther up the road. Before him, a young buck streaked out of the woods on a dead run. Two grey wolves were close behind, closing the gap. As the deer jumped the fence into the road, a third wolf emerged from the right, ambushing him, grabbing his rear leg, trying to pull him down.

The buck dragged on as the two others closed in. The buck reared up on its hind legs, stabbed one wolf in the chest; blood spurted, the wolf staggered off, falling a few feet away. As if enraged, the largest wolf

~ 193

tore savagely at the buck’s throat. The buck, falling now to his knees, life fading from his eyes, dropped his antlers, held the wolf at bay, until the blood no longer pumped from his wounds.

Carefully keeping his distance, George drew his long coat tighter against the rain, and walked away from the carnage. The largest wolf howled over the body of his slain pack member, stamping the muddy ground. The wolves, jowls covered in blood, closely watched George retreat before turning to their prey. Others in the pack appeared, joined in. Though he had seen plenty of carcasses in the woods left by the wolves, he had never seen a kill before. It was a sign. He knew what he would preach. ≈ George stood in front of the congregation, a bible open in his left hand, while he pointed to the people, one by one, not speaking, dramatically recognizing each of them in turn. The crowd was thin today. Bad weather and the new law requiring slaves walk alone, even for church, one of few places they could gather, and the hateful stares of many Whites made the parishioners reluctant to go anywhere.

“Is your God the Jesus who endlessly suffers for our sins, or is your God Jehovah, who smite the armies of the Pharaoh to free his people?”

George spoke in a loud, clear voice, startled a number of the parishioners. “‘And the LORD spake unto Moses, Go unto Pharaoh, and say unto him, Thus saith the LORD, Let my people go, that they may serve me.’

Exodus eight, verse one,” said George jabbing the bible with his extended finger. “‘And if thou refuse to let them go, behold, I will smite all thy borders with frogs,’” George held up two fingers in the air. “Verse two.”

“Yes!” came a shout from the rear.

“And Pharaoh did not let them go. And the Lord sent flies, and boils, and rain, and thunder, and still Pharaoh would not free the people.”

~ 194

“Amen!”

“And then He killed the first born of all of Egypt, high and low.”

George dropped his voice. “But He did not kill the firstborn of the children of Israel, these innocents, these slaves, no!”

The room was whisper still, the crowd listening.

“The Lord told them to flee the lands of Egypt, that HE would set them free!”

George looked around the room. George pointed towards Heaven.

“HE said: that if you want to be free, you must free yourself.”

He slowly turned and pointed North.

“Or die trying.” ≈ The rain finally let up, and despite the merciful sun, it was cold; folks were gathered in the Courthouse square to gossip, exchange farm prices, and generally talk about the state of the world. Especially the John Brown rebellion. It seemed that every week some new bit of news came along; the Army had found a cache of pikes and axes at another house, arrested yet more conspirators. Men shook their heads, and women held their children a little closer whenever more of the wild rumors made their way around. Every stranger was suspect until proven otherwise, and even then, not to be trusted. 14 Someone had built a fire on the corner, and was brewing a pot of coffee, passing a little warmth to the gathered crowd. People blew on their hands, stamped their feet to warm themselves. George, bible in hand, walked alone on the other side of Ocoee Street trailed by a few other Blacks walking separately, headed home to Frogtown. He looked over at the wagon that said, ‘Every Day is a Fine Day!’ painted on its sides, parked along the side street at the Courthouse, its back door 14 On the day of Brown’s death, in the Northern states, church bells tolled, cannons solemnly

fired, flags lowered to half-staff in moments of silence. Other Northerners, supporters of slavery, organized ‘Southern Sympathy rallies’. Southerners would not believe a Northerner could be a slavery sympathizer. Yankees in the South became persona non grata; driven out of business and out of town, some tarred and feathered. A few were lynched. Northerners fled for their lives.

~ 195

open. David Lee Fine sat close to a small wood stove, cleaning his wares, pots from Connecticut, scissors from Pennsylvania, mirrors from Boston, lamps from Germany.

Auntie Phoebe, the Inman’s grey-haired slave and the cook at their boarding house just around the corner on Inman Street, stopped by.

George saw her and crossed the road, to ask after her son who had been taken with a fever a few days before. They hadn’t been to church.

“A cold and wet day to be out, Mister Fine,” Phoebe said.

“It is Auntie, but idle hands are the devil’s hands,” he smiled back, speaking in his Yankee accent.

As George approached, he heard a loud group of horsemen, turned and saw eight riders, most of them talking drunk. As they passed, he saw Rick Acock, Billy Brown, Sam Swan, Davey McMillian, a couple men he knew as pattyrollers, and two more he didn’t know, probably drifters, farm hands let go now that the crops were all put up. The group stopped in front of the bar on the side street, tied up their horses, and made to go in. They discovered the bar was closed as it was the Sabbath and would not open until the last church service was over at three p.m. The disappointed men looked at the courthouse clock, realized the time was only half past one. They would have no more whiskey or beer for a long hour and a half. Then looking around, they fixated on Auntie Phoebe and Mister Fine, he sat on the back of the wagon now, chatting. Acock and Brown watched them, then stepped across the street to the wagon. George stopped, stood with his hands in his coat pockets a good forty feet distant.

“We’ll take a jug of whiskey,” said Brown, “biggest ya got.”

Fine smiled at him. “Don’t sell whiskey, sir. But I have many a fine item that will please any lady.”

Acock took out his pocketknife and started to clean his fingernails.

“You’d be from up north,” Acock said as he stepped forward, knife in hand. Phoebe glanced at the knife and backed away, slowly and silently moving toward George.

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“New Jersey, originally,” smiled Fine, his lips set firmly, “Knoxville these days.” His eyes weren’t smiling as he watched the knife.

Brown looked at the frame of the rear door. “What’s that there?” he asked, squinting at the mezuzah tacked to the post. “Funny lookin’ writin’ on it.”

“That’s a mezuzah, a blessing, brings good luck,” said Fine.

“Looks like Jew writin’,” Acock said, pryed it off the frame.

The other drunkards crossed the street and gathered around for the fun. As Phoebe approach George she tilted her head as if to say ‘let’s go’ as she passed. George knew there was nothing he could do to change the events about to transpire. He turned to follow her.

“That’s a religious—” Fine was punched in the head by Brown and fell forward out of the wagon.

“Don’t like Jew boys, and especially don’t like Northern Jew boys,” said Brown. He kicked Fine in the head, blood and a tooth flying.

Two of the pattyrollers joined in, kicking and cursing.

Three White church-going men ran over to the melee, pulling the men off the now bloody drummer.

“It’s the Sabbath!”

“You’re gonna kill ’em!”

“That’s enough now!”

George watched over his shoulder as he and Phoebe passed the group of churchgoers on the corner. The White women were hiding the faces of the children in their skirts, with their backs towards the violence.

“Wolves,” said George under his breath. ≈ George woke with a start, heard the fire bell at the railroad station.

Throwing on his clothes and heavy coat, he grabbed a lantern and his axe and water bucket he kept at the ready. He stepped into the night, rushed through the barnyard as Charles and Marsa Thom came out of the barn with shovels in hand. The three men ran down the hill towards

~ 197

the tall orange flames in the trackside yard, their boots crunching in the ice on the ground.

It was Fine’s wagon, and it was fully engulfed. There wasn’t anything to do but throw a few buckets of water on the nearby buildings to keep the fire from spreading. Eventually the wagon burned down enough to throw water on the reducing flames. George walked around the railyard to see if sparks had landed anywhere, heard a guttural moaning in the dark and followed the sound to the backside of a large oak. Barely breathing, his eyes swollen shut, Fine had been tied to the tree, naked, covered in pine tar and chicken feathers.

“Marsa Thom!” he shouted. Marsa Thom walked quickly over, trailed by Walter and Isaac.

“Sweet Jesus,” said Marsa Thom.

“Amen,” said George.

“Get him down, take him to the barn.”

Isaac drew his knife and cut Fine down. As he fell forward, Isaac caught him on his shoulder, folded over like so much beef. Isaac carried Fine up the hill to the barn, put him on the tack table, a bed of burlap bags and straw was spread out under him. George checked Fine over, his feet were cold, his hands had turned blue, the ends of his fingers and toes black from the freezing wind. Most of his upper body was covered in the pine tar, feathers stuck tightly to his skin. Marsa Thom walked in the barn carrying old blankets and clothes, handed them to George. They covered his lower body; the men looked closer at the pine tar, pulling at the feathers. It couldn’t be taken off without taking the skin.

“Tell Ma to warm the bacon grease. And rags, plenty of rags,” George told Charles. Marsa Thom nodded and Charles hurried out.

The warm bacon grease they rubbed on him was slowly removing the feathers, loosening the pine tar’s grip on his skin. Hour after hour the four Black men worked on Fine, first an arm, then a hand, then the other arm. He lost his little fingers to frostbite, the tips of his ring fingers to the hot tar and fire; all the small toes on his left foot. By dawn, they

~ 198

had gotten most of the tar off, saving his skin except the shoulders, the left side of his face, and the top of his head where the tar had been the hottest. Ma, up by now, had cut off his hair and clipped what was left close to his head. Unable to open his eyes, and in searing pain, Fine screamed himself into unconsciousness.

~ 199

Chapter Thirty-Six Wednesday, November 23rd, 1859 It was snowing by the time George made it back from Wildwood Lake with three grey geese. He had been out since early morning, sitting in his blind at the edge of the marshy lake, blowing on a piece of grass in his hand to attract the passing flyers. It had been a clear sunny day, cold, until the clouds rolled across the hills from the West, and the geese had decided to land when the weather changed. George had gotten off two shots before they raced back into the darkening sky. There would be goose tomorrow for Thanksgiving, along with the roast pork.

He carried the geese into the kitchen, laid them on the big table.

Elizabeth greeted him, smiled at the sight of the birds.

“Mighty fine big,” she said.

From the cot in the corner, Fine spoke out. “Lemme help with those. I can pluck feathers good as any,” he said, sitting up. Fine had moved into the kitchen for his recovery, the barn way too cold, and since he was a Jew, could not be in the Big House.

“Surely, Mister Fine,” said George, “How are those hands today?”

Fine had made a remarkable recovery, the burns mostly healed; he was covered in scars on his face, lost most of his hair. Luckily he could see, and even though he’d lost the two smaller fingers on both hands, he could use both without much pain. “Good as new” he’d say at least once a day. The limp from losing his toes on his left foot would never go away.

“Good as new,” he said, and smiled, crossed the room to the table.

“Marsa Thom say you’ll be leavin’ soon,” said George. Fine’s face fell, then recovered. He nodded.

“Goin’ home, up north to New Jersey. In time for the new year.”

George and Elizabeth waited for him to continue. “I leave on Friday. Mister Calloway bought me a ticket all the way to New York.”

~ 200

“I’m very grateful for the care you’ve shown me.” He looked one to the other slowly.

“You’re very welcome,” said Elizabeth. “Now get out in the barn and dress those geese ‘fore their gut goes bad.”

Fine put on his coat as George picked up the geese and the two men went outside.

“Think you can put all this behind you?” said George.

Fine walked, didn’t say a word.

“Nothin’ gonna happen to Brown and them, the men who done this,” said George.

Fine stopped and looked at George, started to speak, thought better of it, nodded and continued to the barn. Then Fine turned and said something George would never forget, he quoted Exodus 2:22: “For he said, I am a stranger in a strange land.”

The Cleveland Banner would finally report on the incident a week later: “Nothing is known about Mr. Fine’s abolitionist or insurrectionary sentiments, but being from the North, and therefore, imbued with doctrines hostile to our institutions, his presence in this section has been obnoxious.”

~ 201

Chapter Thirty-Seven Saturday, May 19th, 1860 George had walked into town to see how the new house construction was going along. Mister Jeff Mowry, architect, had taken up residence at the Inman boarding house and worked out of his second-floor room, over the entrance on the street front. Though it was across the street, any questions the workmen had they would shout up to his window, as the Widow Inman had two young daughters, Myra, fifteen, and Alice, seventeen, and she wouldn’t let the roughhewn men in the building.

Often, Mowry took a seat on the front porch of the Presbyterian Church kitty-corner to the building site, where he could watch the work.

Marsa Thom had hired the oldest Douglass boy, Raif, as the head foreman, and he was doing a good job. The foundation was set, the oak framing true, square, and straight; George nodded with satisfaction at the well-placed nails and trennels. It was the usual mix of White carpenters from the railroad yard and a few free Blacks to carry the heavy boards and do the re-sawing, making the two by fours that would frame the house. The second story was already on, the rafters set.

The kitchen well had been dug, the first bricks of the chimneys already in. It would be a grand house.

It was nearly noon, the humidity eased by the fair breeze flowing out of the West, making a relatively pleasant sunny day. George picked up a copy of The Cleveland Banner, he glanced at the headline “Lincoln nominated by the Black Republicans!” He got a copy for Marsa Thom from the newspaper office as the paper had sold out, a few reserved for regular customers. It was burning a hole in his pocket, he so badly

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wanted to read it, but that would have to wait until he had helped Elizabeth back to the house with the lunch dishes and the wagon. 15 Just as the noon bell rang, Elizabeth arrived, the old jenny pulling the two-wheeled milk cart; the stew, bread, and tin plates securely packed in the back with the old clean blankets from the barn. George stretched a couple of boards across two sawhorses, covered them with blankets then the heavy stew pot. Raif blew his whistle, and the men passed through the line, White first, then Black. While Elizabeth was dishing the food, George hung the big coffee kettle on the tripod over a fire of scrap wood.

Elizabeth brought a plate over to George, but none for herself. He raised his eyebrows.

15 By 1854, the Whig Party was tearing itself apart over the issue of the expansion of slavery

into the territories outside of the Old South. Northern Whigs, together with abolitionists, disaffected Democrats, Free Soilers, and Independents, coalesced at a rally in Ripon, Wisconsin and called themselves ‘Republicans’. The name stuck, and by May, 1854, the official party was formed.

By 1858, the Republicans were operating in all the Northern states, and had won increasing numbers of elections, both local and national with the slogan ‘Free labor, Free Land, Free Men.’ Although Abraham Lincoln lost his bid to become Senator from Illinois to Stephen Douglass in 1858, their debate including the slavery issue, would make both men famous. Douglass took the point of view that slavery was legally endorsed by the Constitution, and could not be restricted.

Lincoln personally abhorred slavery, and took the position that though legal, it must be contained to the present slave states, not allowed to expand. Clever, witty, and unassuming, Lincoln gained a national reputation.

Northern workers and farmers began to see slavery as an unfair economic system that would crush their endeavors; Southern planters began to see the increasing support for restrictions of the expansion of slavery as a threat to their existence.

In 1860, there were four major parties competing for the Presidency. Like the Whigs, the Democrats had split into two parties; the Northern Democrats nominated Stephen Douglass; the Southern Democrats John Breckenridge. The Constitutional Union & old Southern Whig party, nominated John Bell. The Republicans nominated a tall, lanky man who kept his ‘office in his hat’, Abe Lincoln. Frederick Douglass said of him: “…I do not believe in the anti-slavery of Abraham Lincoln, because he is on the side of the Slave Power of which I am speaking that has possession of the Federal Government.” Lincoln continued his policy of support of slavery, but with containment. Southerners began referring to Lincoln’s party as ‘The Black Republicans’ convinced the party was, if elected, secretly going to end slavery.

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“I’m not very hungry,” she said, trying not to get too close to the food.

“You sick?”

“No, just not hungry, for a couple weeks now,” she smiled.

George looked at her for a moment, then realized he was to be a father, again. He laughed out loud, the stew spilling from his open mouth. And he hugged her, he just hugged her.

~ 204

Chapter Thirty-Eight Wednesday, July 4th, 1860 The beautifully carved and polished white marble stone, cut from the quarry east of town, was four and a half feet long, two feet wide, and ten inches thick. The front side had been carved with an ellipse with thirty-two stars carved underneath the top arch, one for each state in the Union. “United we stand, divided we fall!” was carved in large letters in the center underneath the ellipse. “Contributed by the citizens of Bradley County, Tennessee, 1860.” The stone rested on two large logs in the center of the courthouse lawn for all to see. It was to be sent to Washington, D.C. to be included in the building of the Washington Monument, but construction had been halted on it for lack of funds. A small amount of money had been collected to send to the Monument Society, along with the stone, to be placed in the outer wall for the world to admire Bradley County’s loyalty and greatness.

It had rained earlier in the day, and in spite of the heat and humidity of the afternoon sun, the crowd was exceptionally large.

Tennessee Senator John Bell, running for President with the Constitutional Union party, was due to speak any minute. Miz Susan sat with her youngest children on a large blanket, Harriett close by on her own blanket, held baby Susan. The older boys, Joe and Luke, ran about with the other White children gathered at the picnic. Ma and Elizabeth had packed a huge luncheon, had made a large jar of lemonade, with ice brought in especially for the holiday.

George set down the large picnic baskets and turned away from the wooden speakers platform to the right of the courthouse. It was unusual for a Presidential candidate to speak on his own behalf, but John Bell was a Senator used to campaigning, now seated on the platform reading his notes. George studied him with several quick glances. He looked to be about sixty-five, portly, and in spite of the heat, Bell was in a shirt and tie. He glanced at his pocket watch and patted a kerchief on his

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bald head. His body slave, Nero, stood beside him, held a parasol to keep the Senator shaded. Without a word, Nero took the damp kerchief and handed Bell a fresh one. George caught his eye, and the two nodded briefly.

As speeches droned on, George half listened, kept an eye towards whatever Marsa Thom and Miz Susan needed, he could tell what they were going to ask for before they did, and he would be standing beside them with their need at hand. George was therefore, indispensable.

John Bell at last took the stage, extolling the grace and beauty of the great state of Tennessee, how important the copper and silver mines were to the country, that Cleveland was an important link on the railroads connecting the fields of the South and the cities of the North.

He mentioned Marsa Calloway, Mister Jesse Raht, Eli Waterhouse by name, calling them ‘tamers of the frontier’. He pointed out that with all this loose talk of the slave states leaving the Union, wise men knew that there was no issue over slavery, as it was legal, and safely embedded in the constitution. And that each part of the country, North and South, needed the other. George watched Robert McNelley, editor of The Cleveland Banner, furiously taking notes. McNelley was a secessionist, and whatever he printed about Bell would be misleading at best.

“As that great marble stone here to be dedicated says’ ‘E pluribus Unum’: united we stand divided we fall!” Bell shouted, to loud applause. George clapped just because the man was done talking, at last. ≈ “You know Lincoln really doesn’t have a chance,” said Senator Bell. He stood in the Calloway drawing room; with him were many of the important men of Cleveland, including Jesse Raht, John Craigmiles, Eli Waterhouse, Captain Grant, and Judge Gault discussing the upcoming election. They were the guests of Marsa Thom that evening, so Ma had all the household working in the kitchen and the Big House. Charles and Harriette had cleaned house until it was shiny and smelled of roses.

Miz Susan had been especially picky and cross, worried that her house

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would not be perfect, tippling through the afternoon. But all had been well when Senator Bell had praised her home, furniture, clothing, and children. Much too much in George’s opinion, but everything had gone well through dinner, and that’s what counted.

“I am not alone in anticipating the invasion of the South by the abolitionists if Lincoln should win,” said Craigmiles. “The matters of the Kansas territories and John Brown make this inevitable.”

“With four men in the election, no one will get a majority. That means a vote in the House, and that means a victory for our party, the only one without a stance on slavery. We will be the great compromisers,” Bell said through his smile. “There is nothing to fear from the Black Republicans, abolitionists and their like.”

Jesse Raht addressed the group. “I would like to contribute to your reasoned candidacy. I will pledge one hundred dollars.” He looked around the room. “Who’s with me?”

“I am,” said Marsa Thom. “A leader who will keep our country on a strong unified path.”

A long silence followed. None of the other powerful men proffered their support. Jesse Raht held his glass out for George to refill with punch.

“Gentlemen, let’s raise our glasses to our guest, and then with our host’s permission, repair to join the ladies.”

“Hear, hear,” they said as one, and drank.

In a rare moment of acknowledgement, Marsa Thom looked over at George as he refilled the glasses with whiskey.

~ 207

Chapter Thirty-Nine Tuesday, November 13th, 1860 George built a large fire to warm the room and add light for the women to care for the baby. He sat by the fire, rocking slowly, holding the tiny infant, swaddled tightly. George stared at him, at his green eyes, just like Nat Grant’s. He marveled at the size of each tiny finger, so perfect.

It was a boy. George had jumped for joy at the news. A boy meant someone to teach how to hunt and fish. Like Pappy Jim taught him.

Right at that moment, he named him James Nathaniel Calloway. He had always liked the sound of ‘Jimmy’, it was a fine boy’s name, Pappy Jim would be proud.

“I was thinkin’ he should have your father’s name as his middle name,” he said, looking over at Elizabeth. She smiled and teared up, nodded.

“I was hoping,” she said. She pulled the covers closer and snugged them against the chill. She remained abed, still resting from the effort of childbirth. It was only an hour before dawn, the wind was shrill and cold. The snow came early this winter, the leaves already gone.

James gave a weak cry, and George promptly handed him to Elizabeth.

“Cows need milkin’, the water pumped.”

Elizabeth held the baby in the crook of her arm under the covers and closed her eyes. George watched for a moment, kissed her on the forehead, put on his coat and wool hat, walked out into the chill air. ≈ “Lincoln elected.”

All the Black men of the families, both Calloway and Grant, and the Swan Brothers, were gathered in the barn, the women were gathered to chat in the kitchen and look over baby Jimmy. George was reading to the men while they ate their mid-day dinner of cornpones, beans and ham. George cleared his throat, and read:

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“The Cleveland Banner, November ninth. Disaster is upon us.

After March fourth, next, the day of inauguration, the balance of power of North and South will be in the hands of the Abolitionist Lincoln! WE must protect our rights from the assaults of hostile power only by going out of this Union. We are either slaves in the Union or freemen out of it!

Will you, Southern White men, be slaves or will you be independent?

Will you submit to the loss of liberty, property, honor and life? The Black Republicans will strip us of home and country—everything that makes life worth living!”

George lowered the paper, looked around.

Only John Grant was not lost in thought; he sat arms crossed, a frown on his face. “What was the vote?” he asked.

George referred to the paper.

“Bell wins Tennessee, Kentucky, and Virginia. Bradley vote, 759 for Breckenridge, Bell 710, and Douglass 300.”

“I didn’t hear Lincoln’s name.”

“He weren’t on the ballot here in Tennessee,” said George. “Heard Marsa Thom say so.”

“Then how’s he s’posed won?”

“Many more Northerners than Southerners,” said Charles.

Everyone looked at him as he seldom spoke up in a group. “I heard Marsa Thom say so.”

“All them White boys runnin’ around town and around de mines, talkin’ ‘bout the election,” said Isaac. “Some talkin’ ‘bout union, freedom. Most talkin’ honor. No mention our freedom,” he said, drawing a circle in the air around the men in the barn.

“The point of this paper is that in order to keep us slaves, they’re gonna have to break from the US and make a new country,” said George. “Marsa Thom don’t believe it and is agin it.” He turned to Charles. “I heard him say that.”

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“That’s crazy talk,” said Isaac. “How you cut up a country?” 16

16 Angered by the election of Lincoln and the Republicans, and frightened by the loss of

domination over the power structure of the US government, the South began to succeed from the United States. Lincoln assured the leaders of the Southern movement that he would respect their slave holding rights, but they had decided that he could not be trusted and did not believe him.

Stephan Douglass went South to try to assuage fears, and to send the message that the North would not allow the South to secede; that armed separation would be seen as treason. Chief among the complaints of the South was that the Federal Government had failed to adequately enforce the ‘Fugitive Slave Act’. This was viewed as a broken compact, a failure to enforce federal law over the anti-slavery Northern States, and failure to protect the federal Constitutional rights of the South to have and hold slaves. Thus, the secession was fueled not by the preservation of states’ rights, but the Confederate opposition to the Northern states perceived resistance to slavery. Alexander Stephens, Vice President of the Confederate States of America: “Our new government is founded upon exactly the opposite idea; its foundations are laid, its cornerstone rests, upon the great truth that the Negro is not the equal to the White man; that slavery … is his natural and normal condition. This, our new government, is the first in the history of the world based upon the great physical, philosophical, and moral truth.”

South Carolina seceded December 20 th, 1860, saying: “They [the northern states] have encouraged and assisted thousands of our slaves to leave their homes; and those who remain, have been incited by emissaries, books and pictures to servile insurrection.” January, 1861: Mississippi: “Our position is thoroughly identified with the institution of slavery– the greatest material interest of the world.”; Alabama: “And as it is the desire and purpose of the people of Alabama to meet the slaveholding States of the South, who may approve such purpose…”; Georgia: “…and serious causes of complaint against our non-slave-holding confederate States with reference to the subject of African slavery.” Florida, Louisiana secede followed by Texas February 1 st: “They have for years past encouraged and sustained lawless organizations to steal our slaves and prevent their recapture…” On the 4th of February, delegates met in Montgomery, Alabama, to form the Confederate States of America; on February 8 th, Jefferson Davis was selected as President of the CSA. On February 9th, the State of Tennessee would vote down secession; Bradley County voted 1443 no, 242 yes.

The Corwin Amendment was an unsuccessful attempt by the Congress to bring back the seceding states to the Union and to prevent the border slave states from leaving the Union. An amendment to the United States Constitution was proposed by Ohio Congressman Thomas Corwin that would provide permanent protection for "domestic institutions" of the states, particularly slavery. It meant that slavery could not be removed from the constitution, even by the amendment process, or from abolition or interference by Congress, ever.

It was passed by the 36th Congress on March 2, 1861. The House approved it by a vote of 133 to 65 and the United States Senate adopted it, with no changes, on a vote of 24 to 12. It was then submitted to the state legislatures for ratification. Had it been ratified by the required number of

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Chapter Forty Monday, March 11th, 1861 Moving day. Every member of the household—even the White family —had been packing up the old house, moving, and unpacking at the new house for the past week. Not much was left in the old house, just the beds, and those would get knocked down and moved today. The Swan brothers, even John and Leander Grant had helped. The weather had been fine and clear, if cool, and Marsa Thom and Miz Susan announced they would sleep in the new house this day. Miz Susan had decided, really. When it came to the household, Marsa Thom would pretty much do as she requested.

The new home was beautiful, new paint, with a modern kitchen, a sink made of zinc with a pump at the side, and a drain that went outside into a gravel pit. Ma loved not having to carry out the dirty water, just pull the plug. She spent all week showing it off to the other cooks and servants in the neighborhood. The house was meticulously decorated in the latest colors and style, wall papered floor to ceiling, with heavy curtains, overstuffed chairs made in Boston. It was the pride of the family. The stables and a small barn were already finished, but the equipment would stay up on the farm. Marsa Thom had decided that he would only do grain farming, keep the old cows, and keep up the orchards. They would buy what daily sundries they needed, and do

states prior to 1865, it would have made institutionalized slavery immune to the constitutional amendment procedures and to interference by Congress.

All this occurred before Lincoln was inaugurated on March 4 th, 1861. In his inaugural address Lincoln endorsed the proposed amendment. But the South wasn’t listening. Virginia, Arkansas, North Carolina, and Tennessee would all secede by the end of June 1861. The misinformation campaigns waged by wealthy slave owners had been effective.

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less active food production, though there would be a large garden. He wanted George available for more office and paperwork.

George, Elizabeth, and their three would stay on the farm until their cabin could be built in the back, close to the kitchen. Ma would sleep in the summer kitchen for now, but she would have a place of her own next to the other small cabins under construction on the property.

The new cabins had proper stone foundations, “Dees not be shacks,” said Ma. George pulled a box of pots and bowls off the wagon at the side of the house, made his way to the outside kitchen, placed the box on the new worktable he and Charles had built for Ma. Harriette was behind him with an arm full of towels and Ma’s cooking aprons, closely followed by Isaac Swan, carrying the big iron caldron for the fireplace.

George made a note to watch the whereabouts of those two, as Isaac had been spending a lot of his spare time around the place lately, and a lot of it talking to Harriette. Not that he had anything against Isaac. Just that Harriette was fourteen, and too young for keeping company.

Besides, Isaac was free, and Harriette wasn’t, and there was just no way that Miz Susan would agree to sell her. Not with yet another child on the way.

Today it was George that Isaac had come to see. Isaac gestured at George and the two stepped over to the new well.

“Uncle Robert has eight runaways stuck out in de hazel brush by Craigmiles farm,” said Isaac. Uncle Robert was one of their mule team drivers, recently freed by his master for being too old to do heavy work.

He’d made his way up from Georgia, and Isaac and Walter had taken him on, as his violin playing made the mules calm down and pull the heavily laden copper wagons. He knew the bible by heart and would quote it at any opportunity.

“Eight? How in the world they get to be so many?” said George, “ And more comin’ all the time. Ever since the states started this secession thing.”

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“Family travelin’ together. Five chillins, two women, one man, he ‘bout forty year.”

George shook his head. “Where are we gonna put ‘em? Let alone feed ‘em.”

“In the barn to de ol’ house,” said Ma right behind them. “You two gots to be better at whisperin’ ifin you don’t wanna get caughts.” The two men turned and looked at Ma, who just nodded her head smugly, and walked on towards the kitchen.

She had an arm full of the glass Mason jars she used for canning and putting by the summer vegetables; “cure de scurvy,” she told anybody that would listen. Though Ma had thought putting up food in glass jars was dangerous when Marsa Thom first brought the jars back from Chicago two years before. But Marsa Thom said they were the latest thing. He had showed them all how to ‘can’ with the jars. Ma now loved all the muted colors of the preserved food inside. She loved showing them off.

George nodded. “Put the runaways in the barn to the old house.

My children there, no one will notice.”

There had been a lot of talk among the Whites in Cleveland and Bradley County about leaving the Union and joining the Confederacy.

The vote by Tennessee to stay in the Union hadn’t gone down well with some. George heard Marsa Thom and Miz Susan discussing it at dinner, disagreeing. Marsa Thom for staying with the US, and Miz Susan for joining the CS. He had called them “rebels”, she called them “men of honor.” Neither spoke to the other the rest of the evening. Their house was not alone in this: the entire town was taking sides, most for the Union, but slavers like Billy Brown and John Craigmiles, and farmers like Ricky Acock and James Swan, were talking up secession. The Cleveland Banner joined in on the Confederate’s side. George would listen in, as he was often in the company of Marsa Thom, on the other side of a doorway or at the reins of the buggy. They really think I’m not listening, George thought to himself; or they don’t care. Each Sunday the Black folk would discuss what the White folk were talking about. It

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was a closed circle, George decided; people are the same on each side of the color bar. ≈ The dark new moon chased the sun over the horizon as George set the pot of beans and buttered bread in the barn. He could barely see the group of runaways. He offered wooden spoons, but they didn’t wait, they hungrily ripped the bread apart and scooped out the beans with the crust. Elizabeth shrugged, and walked out of the barn towards their home. “Thank yous, Suh,” the man said quietly. “We ain’t had any victuals in more than two day.”

“Good evening, sir,” Elizabeth said loudly from the outside of the barn wall.

George put his finger to his lips and went outside, left the door open. Raht was standing there with a lamp, his brow furled.

“Evening Mister Raht, sir. What cain I do for ya?”

Raht looked past George, but not seeing anything in the dark barn, nodded. “Looking over my new house, wondering when y’all be outa here.”

“Most of the livestock be out tomorra, then we be gone at the end of the week when our cabin be finished.” A thump and a low moo came out of the barn.

Raht nodded again, turned away, then stopped and turned back.

“Hear tell of many runaways through these parts. You see any, I’ve got a nice reward for you. Five-dollar gold piece. Cain’t have niggers thinking they cain just go free.” He smiled disingenuously.

“Yas Suh, will Suh. Peoples got to know their place.”

“You’re a good boy, George. I see why Mister Calloway trusts you.” As he spoke, he turned and walked towards the house.

“Yas Suh, good night now,” said George as he put his arm around Elizabeth. He whispered in her ear.

“You stay here, I’m going to get Walt and the wagon.”

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≈ Walt would return later with a harrowing tale of their escape, hiding the man and two women in the secret compartment, the kids under a load of corn. He had to show his freedom papers to the Sheriff up in Polk County, near Big Frog Mountain; the poking and banging of the pile of copper bars by the pattyrollers on the return trip. He took the runaways as far as he could on the back road, pointed them northeast across the mountains towards Cherokee, North Carolina, with the food he had and what corn they could carry. He told them to stay on the back roads, travel at night. He turned them out in the snow, given them a knife, a flint and steel, and four blankets. He warned them the trip was rough, cold, and dangerous. The man and the two women looked at their children and shook their heads. “We would sooner die starved and frozen than worked to death in a cotton field”, they told him. No one would ever know if they made it. But George prayed they would. His prayers included more people every day.

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Chapter Forty-One Monday, April 15, 1861 “We teachin’ that nigger-lovin’ Lincoln a thing or two!”

George was sitting outside Marsa Thom’s office in the back hall of the rail station when he heard the shout from the front counter. Ricky Acock was drunk and yelling about the firing on, and surrender of, Fort Sumter. Lots of celebrating by Acock, Billy Brown, and the like.

“Thar’s a great thing a-happened,” Acock continued to shout, “Chicken shit northern boys ‘fraid to fight!”

The Cleveland Banner had been whipping up secessionist feelings for weeks. On April fourth: “The administration at Washington appears to be in a quandary—one day it concludes to evacuate the Southern forts—the next day it reconsiders and talks about re-enforcing them, but does neither. The fact is the Black Republican administration of Lincoln, Seward and Co., to use a common phrase, is ‘in a hell of a fix’ and don’t know what to do.

“While they are pursuing a hawk and buzzard policy… the Southern congress is perfecting a government that will stand the test of human scrutiny… such a one as our fathers contemplated—a government about which there will be no differences of opinion as to its spirit and meaning.”

The telegraph lines and the newspapers were full of the Confederate victory over the Union army at Fort Sumter. At four a.m. on the twelfth of April, the Confederate Army began firing on the fort, sitting in the Charleston, South Carolina Harbor. Firing from both forces continued nonstop and was watched by throngs of people ashore. Cut off from its supply line, the US Army surrendered the next day; two Union soldiers and one Confederate soldier died in the exchange.

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George walked out into the front office and stopped short when he saw the jug of moonshine spilling on the out-of-town newspapers that had just come in that morning. Acock was so drunk that his hand listed badly to one side spilling the clear liquid, smearing the message of Confederate Sovereignty printed on the front pages. Why he had stumbled into the office, when the big noisy celebration of Confederate supporters was across the rail yard at the Will Camp’s boarding house, George could only guess.

Camp called his place ‘Camp House’, the self-proclaimed Confederate headquarters in Bradley County. ‘Captain’ Camp, soon joined by Colonel C.H. Mills and John Dunn, Esquire, had been signing up volunteers all through the weekend, calling themselves the “36th Tennessee Rifles”, a local militia. Free moonshine had been a large contributor to the excitement. Most of the young men and boys were from the hills and outer farms, where the ground was hard and rocky, and where generally, food to keep a body and soul together was hard to come by. The army would feed them, so they walked to Cleveland with what little they could call their own. Some hadn’t been in town but once or twice in their lives. Half didn’t own shoes, only a few had a gun and those were smooth bore muzzle loader flintlocks. If they could read, it was just to write their name.

Up to this point, the whole affair was a lot of drinking and the occasional gunshot. At least there weren’t too many, as most of the Bradley families were for staying in the Union.

“Blind drunk,” he whispered to himself as he stepped forward to aid Acock.

George placed his arm over the stack of papers, pulling them to safety, getting the pungent liquor splashed on his sleeve as a reward.

“Mister Acock, Suh, you be needin’ anthin’?”

Acock turned to look at George, first one brown eye, then the other followed along.

“Huh?” he said.

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“There’s a fierce chill outside, Suh, you be needin’ to warm by the fire,” George said, trying to distract him. It was true, a cold wind was blowing, and sunny as it was, the spring air cut right through a body’s clothes.

Acock opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. Instead, he vomited all over the counter, splashed on George’s pants and shoes.

The fowl stench filled the office, and it was all George could do not to vomit as well. Acock gave George an odd look of confusion, passed out, and with a dull thud, fell in the pool of vomit on the floor, as it continued to dribble down off the counter, now soaking into Acock’s coat.

Rupert, the White telegraph operator, stepped out of his small booth, took one look, and ducked back in to attend the wire. George raised his eyebrows, puckered his mouth, and doing his best not to breathe, reached down and grabbed Acock’s coat by the back of his neck, and dragged him out onto the front doorstep next to the wall. He went in and got the jug and soiled papers, covered the papers over Acock, set the jug on the papers to hold them down, shook his head, and walked inside, closing the door behind him.

“Cracker is as cracker does,” he said quietly to no one. He’d clean this up and get down to the new house before the noon bell rang and tell no one except Elizabeth about it. She would tisk-tisk, shake her head, and go on about her work, knowing some things would never change.

George arrived at the bank office just as the noon bell rang, and he let himself in the back door making his way towards Marsa Thom’s office. He was late, he was supposed to be there before the men working on the new house broke for lunch, but it had taken longer than he thought to clean up the rail office. Mary had waited for him with the cash for the men’s pay. There was a small bag of coins on the corner of her desk. Mary looked up from the ledger in which she was entering neat rows of numbers, crinkled her nose.

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“You smell like the demon alcohol,” she said surprised. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

He shook his head. “Rebel volunteer, Ricky Acock, came into the rail office—” Mary nodded and held up her hand. “I see. No explanation needed.

Mr. Acock’s reputation proceeds him,” she said, handing him the coin bag.

George waited to be dismissed.

“You hear anything from Louis?”

George shook his head no. “With the war on…”

She nodded. “Yes. Well, go on then,” she said, looking directly at him.

“Yes, Ma’am.” George nodded and smiled. “Got to get to the house right away.”

Odd woman, thought George, she was the only White woman that would look a Black man in the eye directly. And allow a Black man to look her in the eye. Different. Unafraid.

George walked to the back of the new house, through the yard, past the well, and the six paces to the front step of his new home. The Black workmen were eating lunch hunched over a fire, the White ones had walked up to Poe’s Tavern for a beer and to discuss the recent news, drink their lunch with a hardboiled egg or two. Raif Douglass, alone of the Whites, was quietly eating in the kitchen, talking with Ma. George took off his coat and hung it on the neat row of pegs he had put there by the door just this past Saturday. He entered the clean white room, with its southern facing window and sat at the table.

“Got the pay money,” George nodded to Raif, extending the bag of coins.

Raif nodded thanks, his mouth full of Ma’s chicken and dumplings.

He set the bag down on the table as Ma came over with a bowl for George who picked up the napkin and tucked it into his collar, nodded thanks to Ma.

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“How be de baby? Ain’t had a chance to check on ‘em today,” said Ma, spooning yet more chicken into their bowls.

“Fine Ma. Elizabeth, the girls, baby James and all just fine.”

“You cain all move in anytime,” said Raif, tilted his head towards the new cabin and shoved a huge spoonful of dumpling into his mouth.

Ma clapped her hands together and leaned over Raif with a big hug. “At last!”

“Yep,” Raif managed to say before he got the breath nearly squeezed out of him.

“We’ll begin this afternoon,” said George smiling. “Elizabeth will be pleased.”

“Both the other two will be ready end of the week,” said Raif. “My job will be done here.”

“What you gonna do next?” asked George.

“Back to workin’ on the rail lines, I reckon. I know one thing I won’t be doin’,” he looked at George and Ma and dropped his voice. “I won’t be joinin’ no rebel army.”

George smiled uncomfortably. He glanced at Ma, who gave him a sideways look and shook her head ever so slightly. She warned him: even this White man, who you half raised, whose mother taught you to read and write, even to him you don’t tell your true self.

“Ain’t got a dog in the hunt,” said George and forced his concentration on the dumplings. He felt the heat rise in his face; he said nothing.

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Chapter Forty-Two Friday, April 19th, 1861 “Nothing has been decided!” yelled out old Sam Swan. He had to raise his voice above the other White men that filled the wagon barn at the rail station. He was for the secession of Tennessee, was speaking in support of the Confederacy, had tried to calm the fear and anger of the men at the hastily called meeting. Under way for two hours now, most were getting impatient about waiting their turn to speak. George stood in the back among the other slaves who had driven their masters to the meeting. He was glad to be inside, out of the afternoon rain, keeping Marsa Thom in view should he gesture for anything. Most of the leading men in town were there, even the local clergy. Ever since Lincoln had called on Tennessee to raise two regiments to suppress the ‘insurrection’, two thousand men for the Union cause, and Governor Harris had refused, Bradley and, hell, most of Tennessee, was in an uproar. George knew the telegraph wires were running day and night; Rupert was so tired he could hardly speak. The question before this town hall was whether East Tennessee should petition to separate from the rest of the state and remain in the Union.

Doctor Carson stood as Judge Gaut gaveled the crowd to silence.

Carson read from the Cleveland Banner of that morning.

“The Governor. I quote: ‘Tennessee will not furnish a single man for the purposes of coercion, but fifty thousand, if necessary, for the defense of our rights and those of our Southern brothers.’ That makes it clear to me. Harris wants to take this state into the Confederacy, vote be damned!”

Several men started to speak, but Marsa Thom’s voice prevailed as he stood and put on his reading glasses. “This week’s Nashville Banner.

‘The very act of refusing troops under the call of the President is a refusal of allegiance to the Federal Government. It places us in rebellion.’” Marsa Thom looked up. “We are no longer neutral in the

~ 221

fight; we are now an unofficial territory of the new Confederacy. This is very unfortunate. I say we must not allow our good judgement, to remain in the Union, be usurped. That vote recently taken, by the good men of this county and most of East Tennessee, who want to stay in our country, these United States, that was our decision. To stay. As a separate state if need be. East Tennessee.”

George noticed that Mister Raht, Marsa Thom’s partner in the bank, railroad, and the mines, sat quietly, wringing papers in his hands. He didn’t speak to the crowd, just kept staring at the floor. George thought he looked all hunched over and contrary. As usual.

Jacob Bacon, farmer, stood to speak. “Don’t none of us have anythin’ in this fight.” He waved his arms around the men seated near him. “We’s poor men, don’t own no slave, dar be no reason for us to be in no war. We gots families to think of.”

The mention of slaves brought a general murmur of approval from the crowd. Slowly, Raht stood up.

“Mister Swan is right. Nothing has been yet decided. Virginia has succeeded as of two days ago, seized the Harper’s Ferry Armory for the guns, and the equipment to make more guns. And just yesterday, our Governor has called for another vote about joining the Confederacy in light of the Black Republicans request for men and muskets from Tennessee to fight against our neighbors to the south. I love my country, but I love freedom more,” he said. “This Lincoln would have us servile to the national politics of the abolitionist and not the rights of private property that our founders intended. To further quote the Governor: ‘An alarming and dangerous usurpation of power by the President of the United States has precipitated a state of war between the sovereign States of America.’” He nodded vigorously for emphasis, looking around the room.

“To raise arms against the United States makes us traitors in our own country!” shouted Doctor Will Campbell from the back.

~ 222

All the heads in the room turned to see whose voice had shouted out. The room grew quiet, waiting; this man had delivered a lot of their children.

“Lincoln does not want to end slavery; he has stated so. To begin a rebellion against our country for something the man might do, is…”

Doctor Campbell hesitated. “…Seems irresponsible to me.”

George hadn’t seen the doctor come in, made a note to ask him when he could bring James and Elizabeth round to the back of the clinic so’s he could look at their cough. Both had spring colds that just wouldn’t go away. Ma had put poultices of peppermint and mustard on their chests, made mushroom tea, but George wasn’t satisfied.

“Who are you calling irresponsible?” Raht shouted at Campbell.

“Mind your manners, sir!” he said pointing at Doctor Campbell with the roll of papers.

The heads in the room pivoted back and forth between the two men.

In the deep quiet, Campbell arched his eyebrows, crossed his arms, looked directly at Raht, and started to speak. “If the shoe—” Judge Gaut banged his gavel loudly on his table, effectively drowning out Campbell’s response.

“Gentlemen, Gentlemen!” he shouted. “It is getting late, near supper time. We shall adjourn until after the Legislature meets on the twenty-fifth of April. Let’s see how they lead in this matter. First round at Poe’s tavern is on me!” And with that, he banged his gavel and the crowd boisterously made for the doors.

George stepped aside to allow the White men to exit, made his way to the front of the room towards Marsa Thom. He could hear Raht’s rising voice as he got close.

Marsa Thom cut him off, holding up his hand.

“If nothing else, you and I are partners, in copper, grain, the bank, our rail line. They all are connected, all to each other, connected to the industrial North.”

~ 223

“That rail line runs both directions, Thom,” Raht paused. “I expect you to have my side in this.”

“I could say the same, Jesse,” said Marsa Thom. “But there is no cause to anger here, not now, and not ever, as far as I’m concerned.”

“The day is coming soon, when you’ll have to choose which side you’re on,” said Raht. He poked Marsa Thom in the chest with his rolled papers, “Make it the right one.”

Raht turned and quickly walked past George, so quick that George had to jump to the side to get out of his way. Marsa Thom watched after him. He just shook his head, took his hat and coat from George, and slowly, silently walked out. ≈ “Marsa Thom is slow to anger, but once he gets mad…” George didn’t finish his thought. He and Elizabeth were snuggled in their bed, baby James between them. He was feverish, but Elizabeth’s cough was gone, maybe they were getting better, slowly. The girls were in their bed, pulled up next to Elizabeth on her side. The fire was a warm radiant glow, the rain a peaceful hum on the roof, the reading lamp on the table was out. George looked at the small window, a patchwork of real glass that he had made from the leftovers from the main house.

Marsa Thom hadn’t said a word but smiled when he saw it. Right now, it was pitch black, “darker than a witches’ arm pit,” as Ma said.

“Tomorrow, I get a chance, I’ll get to finishing the putty round that glass, so’s the rain don’t come in,” he said.

“Um hm,” said Elizabeth, as she turned away from him, eyes closed, one hand on the girls, the other on James, and began to breathe slowly, lost to her dreams.

“I am a lucky man,” he said softly and closed his eyes. He would dream of planting peach trees.

~ 224

Chapter Forty-Three Thursday, April 25th, 1861 “Aside from the legality of separation, and this idea of State Sovereignty, the practical matter is where will the Confederacy get ships, cannons, and rifles?” Marsa Thom asked quietly, sitting in the shade of the big oak on the courthouse square, talking to Captain Will Grant, sipping a glass of brandy.

“I really don’t think it will come to that, in spite of Sumter,” Grant said, swirling the brown liquid around in his glass.

Charles and George had set out a small table and chairs for the luncheon they had served, and in spite of the overcast, a calm pleasant day. The occasion was the raising of the U. S. flag at the courthouse. The Union folks, led by Doctor Campbell and Mark Griffiths, had contributed money and time to getting the flag made. Sallie Shields and her sewing club had contributed time and material to stitch it together.

The flag was exceptionally large at five by eight feet, and Marsa Thom had volunteered the pine tree and varnish for the building of a tall flagpole that reached above the trees.

“The North is not going to stand by as we tear apart,” said Marsa Thom. “Lincoln will try to put down the Confederacy… He’s already calling up an army.”

Captain Grant shrugged, “There’s not enough at stake and too much to lose in a war, especially between the states. This disagreement will all be over by summer’s end. Senator Chestnut said he ‘will personally drink all the blood spilled in the war, as there won’t be a thimble full.’”

Marsa Thom leaned forward and put both elbows on the table, “Congress is aflame. Steven Douglass is touring the southern states to emphasize Lincoln’s resolve. There’s no good end, no matter how this goes.”

~ 225

The men sat in silence, the sun emerging from the clouds, warm and welcome. In the distance, the high whistle of the afternoon train to Richmond shrilled as the engine braked into the station. For weeks now, the trains going north had carried thousands of Confederate soldiers to General Robert E. Lee, now their commander, and more were coming.

The young women of the town came to greet the young men passing through; some sold homemade meals, others gave away flags or flowers of encouragement. It was clear to George that this was big, bigger than anything he’d ever seen.

George watched the two older White men, friends for years, their stiff composure revealing their annoyance with one another. It was like this all over town. Heated debate, friends choosing sides, splitting families. The Blacks in town were talking openly to one another about the choices to be made; stay or run, is there real freedom in the North?

But neither side was talking freedom for the Blacks. A brass band struck up “Captain Finch’s Quickstep”, as Tennessee’s U.S. Senator Andrew Johnson, here on the occasion of the new flag raising, waved to the crowd. The band ended its song, cut short by Judge Gaut hammering his gavel. He quickly introduced the Senator, then sat on a chair behind him. Senator Johnson scanned the large crowd, mostly men, standing, all silently waiting for him to speak. Pulling out his reading glasses, shuffling a few sheets of paper, he began.

“My friends, let us be clear. The Federal Government is the highest and final power of the land; the ‘sovereignty’ of the States is the language of the Confederacy and not the language of the Constitution.

The latter contains the emphatic words. This Constitution and the laws of the United States which shall be made in pursuance thereof and all treaties made or which shall be made under the authority of the United States, shall be the supreme law of the land and the judges in every State shall be bound thereby, anything in the constitution or laws of any State to the contrary notwithstanding. We cannot, and should not, attempt to separate ourselves from this great Union.”

Cheers rose from the crowd, a few boos.

~ 226

“I have lived among negroes, all my life, and I am for this Government with slavery under the Constitution as it is. I am for the Government of my fathers with negroes. I am for it without negroes.

Before I would see this Government destroyed, I would send every negro back to Africa, disintegrated and blotted out of space. Let us look forward to the time when we can take the flag of our country and nail it below the Cross, and there let it wave as it waved in the olden times, and let us gather around it and inscribed for our motto: 'Liberty and Union, one and inseparable, now and forever,' and exclaim, 'Christ first, our country next!’”

The Senator and the Mayor, Joe Davis, aided by Griffiths, hoisted the large flag up the pole, the band played the Star-Spangled Banner, and the crowd cheered loudly, throwing their hats into the air.

In the distance, by the train station, shots rang out.

The crowd almost as one, turned their head towards the sound. Then another volley was heard, and this time, the unmistakable crash of the courthouse windows breaking, and the splintering of wood. Another shot and the flagpole spit splinters not more than four inches from Griffith’s nose.

“Someone’s shooting at the flag!” shouted the Mayor. Panic broke out in the crowd, with the men trying to shelter the women, everyone running away from the park. Sheriff Low and many other men ran towards the sound of the guns.

Out of habit, and not knowing what else to do, George and Charles started to grab the silver dishes and food off the table, took the brandy bottle.

“Let Charles take that!” said Marsa Thom to George as he started to trot towards the rail station. “Get my pistol and meet me at the rail office!” “Go,” said Charles, shooing George away from the table.

~ 227

As George fast-walked back to the house, he looked over his shoulder. Total confusion. The Mayor and Senator Johnson left in their carriages; people rushed about in all directions. Will Clift, one of the Union supporting farmers, lowered the Union flag and carefully folded it, put it in his leather saddle bag. He would hide it, keep it safe. It would be years before he flew that flag at the town square. ≈ George entered the back door of the rail station carrying the pistol case.

To be an armed Black man in this crowd could get him killed, quickly.

He hid the pistol and cartridge case behind his office door, went out the front door to the platform. There were crowds of loud, angry White men on both sides of the track, shouting. In the middle, stood the caboose of a troop train, which normally would be beyond the platform.

It was as if the train had started out of the station, and then stopped.

Several dozen Confederate soldiers had gotten off the train, and were milling around, their Lieutenant ordered the confused soldiers into line, as they tried to ignore the shouting men. Sheriff Low was standing in the middle of the yard, having a heated discussion with a Confederate Captain. It was clear what had happened. The Confederate troops, awaiting the train to be watered and wooded, had seen the Union flag raised at the courthouse. Offended, a couple of hotheads took it upon themselves to shoot.

George couldn’t hear every word, but he did hear the Sherriff demand the hotheads be turned over to him for arrest. The Captain waved his arms angrily in the face of the Sheriff; both stood their ground.

A roar went up from the crowd near the Camp House hotel. Will Camp, across from the rail yard, opened an upper window and draped a huge Confederate flag down the roof over the eve below.

“God bless General Robert Lee!’ shouted Camp.

~ 228

A loud cheer went up from the soldiers and the crowd on the far side of the track. Silence fell on the men on the rail office side.

Marsa Thom, unarmed, whom George hadn’t seen before this moment, stepped off the platform to his left, and crossed to the hotel stoop. He shouted up to Camp in the window.

“Will, you’re just making a difficult situation worst.”

“I’ve got every right to hang this flag, for freedom and country!”

Cheers went up from the train.

“Take the flag down, or we’ll take it down for you!” rang out a voice from the rail side crowd. George couldn’t see who said it, but it sounded like Doctor Campbell.

Camp disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with a musket in his hand.

“You’re gonna have to make me.” Camp didn’t aim the gun, held it upright, his hand resting on the barrel. A wild cheer went up from the soldiers on the train. Sherriff Low walked quickly over to Marsa Thom.

Other town leaders had begun to arrive; Raht, Swan, Will Grant, joined the group as did Senator Johnson. The men conferred for a couple of minutes as shouts of ‘jackal’ and ‘bushwhacker’ rose from the Union men on the rail platform. Marsa Thom, Senator Johnson, and the Sheriff walked over to the Confederates, Raht entered the Camp House.

“Captain, we would appreciate your loading your men and getting under way,” said Senator Johnson.

The Captain sneered, “You two-bit jaspers don’t have any say so over this army. I should place you under arrest for interfering in official military business.”

“In the interests of public safety,” said the Sheriff, his tone reasonably polite, “I submit that we need to close this unfortunate event as soon as we cain.” He extended his hand to shake agreement.

“And we’ll put down the shots fired into a crowd of innocent women and children as untoward enthusiasm of your boys,” said Marsa Thom.

~ 229

Checkmated, the men all nodded. The Captain refused the Sheriff’s hand, saluted, turned away, and began to shout orders to load the train.

The local men on both sides milled around, looked at the other.

Most all knew the other men, who was on what side was becoming clear. Standing between the rails, Marsa Thom, now joined by Grant, addressed both groups from the middle of the tracks.

“Neighbors, let’s all go on about our business. Nothing will be solved here today; there is no point in injury or bloodshed.”

“Honor is to be found on the battlefield, not a trainyard,” said Grant.

Raht, now in the window with Camp, shouted agreement. Doctor Campbell could be heard telling men, “Go home, this isn’t the time or place.”

Senator Johnson rushed over to stand beside Marsa Thom, shouted, pointed his finger in the air, “We will settle our differences with negotiation, not the gun.”

The train, now loaded, blew its whistle, and the cars of soldiers began to depart. Men broke up into small groups, walked away, talking among themselves. Judging by the events today, it looked to George that it was too late for talk. The shooting part of the war had already started.

~ 230

Chapter Forty-Four Friday, May 10th, 1861 George read Marsa Thom’s copy of the Cleveland Banner in the kitchen, as he ate a late breakfast. He had driven Marsa Thom over to the train station office at sunup, as his gout was acting up, and both Marsa Thom’s ankles hurt to walk any distance. George had enjoyed the drive in the still morning air, the smell of wood smoke from the cook fires, the rising grass of spring, the wheat fields promising abundance. The coming of longer days always made him smile.

Marsa Thom was on his way to Knoxville to meet with several leaders there, traveling with Al Cate and Will Clift, other large land holders, all decidedly for staying in the Union. They called themselves the “East Tennessee Convention”. If Tennessee was to separate from the Union, then East Tennessee would, and should, separate from Tennessee. Even without a second vote for joining the rebellion, Governor Harris and the state legislators were acting as if it was already done. Tempers were short, and the town was dividing up. Neighbor against neighbor.

George lingered over his cup of coffee, rich with thick cream and sugar, and shook his head at the day’s news.

We learn that the Legislature has passed an Ordinance of Secession, to be submitted to a vote of the people on the 8th day of June; also authorizing the Governor to call 25,000 troops for immediate service, and 30,000 as a reserve to protect the border of the State, and appropriate $5,000,000.00 for arming and equipping the State.

Marsa Thom, Raht, Craigmiles, Lea, Campbell, Gaut, and others, had been livid when they had learned on Tuesday past that the

~ 231

Tennessee legislature had passed an eight-cent property tax, and a halfcent sales tax to pay for this new militia.

George’s speculation about what these powerful White men were going to do about all this was interrupted by Ma carrying in a large basket of beets and cabbage.

“Dees be de last of de spring plantin’,” said Ma, a little out of breath.

George looked up, nodded, didn’t say anything, and started to go back to his reading.

Ma put the basket right on the newspaper; a few crumbles of wet dirt fell on the pages.

“Ma!” said George alarmed. “Marsa Thom ain’t seen this yet!”

Ma ignored his entreaty. “You gots to talk to dat Swan boy.”

George lifted the basket off the paper and started to brush it off.

“That would be ‘cause of Harriette?”

“Un hum. He be sniffin’ ‘round here like he be in heat. Cain’t have dat. She not free to like him.”

George placed the basket on the other end of the big table, stalling.

“She be only’s fourteen, cain’t happen,” Ma added.

“You talked to her?” asked George.

“You knows I did. She ain’t mindin’ none ‘bout it.”

George smiled to himself, had not forgotten the memories of the way Elizabeth had looked to him at the same age. Harriette had changed from girl to young woman, shocking to see her have all those curves. George pulled at his ear as he did when thinking about something uncomfortable, just like Marsa Thom did—and his son and grandson would in years to come.

“I’ll talk to them both.”

Walter was a freeman, Marsa Thom wasn’t likely to sell her; all the children would be the property of Marsa Thom. Maybe in time, Walter would understand, but Harriette not so much.

“Walt be de good man, I seed dat,” said Ma. “He just gots to wait.”

~ 232

≈ Harriette, arms crossed, leaned back against the barn post, with her eyes closed. George looked at her, too old to spank, too young to listen to reason.

“I’ve already talked to him,” said George.

Harriette open her eyes, shook her fist at George.

“You had no right!” she shouted.

“All the right as your brother. And it’s what Ma wants!”

“None of you give a damn about my wants. I’m stuck in the house with all of them chillens—” “And you want children of your own?” interrupted George.

“Damn right! And… he’s good to me. Better than y’all.” Harriette’s eyes welled up. She pulled up her apron, dried her eyes dramatically.

George stepped up, put his hands on her shoulders.

“You tell me that you’ll wait until you’re sixteen, I’ll tell Ma that I think you should jump the broom then.”

Harriette looked up at him, and though tears cascaded down her cheeks, nodded. “Okay.”

George nodded. “Okay,” he said. Two years was a long time at fourteen, and things always change. Affairs of the heart never walk a straight road.

~ 233

Chapter Forty-Five Sunday, June 30th, 1861 “Out of the fuckin’ way, nigger!”

Captain Wash Morgan, B Company, 23rd Mississippi, CSA, shoved George off the boardwalk into the muddy street. Morgan was a tall man, thirty, shoulder length black hair, wide brimmed hat in grey, red feather in the black band. Grey vest, brass buttons, dark grey pants, shiny black boots. With his revolver on his waist band, and the two silver bars on his shoulder, he looked a bit of a dandy, thought George.

George had been leaning against the wall, outside of the door on the covered boardwalk, listening to the White men inside talk. He was concentrating on hearing what he could, when someone shoved him hard.

“I come anywhere near you, you gets out of my way!”

A group of ten White men, some with the vestiges of a uniform, others not, smirked, nodded. They were part of the Confederate soldiers bivouacked out along Charleston Road north of town, awaiting transshipment to Virginia by rail. They were soaked, had been drinking.

A lot. Poor White trash, George thought. Dangerous mean.

George stood still in the mud, and even though it was raining, he took off his hat and looked at the ground, remained silent.

“You hear me, nigger?”

“Yas Suh, I wills, Suh,” George clasped his hat in both hands in front of him.

Just inside the door of Bush’s saloon, Ian Douglass, the oldest of Miz Tina’s three sons, stood on a chair, and spoke to the pro Union men about the results of the vote. East Tennessee, especially Bradley County, had once again voted to stay in the Union, but this time the state went for the Confederacy.

~ 234

“The Bradley vote was 1382 against secession, 507 for,” said Ian loudly. “We are in the war on the side of the Confederacy willy-nilly of our voice.”

Boos and jeers erupted from the crowd of men, most fighting age, a few of the town’s older men.

“And two days ago, Governor Harris disallowed our petition to break away and form the State of East Tennessee.”

Shouts of ‘hypocrites!’ ‘liars!’ filled the room.

“And just yesterday, we learn that we are now officially in the Confederate States of America, against our will!”

Though it was but the Sabbath midday, the men had been salving their anger and disappointment with strong Tennessee whiskey, and a few voices got loud. ‘Shame’ ‘mistake’ ‘traitors’ were heard above the general din.

Captain Morgan’s head swiveled around to look in the dark saloon.

He turned his back to George and strode in the door.

“What I hear is treason!” he shouted. The men in the room quieted down and turned to face him. That was all that George could see as the other Rebs closed in behind Morgan. George quickly put on his hat and ran around to the side window on the alley, wide open to let the perspiration and heat out. Anger and drink does cause a man to smell poorly, thought George as he stood on a log to see in.

“What I see is treason,” shouted Ian as he stepped down from his chair and approached the Confederate intruder. Morgan drew his pistol, and shot at Ian, missed, was knocked down by another man and disarmed. A pushing match started with the other Confederates now jammed into the doorway; they were shoved out into the street into the rain and mud. Three Cleveland men carried out the squirming, shouting Morgan and threw him into the rebel soldiers. Morgan and a couple others landed in the mud; Ian threw Morgan’s pistol and hat behind him, the feather limp and broken. Peering around the end of the building, George smiled to himself.

~ 235

Morgan stood up, started forward with his men, but several rifles were instantly produced by the men behind Ian, dissuading them. Both sides stood without moving. Stalemate, thought George.

“This ain’t over! You’re a dead man! Dead! You hear?” Morgan shouted with rage, red in the face. Ian just stared him down.

“Man to man, any time you want,” said Ian. The Captain hesitated, then: “You’ll hear from me!” he shouted. He turned away and marched off, his men trailing behind him, shouted threats and made rude gestures with their middle fingers.

The Union men on the porch shouted challenges and made rude comments about the general lack of intelligence of the men of Mississippi, and that of their forbearers in particular. They congratulated Ian on his bravery and his luck at not getting shot.

“A round on me!” shouted Ian, as the men returned to the bar.

George frowned pensively and decided he ought report to Marsa Thom about all this. There could be consequences. ≈ It was already after supper, just past eight, the last rays of the sun gone from the hills but still on the clouds above, throwing a warm glow on Ocoee street in front of the Calloway house. Marsa Thom sat out on the veranda with his ‘nightcap’, listening to Miz Susan sing to the children upstairs. Her lovely voice carried down in the quiet. George sat on a chair near the front door, watching the street, and the level of the whiskey in Marsa Thom’s glass. Even with the run-in at the saloon, the day had gone well enough, first attending church, then praying with a few passers-through.

Blacks were on the road, feeling their way North. Ma made extra food for Sunday supper, so she could give what was left to the strangers on their travels. It was quiet for a Sunday, the locals staying in their homes on account of the Confederate soldiers about; the bar story had already shot all over town. George looked at the back of Marsa Thom’s head and wondered if he knew that he and Ma were feeding the runaways, sometimes more than some, as more and more came north.

~ 236

The local pattyrollers had mostly enlisted as Confederate soldiers, the pay was better and came with three meals a day. Most all the spare young men down South had elected to join General Lee in Virginia; there were many fewer men left to hunt for the Negros on the roads.

Still, it was dangerous travel, and many were captured and beaten, reenslaved. Word was that if a colored man could reach the union lines, he was free. George listened to all the stories, envied the brave, but feared the adventure; but firm in his resolve to provide for his family, he would never leave them behind.

Charles walked around the edge of the house, stopped next to George.

“I cain watch now,” he said quietly, placing his hand on George’s shoulder. “Kitchen put away and Ma is tucked into her cabin.” George looked up at his brother and smiled. Maybe he’d get a chance to see Elizabeth before she fell asleep while putting the children to bed.

A lone figure rounded the turn in the road, galloping on horseback, reins whipping the hind quarters of the broad-shouldered chestnut. As he grew closer, George recognized Sean Douglass, Ian’s brother; George hadn’t seen much of Sean since he got his twenty acres in the Branch Creek Valley north of town last year and started clearing the land.

Those who knew Sean well, thought he was sweet on one of the Craigmiles girls, and her father, John, wouldn’t let her marry anyone who wasn’t a landowner. Marsa Thom had given each of the Douglass boys seven acres, one for each year they had been indentured when the family’s contract was up. Sean had traded his for his twenty acres further from town, Ian had rented his to the Swan Brothers for their wagon operations, and Raif had sold his to help pay for a family home in town for his mother, Tina. As he came to a halt by the front gate, the horse a-lather, Sean shouted from the saddle.

“The Mississip men causing trouble this morning are headed this way!”

“How many?” asked Marsa Thom, standing.

~ 237

“At least a hundred! And they’re shouting that they’s gonna string up the traitor from the saloon!”

“Go get Sheriff Low and warn Ian. Then tell Doc Campbell, and his boys.”

Sean rode off and Marsa Thom crossed his arms, muttered ‘damn’ under his breath. George watched Ian jump off his horse at the Saloon and run in. Marsa Thom turned to George and Charles.

“Saddle Cesar and get Miss Susan and the children in the back part of the house.” ≈ George handed the reins to Marsa Thom and as he galloped away, George went inside, got his hat. Both the White family and the Black one too, were in the kitchen, Ma serving up hot cocoa and apricot and berry pie. George picked up his satchel with powder and musket balls along with an old rag for wadding. Not that he would dare carry a gun into town, but he could reload if need be.

Elisabeth started to object, but he just held up his open palm and backed out the door into the gloaming.

George walked rapidly up Church Street, turned on North Street towards the town square and the saloon. He immediately saw a group of about twenty-five men, Ian, Sean, Raif, Doctor Campbell, Sheriff Low, and on his horse, Marsa Thom. Directly across from the saloon, George crouched down behind a half dozen barrels in front of Campbell’s warehouse and watched as the men’s attention turned to the Confederates, now three blocks away, closing quickly. Many were armed, mostly shotguns, and a few muskets.

The Bradley men spread in a line across the street, Marsa Thom in the center next to Ian. A hush fell among them as they watched the Rebels march closer. George could make out Morgan walking with his pistol in his hand, a few strides in front of the rest. As the Mississippians came closer, their pace slowed, and they stopped about fifty yards from Marsa Thom and the townsmen. Morgan walked forward another ten yards and stopped. Nice safe distance thought

~ 238

George; all the men knew even the best sharpshooter couldn’t hit anyone at that distance with a smoothbore musket.

“I see all you traitors are workin’ together,” said Morgan loudly.

“Who’s a traitor is a matter of opinion, Morgan,” said Ian. Morgan stood frozen for a moment, then started to raise his pistol.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said Sheriff Low, coming out of the doorway of Shield’s General store, just opposite Morgan at the side of the street.

He had his pistol drawn, at the ready. “Lots of people will get hurt, you first.”

Morgan looked over at the Sheriff, surprised. He smiled, an unpleasant, weaselly smile, as genuine as a wood nickel. He lowered his gun.

“I guess this town is full of traitors,” he said and waved his hand at his troops behind him, “Put ‘em away boys, we’ll get the next one.”

He started to back up, and the Confederates began to walk away.

Marsa Thom sat silently on his horse, watched them go. As they made their way out of town, he started forward following them, towards his house. George hurried to catch up.

As he approached the Sheriff, Marsa Thom nodded, and the Sheriff fell in beside him, walking, George a few paces behind them.

“I’m gonna have to make a report. Anything special you want?”

Marsa Thom looked down at the Sheriff in the near dark.

“I’d be pleased if my name wasn’t in it.”

The Sheriff nodded. “I didn’t really see who all was there on account of the dark.”

The three men walked on in silence, nothing more to say.

~ 239

Chapter Forty-Six Monday, July 1st, 1861 The stars were fading in the sky as George carried the full milk pail, a piece of cheesecloth over the top to keep away the flies already out in the early heat. Even though he had a piece of leather wrapped around the bail, it still cut into his fingers. He carried it in his left hand, his right wrist was sprained yesterday when he was shoved off the sidewalk. The bucket was from the morning milking, he was taking it over to the schoolhouse for the Widow Douglass — as Miz Tina, now the school marm — had mentioned milk would be a welcome addition to the children’s midday dinner.

George didn’t much like change, and he sure didn’t like how neighbors had stopped talking to neighbors. He hadn’t slept well, tossed and worried about the previous day’s events, the changes that were coming over people with this war.

He heard a pistol shot, then a woman screamed from in the Douglass house. He looked towards the sound, saw a male figure run from the back yard, jump the low bushes, and sprint past him on the other side of the street, heading in the direction of the train yard. Even in this low light he could see it was Captain Morgan, pistol still in hand.

George set down the milk pail, ran towards the Douglass house as Miz Tina’s screams for help spilled out into the street. George rushed through the open back door to see Miz Tina on her knees, cradling Ian, blood flowing onto her morning dress, Ian’s eyes open, body limp, breathing raggedly.

“Get Doctor Campbell’” she screamed, as she looked up.

“Yes, um” replied George as he backed out the door.

He returned in less than five minutes with Doctor Campbell, who was already up and getting dressed. He too had heard the shot.

Campbell rushed into the room, listened for Ian’s heartbeat. He turned Ian to the side, inspected the wound in his back. A single shot from

~ 240

behind. Slowly he rose up, looked into the pleading eyes of Miz Tina, and shook his head. Silently, she began to sob, her body rigid but shaking. The lamp, set next to her on the floor, threw huge shadows on the wall behind her, an otherworldly ghostly vision. This widow woman who had taught him to read, treated him kindly, who lived a clean life, had lost her son to a murdering coward. This man, who George had taught to use an axe, how to shoot a musket, how to trail a deer. George sucked in his breath. It hurt his heart. ≈ George looked out into the station, many Confederates milled about, those that had any money bought a sandwich or beer, those without, made do with military rations of hardtack, dried peas, pork jerky, and water. The sun directly overhead, young women walked through the station in groups clustered around their parasols, handed out small homemade Confederate flags to the occasional young soldier. Both groups smiled to excess.

Have to be young to be out in that heat, thought George. Seemed that the trains were running day and night, taking troops and supplies north to Lee’s army. The railroad had been taken over by the military command, pushing the railway hard, using wood as fast as they could cut and buy it. Big Jack and his band of freemen woodcutters were making some real money; Raht had opened up his acres on the hill above the station to the woodcutters. Marsa Thom was willing to sell all they wanted, but at a good price, as he was now responsible for the repair of the constant breakdowns. And, truth to tell, he wasn’t at all happy about the Confederate army seizing ‘his’ railroad. Besides all the wood and water needed, the tracks were taking a real beating; the trains were overloaded, and Marsa Thom was worried about a derailment.

The Confederate army was paying in ‘greybacks’, the new Confederate dollars, each bill was an interest bearing ‘loan’ to be paid back at the end of the war. Few people wanted them, though all were forced to take them. Some wealthier folks who sided with the Confederacy exchanged

~ 241

large amounts of gold bullion and US coins for the new money, but the Clevelanders, mostly Union, didn’t buy them.

Gold and silver coins were the only ‘real’ money in times of trouble, Marsa Thom had told George just this morning after he and Sheriff Low returned from the Confederate camp. Along with Judge Gaut, they had gone out to arrest Captain Morgan. Nowhere to be found, Morgan and the entire B Company of the 23rd Mississippi, had shipped out just after dawn. The rest of the regiment was breaking camp and would soon be on their way to Knoxville. Colonel Johnson had grown angry and informed them that no officer of the Confederacy, men of honor all, would shoot anyone in the back. All present swore that Morgan never left the camp until departing on the train. Did not matter that George had seen Morgan running out of the Douglass’s yard with a pistol in hand, no colored could witness against a White man, or testify in court. There was no legal case.

George was at his desk when he saw Raif Douglass making his way towards the trainyard office, carrying a rucksack and his musket, the one Marsa Thom had given him for his eighteenth birthday. George rose and walked into the front office just as Raif entered.

“George,” he said with a nod, “I need a ticket for Washington.”

George searched his face a long moment.

“I take it you’re goin’ north for a reason.” It wasn’t a question.

“I’ve given a lot of thought about how I could make things even.”

“Union army?”

Raif nodded curtly once.

“What’s Miz Tina say ‘bout that?”

Raif’s eyes softened for just a second, then a look of determination.

“Sean’s here to see to her.”

George knew there would be no dissuading him.

“It’s nearly eight dollars for a seat to Richmond. If there’s space on an army train. And you’ll have to walk through Virginia to get to D. C., well over a hundred miles.”

~ 242

Raif reached for his coin purse. Opened it, emptied its contents on the counter. One five-dollar gold piece and three silver dimes, a silver half-dime and a handful of copper pennies.

“That’s all I got.”

“You likely get caught doing this. By the Rebs, pressed into the secesh army. Or worst. Kilt.”

“I’m goin’ one way or another.”

George looked at the coins, hesitated, knew what Marsa Thom would say. George, though, had his own opinions.

“Baggage car is three dollars.” ≈ George nearly fell asleep listening to the drone of the voices from the courthouse. He sat outside on the front porch, in the shade of the late afternoon, waiting for Marsa Thom. The intense heat and humidity brought out the biting flies; about the only thing that kept him awake was swatting them away from his face. He heard a loud commotion, and as he stood realized his left leg had gone to sleep; he nearly fell as he hobbled closer to the doorway to listen. The killing of Ian had brought arguments between folks to a boil all over town. Some, like Marsa Thom, were staying neutral. Or trying to.

“The situation is clear. We are a part of the Confederacy, whether you voted for it or not,” yelled John Craigmiles, “whether you think it’s constitutional or not!”

“It simply isn’t right to seize the guns and property of our citizens, on the order of Brown,” said Marsa Thom.

Several men started to talk at once, Judge Gaut, Sheriff Low, Marsa Thom, Craigmiles. George’s stomach sank as he heard the rough voice of Billy Brown, now Captain Billy Brown, Company C, 1st Tennessee Calvary, CSA. Truth had no particularly strong hold on Brown; only a strong interest in what a man in pain would say or do to avoid dying slowly.

“No action against the Confederacy will be tolerated, not now, not ever!” Brown stood and yelled.

~ 243

“I would be less concerned about other people’s actions and more about your own,” shot back Sheriff Low, who stood and walked towards Brown.

“And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll follow your own advice!”

George peeked in to see the two men staring at one another; everyone in the courthouse turned, watched in silence. Brown put his hand on his waist gun.

“You’re with us, or you’re agin’ us.”

The Sheriff took another step towards Brown, Judge Gaut stepped between them, raised his hands.

“Gentlemen, I suggest we postpone further discussion on the matter, until we can confirm the order from Governor Harris.”

Sheriff Low nodded at the judge. Marsa Thom stepped towards Brown and looked him straight in the eye. “I remain neutral in this war,” said Marsa Thom. “I have no quarrel with anyone on either side.

Not even you.”

Marsa Thom reached out his right hand to shake. Brown looked at it, hesitated, and then shook. All the men nodded and walked away. ≈ George walked into the summer kitchen door and stopped abruptly.

Two rough looking Black men, rags for clothes, were eating corn and milk stew and wheat bread at the kitchen table. Ma, sat at the other end, turned and looked at George, nodded. Both men stood briefly and one muttered greetings, bread in hand. “Yas, Suh, good day Suh”. George looked them over, reached back and closed the open door behind him.

He didn’t much like the men in the kitchen in broad daylight. He silently filled a bowl and sat across from the two men.

“Where you boys from?” George stared at them, looking for knifes or other weapons. They were dirty, the sour smell of days of nervous sweat; the heat of the day and the closed door made it overpowering.

“Down Ringgold way,” said the younger of the two.

~ 244

George noticed the older man had a long scar straight across his right cheek.

“You?” The younger man spoke. “Cain’t talk, got no tongue. Marsa cut t’it when he a boy, for lyin’.”

George sighed, letting the vision of that cruel act pass. Ma whispered, “Lord have mercy.”

“How you come to be up this way?” George asked.

The young man told a tale of running off from a farm of mostly cotton and corn. The master and the son had enlisted in the Reb army, then a few weeks later, the overseer too. All the Black folks ate as much as they could then, with just the White missis and her daughter left. A week or so later, the Rebs came and took all the male slaves, marched them to near Dalton, put them to work on building trenches and powder safes. For about a month, they worked long days, dark to dark, little food, with a beating if they didn’t keep up a fast pace. Two weeks after that, a bad fever broke out in the White troops, many sick and dying. The Rebs forced them to help care for the sick and bury the dead.

Out of the eleven slaves who went, eight lived and two of them were still sickly. Afraid the slaves were infected, the army turned them loose to walk home. Most of them ran for it. Charlie, the tongueless man, stayed with the sick ones hoping to get them back to the farm alive. The runaways had been caught by a patrol and force-marched back to the farm, the two sick slaves had died on the road. They’d waited until a week had passed, then took off again. After three days and nights of walking, they had turned up here.

George took the two out to the horse barn after dark, gave them a bar of soap and a bucket of water. Clothes were getting scarce, but Ma found two old shirts, patched but serviceable. Charles and George made up two bedrolls, corn cakes inside.

“You have to go tonight, cain’t stay here. Marsa check his horses anytime.”

They nodded, and both shook George’s hand.

~ 245

“Bless you, brother,” the young man said.

“God keep you safe.”

And they disappeared into the night.

~ 246

Chapter Forty-Seven Saturday, July 6th, 1861 In the early morning, George heard Rupert read the telegraph to Marsa Thom. Governor Harris had just designated Cleveland to be the location of the Confederate Army recruiting camp for East Tennessee. This news had shot all over town, and the rumor was that five hundred Reb infantrymen had been sighted near Georgetown along Candy’s creek. It was said the troops had come to strip the Union families of everything they owned as punishment for voting for the Union. Everybody believed it of course, because of Captain Billy Brown.

Just a few days ago, Brown had decided to gather up all weapons in the town for the use of the Confederate army, showing around a copy of a letter from Governor Harris. It said that all weapons belonging to the State Militia were to be returned to the state. Brown decided it meant any useable gun, even ones not owned by the State. And noticed by everyone as of yesterday, it meant only the Union families. He was rounding up all the Union guns, leaving them defenseless, and unable to hunt. He didn’t take a single gun from any Confederate family.

Brown had begun with the cruel assault on old Baldwin Harle, sixty-six years old, Union and proud of it. The story was that when the troops came around the first time to collect guns, CSA private Thomas Hawkins, who had been taken in by Harle as a young boy after his parents died of consumption, ordered the Harle family to hand over their guns. Mister Harle wasn’t at home, and Missus Harle wouldn’t give them the guns. Thomas decided that he’d just take them, as he knew where they were. Joe, their son, told him to leave, if he came in, he, Joe, would be forced to shoot him.

Well, it didn’t take long after for Billy Brown and about sixty of his troops to show up and demand the guns. The old man refused, and Brown took Missus Harle hostage, held a gun to her head. The old man stepped forward to help his wife, and Brown viciously hit him with his

~ 247

pistol, knocking him out, so bad it left a crease in his skull. Brown attempted to shoot him on the ground, but his gun misfired. Missus Harle tried to grab the pistol, Brown punched her in the face, she went down on her knees. He was about to hit her again when Joe yelled he’d give Brown the guns, which he did. Brown took everything that could be a weapon, knifes, axes, even the garden forks and hoes. Everyone was pretty shook up, and old man Harle was still in a coma on his couch.

It was already past noon, many shops were closed for dinner, as George walked through town on his way home. He had in his pocket a handbill from the Reb recruiters at the Camp Hotel, left on the railroad station bench. On the front in large type, along with the Tennessee State flag, was an admonition to join the Confederate army.

“Volunteers! All who have joined and wish to join a cavalry company, are requested to meet at Cleveland on Saturday next.

Captain Harris will drill the members as infantry on that day.

Speeches will be made and the ladies are invited to be present.

John H. Kuhn, George Tucker and others are getting up a company.

Come on—now is the time to join the armies of Southern Independence. The company is already nearly made up, with choice men, and if you wish to go with a good crowd now is your time.”

On the reverse was a drawing.

~ 248

“Do you love your mother, your wife, your sister, your daughter? If we remain in a Union ruled by Lincoln, in 10 years our children will be the slaves of Negros! Freedom is not possible without slavery!”

After dinner, George showed the handbill to Charles, who handed it back and walked off, mumbling something about it was “nothing to him.” Elizabeth looked it over several times, studied the figures, shook her head, made indignant ‘hump’ and ‘tisk’ noises.

“Don’t show this to Ma,” she said.

George didn’t know any Black person who wanted to marry a White person. And certainly, no White person would ever marry a Black person.

That afternoon, George had left the handbill on Marsa Thom’s desk, so he would see it as he came back from his midday rest.

~ 249

“Throw this out George, and any others that are in the station,” he said as he handed it to George.

“Yas, Suh,” George paused, “I wonder, Marsa Thom, if this be a popular way of doing and thinking?”

Marsa Thom pursed his lips together in thought, and slowly nodded. “Scare ‘em. Get the poor farm boys to fight in a war for slavery.”

“A rich man’s war.” George had heard it more than a few times.

Jacob Bacon, the younger, had said it just the other day at the bank. He would never fight for the cause of slavery for the South. He “didn’t own any slaves, was never gonna own any slaves, and wasn’t about to go dying for any rich man’s slaves.” He’d said it loud enough for Marsa Thom to hear it in his office. Mary just glared and bid him good day.

The situation was getting more impolite all the time.

Sean pulled up, his horse a-lather, and ran in the depot doorway.

“Will Clift has called all loyal Union men to meet at his farm out at Sail’s Creek by morning!” he told Marsa Thom.

The Clift farm was northwest of town, over in Hamilton County along the far side of the Tennessee River, on Sail’s Creek, near Soddy. It was a large farm with a grain mill and a sawmill, docks for the river boats. Since it was across the river and about five miles from where the Rebs were said to be, it would be a safe place to meet. Before Marsa Thom could reply, Sean was out the door, talking back over his shoulder.

“Me and Hiram Walker will be riding all night. On our way to alert the Union men. Thought you should know. Gonna chase those damn thieving Rebs out!”

Marsa Thom looked at George, just shook his head. George nodded as Marsa Thom retreated to his office. ≈ George walked along Ocoee Street in the dark, lantern in one hand, a bundle of the latest papers in the other. He had awaited the night train for the latest Philadelphia Inquirer. On the front page, a new column

~ 250

‘The Rebellion’ was all war news; “internal passports must be signed by an army officer to travel between the Union and the Confederacy. Train lines cut. Northern mills no longer allowed to buy southern cotton.”

Marsa Thom had taken to getting the Northern paper, as he said he needed information from both sides. “One man’s truth is another man’s lie,” he’d said, and George agreed. He walked rapidly along; he was out after the official curfew for Negros, but everybody knew him.

The light shone brightly in the windows of Poe’s Tavern. Music from a piano loud, men’s voices sang a tune new to George. “Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton, ole times there are not forgotten…” George didn’t recognize but a few of the men, mostly they must be the new recruits for the Rebs. They come in daily now, by the handfuls. A couple of the White men sitting outside saw him from across the street and started over. George sped up his pace, but the men walked faster.

“Hey you! Boy!” They grabbed his sleeve from behind, spun him around. They were poorly dressed, not more than seventeen or eighteen years.

“Now you know better than to walk away when a White man talks to you!”

Judging from the amount of alcohol on their breath, George decided to smile contritely.

“What cain I’s do fo’ you, Suh?” The larger of the two snatched the bundle of newspapers from George. He haltingly read off the titles of the newspapers by the light of George’s lamp.

“The New Orleans Pic… Picayune. The Richmond Daily Dispatch.

The Philadelphia In... Inquirer.” He pronounced the name ‘in queer’.

He looked up at George.

“Now what would a boy like you be doin’ out at night with these here papers?” It was a threat, not a question. He held up the Inquirer in George’s face.

“Specially this traitor paper! Full of black lies. Ain’t no truth in it!”

Be as dumb as they think you are thought George.

~ 251

“I’s doan’t know nuthin’ bout no paper. I’s just fetchin’ like my Marsa told me.”

The shorter one grabbed the paper and ripped it half, thrust it into George’s chest.

“Tell your master that we’re gonna burn the North to the ground, ain’t gonna be no more damn Yankee papers!”

The two laughed at this thought, threw the rest of the papers on the ground.

“Yas, Suh, I’s thanks you, Suh.” “Those chicken shit Union boys be running home to momma by the end of the summer!”

As the two went back to the saloon, George picked up the papers, blew out the lamp, and made his way home in darkness. The way war fever was running, gonna be like this for a while, for sure.

~ 252

Chapter Forty-Eight Sunday, July 7th, 1861 It was a beautiful summer morning, the sunflowers tall as a man, facing east to greet the new day. The Reverend Inman gave a loud, spirited, if otherwise docile sermon, kept it short. The clouds lifted for the midday dinner on the grass in front of the church. It was a large turnout, most of the town’s Black families were there. With the rumors of the Rebs in the hills, people were sticking closer to home these days. After families finished eating, the women, then the men, gathered to talk the week’s news in the shade of the old pines. Elizabeth was with the other women, Caroline hung on her mother’s skirt, Mary sat quietly, falling asleep.

Baby Jimmy was out cold, wrapped in a thin blanket, tied over Elizabeth’s shoulder into a sling, his head against her heart, content.

George saw Harriette and Walt talking, Ma not more than five feet away, pretending not to listen, Harriette and Walt pretending Ma wasn’t listening.

George looked at the leggy stems of the grass stalks, heavy with the seed heads, and lamented the wheat they hadn’t planted that year. “Too much going on with the railroad,” said Marsa Thom. Now and then, George would walk out along the road past the old house to see how the fences were holding up and whether the volunteer wheat in the field was worth cutting. Shame to see it wasted, maybe he would stake out a couple hogs to fatten in the autumn.

George stood with Isaac, Leander, John, and Charles, talked over the war news, the upcoming election on August 1st for representatives to the Confederate Congress, the rumors about the Rebs nearby, and what the White folks were saying about it all.

“Miz Grant be tellin’ that the Union army will kill us if they catch us,” said Leander.

“Doan’t believe it none. They do same’s all the Whitey army. Put you to hard work for demselves,” said Isaac. “Dese here got demselves

~ 253

free of de whippin’, ‘bout all.” He waved his arm in a big sweep; all knew he meant the runaways passing through to the North. The rumor was that if you could only make it as far as Middlesboro, Kentucky, there were Union soldiers there who would take you in. George told the story of the two runaways with the Reb army, sounded like they’d be worked to death if they hadn’t got away.

“Cain’t do much ‘cept feed ‘em as they go bye.”

“There are days I think about goin’,” said John.

The adult men turned and looked at him. Leander broke the silence.

“You’re not going. Break Ma’s heart.”

Charles, normally quiet, spoke. “Hear tell old man Harle be back on his feet.”

“And then Brown arrested him,” said Leander, “Put him in the jail out at the Reb camp.”

“That old man never hurt anybody,” said George.

“Miz Harle says they ain’t giving him anything to eat, won’t let her take food neither.”

The sight and sound of more than twenty armed men on horseback made the crowd fall silent, watch as they passed. George knew most of them by sight, Union men that lived here in town. Sean Douglass was among them and when he saw George, pulled over to a stop. As George approached, he spoke.

“Tell Mister Calloway there weren’t any Rebs, just a false alarm.”

“Yas, sure will.”

“There were over three hundred of us out at Clift’s place. A sight to cheer the spirit. Union work is thirsty work, goin’ to do a little celebratin’.” Sean reined his horse back towards the street.

George nodded, smiled. “Glad everything’s fine.”

Except he knew it wasn’t. Now the Rebs knew who all the Union men were. And that they outnumbered the Rebs more than three to one.

~ 254

Chapter Forty-Nine Monday, July 8th, 1861 William Swan, Mayor of Knoxville, patriarch of the Bradley County Swan family, stepped off the morning train into the sweltering rain.

Hot, sticky, noisome; that was the kind of day it was, thought George as he watched the old heavy White man disembark, cane in hand. Robert Swan and Sheriff Low were there to greet him. George recognized a couple of Jimmy Swan’s house slaves who gathered up the luggage, held an umbrella for the old man. Marsa Thom was in his office up to the bank; apparently few knew Swan was coming to visit. At least on the Union side.

Captain Billy Brown rode up at a fast clip, dismounted, leaving a couple of enlisted men to tend his horse, hastily beat his way over to the Mayor, shook hands. The small group made their way into the Railroad office waiting room to escape the rain. George held the door open for them to enter, then went behind the counter, sat against the back wall.

After a few pleasantries and a recount of the events, Mayor Swan got right to the point.

“How many Lincolnites were out there?”

“Nobody’s sure, but at least six hundred, mebby more,” said Brown.

“An outrage.” His jowls shook as he patted his brow dry.

“Yes sir. My regiment, the 36th Tennessee Rifles, is ready to round them up, traitors that they are.”

“Hang on there, Captain.” The Mayor raised his hand and made a stop motion. “You would need witnesses, trials, and convictions. Can you do that?” He looked directly at the Sheriff.

“Nope. No one has owned up to being out there,” said the Sheriff.

Brown looked uncomfortable, shook his head no.

Mayor Swan nodded pensively, leaned on his cane heavily. The men watched him, waited.

~ 255

“Then the solution is to muster them into the Confederate Army.

Even at gunpoint if necessary. That will straighten those boys out.”

“Hard to do, there being so many. But you give the order, and we’ll do it.”

“I can’t give such an order, but Governor Harris or Jeff Davis can.

I’ll send President Davis my report and a letter urging him to send more troops here, to protect the Southern cause. And confiscate Union weapons.”

George, sitting still as a stump, heard every word. And he told the story just like that, word for word to Marsa Thom and Sean Douglass. ≈ “Hell will freeze over before I serve those traitors!” said Sean, loudly. He was standing across from Marsa Thom seated at his office desk in the bank.

George stood at the end, gripped the desktop to steady his hands.

It was risky to anger White men, no matter how long he had known them or trusted them. He bore on his back the scars to prove it.

Marsa Thom stood and gestured “quiet down’ with his hand in a downward motion. He spoke softly. “I don’t have to tell you these men will kill you just for speaking against the South.”

“Let alone calling them out,” said George.

The White men looked at him and Marsa Thom frowned. George looked down at the desktop but stood his ground.

Even with the windows open and the heat and humidity, a rain with no breeze, it was dead quiet, the only movement the occasional fly.

Marsa Thom walked over to the window and looked out on the wet muddy street.

“George is right, don’t give them any excuse to arrest you.”

The clock in the bank lobby struck three; they could hear the scrape of Mary’s chair followed by the sound of the big front door closing.

Mary passed the office windows, looked in and smiled, on her way home for the day.

~ 256

“Front door is locked, Mister Calloway,” she said, hesitating a moment as she passed along.

Marsa Thom nodded, turned back to the room.

“I may share your view, but to remain neutral is to remain in business. Coöperate without over coöperating.”

“I’ll pass the word,” Sean said as he closed the office door behind him.

Marsa Thom sat back at his desk, placed a piece of paper in front of himself, picked up his pen and told George, “Bring me a check draft from Mary’s desk. Brown can’t take guns he doesn’t know we have.”

~ 257

Chapter Fifty Friday, July 12th, 1861 George pulled the old bent willow-wood chair up to the counter and sat down heavily. He put his feet against the drawers and pushed back on two legs, balanced with his legs outstretched, arms crossed. Felt good to get off his feet for a moment. It was a busy day at the station, lots of freight, mostly food stores heading up to Lee’s army in Virginia, along with the Reb boys heading north. It wasn’t yet noon, but the heat of the cloudless day was already on, and anyone who could was resting in the shade with a cool cup of water. He watched Big Jackie’s wood cutters coming down off the mountain early with the train wood, adding to the huge stacks alongside the track, the men moved slow so’s not to overheat. If the weather keeps like this, thought George, the peaches will be ripe before the end of the month. Have to keep the customers happy, first rule of business, keep them coming back. Maybe he would start the jam making early, to avoid too many spoiling before he could get to them. If he’d have the time, or the money for the sugar, the way the price was going up. The Union blockade of the ports had everything going up.

Rupert clacked away on the telegraph key, mouthing out loud the letters and words as he worked. Most days it was just annoying, but today was different. Old Mayor Swan had sent a telegraph to President Davis, told him of his report and letter to come. It recommended that Davis send troops to East Tennessee, especially Bradley County, to guard the Union men who were in “a most fearful rebellion against both the authorities of the State and the federate States.” The telegram reported that over a thousand Union men had assembled on Sunday, and though it was a false alarm, the situation was, according to Swan, “immediate for the local militia could not unaided strike a single blow with any effect to suppress an outbreak, which may any day occur here.

~ 258

No moral influence of any kind whatever will do it; physical power, when exhibited in force sufficient, may, and I believe will, prevent it.”

George smiled to himself at how the numbers of Union men had grown, threefold between the actual event and the reporting of it. He looked at the station clock, and as it was now 11:30, gathered up the newspapers that had come in for Marsa Thom, put away the coin box, nodded to Rupert, and took his leave to go to the bank.

George sat by Marsa Thom’s closed office door, holding the Cleveland Banner low on his lap, reading the front-page editorial.

Since the uprising of the Union men on Saturday night last, the excitement is subsiding and growing beautiful less by degrees. The warriors, on that memorable occasion, armed with guns, knives, reap hooks, scythe blades, claw-hammers and hand-saws, in the fury of their anger, burnt a foot-log and blockaded Candy's Creek. Thus appeasing their "voice for war," they dispersed to their homes, and believe now they are perfectly secure, and can maintain their independence and neutrality, in spite of Jeff. Davis, King Harris, the Southern Confederacy, the Devil and Tom Walker. We hope no straggling Secessionist will get among them, to disturb their quiet repose, because if they get another big scare they will vamose the ranche. We don't want them to leave till corn is laid-by and the wheat is thrashed.

George heard Marsa Thom shuffle a few papers, clear his throat, and push his chair back to stand up. George stood, took Marsa Thom’s coat off the tree and knocked on the door, stepped into the office.

George was surprised to see Missus Harle within. Marsa Thom waved the coat away as he escorted her to the door. She still had one nasty black eye from the struggle with Brown. She nodded to George as she passed.

Marsa Thom watched her exit the bank before turning to George.

“No coat. Too hot for decorum today.”

~ 259

On the way home for dinner, George told Marsa Thom about the telegram to Jeff Davis. Marsa Thom listened, didn’t say a word until they reached the front door.

“After dinner, have the buggy hitched up. You’ll drive.”

George nodded. “Which horse?”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re going to the Confederate military jail south of town.”

Captain Brown had built a recruiting center, with offices, storage, stables, and a jail. Located at the junction of the Dalton and Chattanooga rail lines, it was ideal for military shipping operations. Above the door was a sign that identified it as the ‘Headquarters of the 36th Tennessee Rifles.’ In the background behind it were the first neat rows of the gathering army units; white canvas tents stretched out into the meadow, a fire circle and a cook pot in front of most, a few roughhewn chairs set about. A couple of tired looking sentries were leaning on their muskets, roused themselves to greet the buggy. It was McMillian and Acock.

“State your business,” said Corporal McMillian, laying his rifle up on his shoulder in a halfhearted attempt at protocol.

“Mister Calloway to see Captain Brown.”

McMillain gestured to Acock to go inside and report. The three stood in the sweltering sun for several moments, George glanced around the compound until Acock returned. George knew that Brown saw them drive up and knew they waited out in the hot sun. And Brown knew they knew.

“You cain enter, but not the nigger,” said Acock.

“He’s my body slave, and he goes where I go.” To prove the point, Marsa Thom handed George his hat and gloves, then started in the door. Though George had to sidestep McMillian to pass him, he followed close behind Marsa Thom. Acock just opened and then closed his mouth and turned away.

~ 260

“Mister Calloway, an honor sir,” said Brown, rising from his desk and extending his hand. George stepped aside at the doorway, stood looking at the floor. After a few pleasantries, the two White men sat.

“How can I help you?”

“I have come to enquire after Mister Harle.”

Brown’s face fell, all pretense of warmth gone.

“Harle is under arrest and will be held until I cain ship him down to the prison at Tuscaloosa.”

George had heard about Tuscaloosa. Overcrowded, little food or water, filth, rats everywhere. Dysentery, disease, most men didn’t come back from there. Except in a pine box.

Marsa Thom stared at Brown, pink coming to his cheeks. But when he spoke, his voice was calm and even.

“What is his offence?”

“Resisting the orders of an officer of the Confederate Army.”

“I presume this is regarding the recent misunderstanding about the guns.”

Brown nodded. “Yes.” “What is his bail?”

George glanced surreptitiously at Brown, who stroked his chin for a moment.

“Fifty dollars ought to do it.”

Fifty dollars! George knew that the old man could hardly feed his family off the few acres he farmed, let alone get fifty dollars.

“In gold.”

Marsa Thom didn’t hesitate for a moment. “I will pay the bail, no later than a fortnight and to you personally. But I shall require Mister Harle to be released to me now.”

Brown smiled, “If you will sign a receipt for him in that amount, I’m pleased to let the old man go.”

George would always treasure the look of thanks on the face of Missus Harle as they helped the old man in the door. A family made whole.

~ 261

≈ It was long dark when Harriette knocked on the door of George and Elizabeth’s cabin. George had fallen asleep reading by the oil lamp, Elizabeth and the children asleep. He opened the door and let her in, she in her nightshirt and robe.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, but Miz Susan and Marsa Thom be up there yelling, then he came and told me to get you right now.”

George pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows, as a question.

“Last time I heard such yellin’, it was over Marsa Billy. Not good for the baby,” said Harriette.

George ran up the back steps two at a time into the drawing room.

Marsa Thom sat with a glass of whiskey, Miz Susan’s arms were folded over her pregnant belly, jaw firmly clinched shut. All the lamps were burning, it was clear they hadn’t been to bed, as they were still in their work clothes; George couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Miz Susan’s hair down. Before George came to a halt, Marsa Thom spoke.

“I want you to recount what you told me about Mayor Swan, his telegram, and our visit to Captain Brown.”

George shoved his hands in his pockets, wished he was somewhere else. He didn’t want to get between these two, there was no way to win in that. Nervous sweat soaked his shirt as he recounted the week’s events, gave witness. When he had finished, the silence hung like a knife in the air.

Marsa Thom stared at Miz Susan. She glared back at him.

“Well?” Marsa Thom asked. It was the kind of ‘well’ a husband asks of a wife to mean ‘are you happy?’

Miz Susan took a long time in reply. A deep breath. A nod.

Everybody knew that Miz Susan and her brother Billy were strong supporters of the Confederacy.

“We stay neutral. But if I hear one word of taking side with the Union —”

~ 262

Marsa Thom cut her off.

“Thank you, George,” he said loudly talking over Miz Susan. “That will do!”

George was sure that Marsa Thom was speaking to Miz Susan more than to him. Cold night in this house tonight in spite of the heat, thought George as he made his way back to his cabin. Cold for quite some time to come.

~ 263

Chapter Fifty-One Thursday, July 25th, 1861 It was the fourth Thursday of the month, and the circuit court was in morning session; Marsa Thom was in the front of the courtroom quietly talking to Judge Gaut and John Payne the County clerk. The overcast day and occasional rain gave scant relief from the summer heat. Sheriff Low sat with two dirty, rough looking White men.

Drifters, thought George, as he didn’t know them; more and more coming through these days. George sat on a bench in the back, leaning on the wall, hands in his lap, eyes closed, dozing off, one ear open for Marsa Thom’s voice. He’d been up half the night with the children, who had a summer catarrh, coughing and crying, but not running a fever.

Ma put a mustard plaster on Jimmy’s chest, and that had calmed him down; Caroline and Mary were old enough to drink the mushroom and peppermint tea Ma made for colds. On top of that, there had been smoke from bonfires going half the night, the Confederate families celebrating the CSA victory at Manassas by “illuminating” their homes and singing songs ‘till all hours. Seems old Beauregard had driven the Yanks out of Virginia, halfway to Washington.

George was wakened by loud laughter from the front of the room.

He heard bits of conversation: “War over by Christmas… on the run now”. Marsa Thom gathered up his papers as George went up to help.

The Sheriff approached the bench with the two drifters; as they stood, George realized they were the two buckras who stopped him with the newspapers a couple weeks back. They looked the worst for wear; filthy and spots of dried blood on their clothes, like they had been fighting. As they approached the bench, Judge Gaut spoke.

“State your names.”

“Duncan McIntosh.”

The other hesitated, and Duncan elbowed him.

“Jedidiah McIntosh.”

~ 264

“What’s the charge?” asked the Judge.

“Dissipation, vagrancy, disturbing the peace.”

The Judge looked from one to the other.

“Where you boys from?”

The taller one, Duncan, spoke.

“Near Scottsboro, Alabama, sir.”

Judge Gaut nodded and looked to the back of the room.

“Captain Brown. Step up to the bench.”

George hadn’t seen Brown come in, he nodded to Marsa Thom as he passed, followed by Corporal McMillian and Private Acock.

“Duncan and Jedidiah McIntosh. I hereby sentence you to two years’ service in the Confederate Army, to be served with the Cleveland 36th Rifles, or until the end of the war, whichever comes first.”

The Judge banged his gavel, Brown’s men took the arms of the two brothers, and led them back out through the hall.

As Captain Brown passed Marsa Thom, he started to speak. Marsa Thom spoke first: “Glad I bumped into you, Captain. I’ve got that fifty dollars in gold for Harle’s fines. Course, I’ll need that note I signed surrendered in kind.”

Marsa Thom spoke loud enough for all to hear in the courtroom, as he reached out with several gold coins laid out in his hand.

“What fine was that?” interjected the Judge. Everybody in town knew about the Harle story. Brown shifted from one leg to the other, smiled too graciously as he looked at the Judge.

“None at all.” He turned to Marsa Thom. “I’ve been meaning to come by your office and tell you that upon further reflection, it was a small misunderstanding. We’ll just waive any damages in the incident.

Nothing further to be done.”

Marsa Thom had always said “quit when you’ve won.” George could tell it was everything he could do to quit right now. After just the slightest hesitation, he smiled.

“Very well, Captain, nothing further to be done.”

~ 265

Brown put his hat on his head, and nodding all around, left the courtroom. Nobody said a word. Nobody had too.

~ 266

Chapter Fifty-Two Friday, August 16th, 1861 The rain had come in waves for the last two days, wet heat encouraging the mosquitoes in the morning and biting flies in the glare of the midday sun. But the same rain had made the earth easy to dig. The laying of the gravel ballast and rail ties was going well. John Craigmiles had been appointed the County Commissary Agent, and as such, his farm was the place to buy, collect, and pack the rations for the Confederate army before they shipped out to points north and east. So, a new track spur was being built out to his farm, about a mile and half south of town. The rains had gone now, and the men, White and Black, free and slave, working on the new rail spur were gathered around the water bucket, passing in turn the wooden dippers, glad of the cool water and the chance to rest in the shade for a few minutes.

George stood next to Marsa Thom, held his note pad and pencils.

They had surveyed the new line and were out with the transit and chains to make sure rail placement was straight and true. Sean Douglass, holding a marker, stood five chains distant, Marsa Thom measured the fall line angle by sighting through the transit.

“Two point six degrees.”

George handed him the pad and a pencil.

“Even the yard engine can pull that with three loaded cars,” Marsa Thom nodded, made his notes.

They heard the leisurely beat of a couple of horses approaching and turned. It was Captain Brown and J.E. Raht.

Saturday last, August 10th, the first CSA Company from Bradley County was mustered into service, the 36th Rifles were now Company A, 2nd Regiment, Tennessee Calvary; already Brown was dressed up in a fine new uniform with new insignias. Marsa Thom shot George a glance before he greeted the two men, who dismounted and walked over.

~ 267

After the usual ‘warm enough for ya?’ and ‘fine day for road building’ comments, there was an awkward moment of silence. 17 “To what do I owe a visit out in this heat?”

Brown crossed his arms and stared at Marsa Thom with a weak smile. Raht looked uncomfortable as he began to speak.

“Today, I’m calling on our long friendship.”

He paused, clearly not wanting to say what he had come to say.

“I’ve been asked to sign the Loyalty Oath just passed by the Legislature, and I have done so. I’ve come out here to see that you do the same.”

Marsa Thom put his right hand on the transit to steady himself.

George noted that his face seemed strained but calm. George backed away from the three White men, made himself busy shuffling papers on the worktable nearby, well within earshot. Passed the Loyalty Oath just two days ago, thought George. These two couldn’t get to this fast enough.

Marsa Thom searched Raht’s face, then spoke. “I am standing out in the heat and mud, laying out the track that goes to a farm that will supply General Lee’s army with the food and provisions they need to fight a war against the United States. I gave over the running of our railroad to the Confederate Army to further the war effort. We have broken our contract, our word, with the US Armory for copper plate and brass, and now send it to the Confederate Armory in Richmond 17 On August 1st, there had been a statewide election to send representatives to the

Confederate Congress in Richmond. The East Tennessee Unionists had refused to vote for the Confederacy, and instead voted for reps to the US Congress: Tom Nelson, Horace Maynard, and George Bridges, all winning by an overwhelming majority. Warrants for their arrest were issued by Governor Harris; only Maynard made it to Washington and took his seat; Nelson and Bridges were clapped into jail, without trail.

Shaken by the events, the Tennessee legislature passed a law on August 14 th, stating that all males over the age of thirteen had to sign a loyalty oath to the CSA or leave Tennessee within forty days. If they did not, they were considered ‘Enemy Aliens’, and were subject to immediate arrest; the law also authorized the seizure of the property of anyone refusing to sign.

~ 268

instead. In what way am I not loyal? No, I am unwilling to swear to God that I will take up arms against the United States or the Confederate States.”

Marsa Thom had shouted the last sentence; all the heads working on the line now looked up and watched.

Brown’s smile turned into a condescending smirk, but he held his tongue and turned to Raht. George thought a long freight train could have passed by the time Raht spoke. George could see the man was clearly troubled.

“You and I have been friends and partners for nigh on thirty years in this rough land, building a life for our families. Now, a fast tide has enveloped our home, we are going to swim with it, or be drowned by it.

May well be that this war turns out poorly for us; it may turn out well.

But whatever that end, we are swept along as I hope partners and friends; not as I fear, divided and ruined by the fortunes of war. I beseech you to reconsider your position.”

Even George was moved by Raht’s words; clearly he had been thinking about what to say ever since the meeting in the train yard shed months ago, before the elections. That had been a different time.

“And you got just thirty-eight more days to sign, or I’ll issue a warrant for your arrest,” interjected Brown.

“You’re here to bear witness, Captain. Please refrain from further comment,” said Raht.

The smirk disappeared, Brown turned his face up and stared at the clouds in the sky, said nothing more.

Marsa Thom shook his head no, “I’ll reconsider. But don’t expect me to change my opinion.”

~ 269

Chapter Fifty-Three Saturday, September 14th, 1861 The rain, now ten days strong, had let up for a few hours, the sun was out, it was sticky warm. George sat in the kitchen, reading the headlines of the newspapers just in on the noon train; he had done the small amount of bookkeeping, gathered the papers, come home for noon dinner. The war news was that Kentucky had been forced to come into the war on the Union side, angering the rest of the Confederacy.

But the important news was that Miz Susan had a new healthy baby boy, born three days past, on the eleventh. He had been sitting in the kitchen, coffee in hand, planning the day, when Ma rushed in with a load of blood-soaked towels. Before he could ask, she started rattling off instructions.

“Baby come late last night, and you got to get more firewood in here so’s I can make a big breakfast for the Doc and Marsa Thom and dem.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Boy, and doin’ good.”

George said he was glad.

“Lots of folk be about today to visit, you got to help in de house,” Ma said.

George rose as Marsa Thom came into the kitchen, spoke to them both.

“Wanted you to be the first to know I’ve decided to name our new son James. James Howard Calloway.”

“Fine name sir, just a really fine name,” said George.

George and Ma were all smiles as Marsa Thom backed out the door. George turned to see Ma wiping away her tears; he gave her a big hug, tried to speak, choked up. It had nearly brought George to tears.

He managed to speak, though his voice cracked with effort, “He’ll not be forgotten, Ma, he was respected by many.”

~ 270

Two boys – one Black, one White – now named James. It warmed George’s heart to know Marsa Thom had thought that much of Pappy Jim. Elizabeth and Harriette were upstairs tending to Miz Susan, the baby, and the other White Calloway children, except for young Marsa Joe, now fourteen, and Marsa Luke, now eleven, who were out running about, wouldn’t be home until it was nearly dark.

The tall figure of Sean Douglass opened the kitchen door, removed his hat, “Got to talk with Mister Calloway, George. You seen ‘m?”

“He’s in repose. He’ll be down in an hour, give or take. Want a bowl of soup?”

Sean nodded and sat wearily. George ladled out the bean soup, cut a piece of the fresh white bread, and placed it in front of Sean, who told his story between hungry spoonsful. George sat across from him, leaned his arms on the table.

“Since early this mornin’, Brown and his boys have been out rounding up all the Union men he thinks are spies.”

“What spies?”

“All the men that ain’t signed the loyalty oath. I hear he’s got old Doc Brown, Colonel Beard, Doc Hunt, Doc Carson, Levi Trewhitt and John Beene, the lawyers, just to name a few.”

“How many more?” asked Marsa Thom, who stood in the doorway. He walked into the room, sat down. George stood up and stepped back from the table.

“Seventeen in all.”

“Captain Champion? Captain Kincheloe?”

Sean nodded, his mouth full of food.

“Ain’t any spies round here. Nothin’ to spy on,” said George. He knew these men. They were the leading Union men of the county, including retired US Army officers, veterans of the Mexican war. They had all spoken out against Brown riding around forcing young men into the army at gunpoint, and extorting money, food, and clothing “for the families of our brave boys”. None of the money, as far as anyone knew,

~ 271

was getting to the families whose fathers and sons were in the war.

Most pointedly, it was said that the good quality items taken by Brown wound up at his home, for the use of his family.

“Right,” Marsa Thom nodded, stood and left for the upstairs. “I want the two of you to meet me at my office at the bank in one hour,” he said without looking back. “Use the back door.” ≈ It was past one when George entered the closed bank; in spite of the sticky heat, he shut the back door behind him. He entered Marsa Thom’s office, lighted the lamp, kept the drapes closed, then sat on his seat just outside. Presently, he heard the front door open, Marsa Thom letting himself in, young Marsa Joe with him; he locked the door, and they came into the office.

Marsa Thom withdrew three printed forms from his desk drawer, and placing them on the blotter, began to fill in the blanks, first with his name, then Marsa Joe’s, then Sean’s. George could see they were the loyalty oaths for the Confederacy. George looked at Marsa Joe carefully; he was almost as tall as his father, same blue eyes, his voice cracked when he spoke. Seemed like it was only a year or two ago he was born.

Just then, the back door opened, and Sean quietly called out, “George, give me a hand.”

Sean struggled with a wood crate, one-foot square and five feet long, stenciled with Marsa Thom’s name and Cleveland, Tenn. George grabbed one end, and they carried it into Marsa Thom’s office, set it on the floor in front of the desk.

Sean took one look at the loyalty oath with his name on it, shook his head.

“No.” Marsa Thom nodded.

“Thought you might feel that way. I share your dislike of this oath.”

“Then why—?”

~ 272

“Joe has to sign one to keep him from being pressed into the army, as he is now fourteen. And since he must sign, I will too, to protect him… and to keep the peace in my house.”

Yeah, that’s right, thought George. Miz Susan would let Marsa Thom do as he might, but her son would do as she wished. The same with him and Ma, growing up.

“I think you should too,” said Marsa Thom.

“One brother’s dead, and the other is in the Union army.”

“A contract signed with a gun to your head, isn’t a contract at all.

It’s not binding. That’s how I see it.”

Sean again shook his head no.

“I just… cain’t.”

George thought Marsa Thom was sad, tried not to let it show.

“As you must. Just beware of Brown and his gang.”

Marsa Thom walked around the desk, stood over the box. He looked at each in turn, George and Joe included.

“You are to keep quiet about what I’m about to show you.” Marsa Thom bent at the knees, pried the top off the box, handed it to George who put it to one side. In the box, pressed tightly into the excelsior were four oilcloths, and in each cloth was a brand-new model 1861 .58 caliber Springfield rifle.

“Each of you are to take one of these and learn to use it. Well.”

George was the last to get a rifle, unwrapped it carefully. It had a thirty-eight-inch rifled barrel, a walnut stock, two flip up sights, and a bayonet mount. Inspecting it closely, he was sure it was among the finest rifles made, anywhere.

He held the gun by the barrel, stock resting on the floor; and watched the three White men; they were like family, he thought. No, they were family, born and raised together; they took life as it came, did what they had to do. The rifle in his hand was the proof.

A while later, George sat alone at the wood stove in the corner of the bank, feeding the pieces of the shipping crate into the hot fire. Marsa Thom had instructed, “burn it, let there be no trace of it.” As he watched

~ 273

the flames, he smiled to himself. Marsa Thom had handed George a piece of paper and told him “Start it with this.” ‘This’ was Marsa Thom’s loyalty pledge.

George turned and went outside. He split wood for more than half an hour. It just made him feel better.

~ 274

Chapter Fifty-Four Friday October 11th, 1861 George put one cup of the precious green coffee beans in a ten-inch cast iron skillet, the one he kept for roasting coffee, and put it on the stove.

He stirred the beans with a wooden spoon made for the purpose, watching as the beans turned from green to yellow, to light brown to chocolate brown. As the beans finished their first ‘crack’ he blew the chaff out of the skillet and turned them out on a sideboard to cool. The odor of the bean roasting edged past pleasant, smelled akin to something trying to catch fire. Ma slammed around her mixing bowls, humphing under her breath about the stink, dramatically batting at the chaff floating around the kitchen.

“Doan’t know why you cain’t cook dem out of here, smoke an’ all.”

“Cain’t do it in the rain, and no one is goin’ tell Marsa Thom he cain’t have his morning coffee.” George wondered how many times they were going to have to have this same conversation.

It was early morning, barely light, frosty, and yet it rained. It still rained. It had rained forty-five straight days. The roads were nothing but mud – a foot deep, some places two – clothes took two days to dry even in the kitchen, the chickens in the yard looked as miserable as can be, sitting by the back door, feathers askew, waiting for Ma to throw out the table scraps.

The back door opened, and Elizabeth came in carrying little Jimmy and Mary. Little Caroline lollygagged in the middle of the yard, stomping in a muddy puddle. Elizabeth looked at George, exasperated, and pleading at the same time. “Can you do something with her? I cain’t keep her out of the rain, and I do not have time to dry her clothes.

Again!”

George ducked out the door, wrapped his arms around his wet daughter, brought her into the warm kitchen with a promise of bread and butter, with honey. Ma took the two little ones, placing them on

~ 275

low chairs by the stove, as Elizabeth began to prepare oatmeal made with milk, this morning putting in a handful of raisins.

George ground the coffee, boiled it in a large, enameled kettle, enough for everyone to have a small cup with plenty for the White family. The price of coffee had more than doubled after the Yankees had put the blockade on New Orleans and the rest of the Southern ports, with coffee, sugar, and salt now in short supply. Because Cleveland was a quartermaster depot for the Confederate Army, the troop rations were combined and packed for Lee and Beauregard’s armies. Such things as salt, sugar, and coffee could be had… for the right price.

Food in general was going up, as Captain Brown and his men went around seizing hogs and grain from the Union families, leaving them without enough to eat; but the Confederate families were spared. The Union men were furious about it and were organizing themselves into groups to go North to join the Union army, making fewer mouths to feed at home, hoping to send money back for their families.

Just a week before, Rosecrans had pushed General Lee out of West Virginia, by careful use of his troops, aided by Lee’s overly ambitious planning and poor execution of tactics. The Southern papers had a field day with Lee, calling him “outgeneraled” and ranking Rosecrans the best of the Union Generals.

After that loss, the crackdown on Cleveland Unionists had been immediate. Brown’s commanding officer, Colonel W. B. Wood, in Knoxville, ordered ‘troublemakers’ sent to Tuscaloosa. The entire group of seventeen prominent Union men that Brown had arrested, were imprisoned without trial or bail. The privations the men faced were extreme. Of the older men, Reverend Spurgen died soon after arriving.

It was said he had no blanket and but a billet of wood for a pillow. He was quickly followed by Trewhitt, the lawyer, sick from the day he arrived and with little or no food, he soon passed. The Union families had taken this treatment personally, they knew that any of them could be swept up and sent to die, starved and worked to death. It was the kind of treatment usually reserved for recalcitrant slaves.

~ 276

Marsa Thom was enraged by this treatment; the fortunes of war were one thing; deliberate mistreatment, what some would call slow murder, was evil. Captain Grant, though a strong Confederate supporter, agreed.

Charles stuck his head into the kitchen.

“Marsa Thom wants the covered carriage brought around front, and you s’pposed to bring clothes for three days.” ≈ George staggered with the irregular movement of the train car as he brought the four men the cigar box, set out glasses, and poured each a whiskey from the cut crystal decanter. Marsa Thom offered Captain Grant, Judge Campbell, and Robertson Topp a cigar; the four men took a moment to trim and light the cigars.

“Cuban,” said Marsa Thom, “can’t seem to find more at any price now days.”

He pulled on the cigar, puffing the thick blue smoke into the air of the first-class dining and sleeping car. The four men were on their way to Knoxville to see Colonel Wood, to appeal for the release of the remaining Union men. Judge Campbell, the most prominent of the Cleveland Confederates, and Captain Grant were appalled by Brown and his unjust treatment of men whose only crime was a difference of opinion, had done nothing against the Confederacy. Among these men were those who would not pay Brown’s ‘requests’ for money for “the war effort”. Mister Robertson Topp was a friend of Captain Grant’s from the Mexican war, a major landowner in Memphis, and leader of the Confederacy there. He had been visiting relatives in Cleveland when the whole of the story was told to him. His sense of honor demanded he undertake an effort to release those unjustly arrested.

“I’ll put you in touch with my supplier in New Orleans,” said Topp, “he can get anything… provided that money is no object.”

The men clinked their glasses in agreement, as George stuffed several pieces of wood into the cast iron stove and sat in his chair at the end of the car, listening should the men need anything further. He

~ 277

glanced out the window, the rain battering against it, a small leak in the lower corner. There was still some daylight, though it was now approaching four-thirty. They had been on the road five hours, another four to go, the train making good time at twelve to fifteen miles an hour.

“Brown tried to seize the mule teams from the copper mine wagons yesterday,” said Marsa Thom.

The Swan brothers were besides themselves when they had come in the rail office. Seemed that Brown ‘requisitioned’ the mules for his unit, not caring about the delivery of the copper bars to the mill.

“I talked to the Swan boys about it, went to see Acock, who had taken it upon himself to get the mules for the army.”

The other men looked incredulous.

“How are we to make cannons if we can’t get the copper?” asked the Judge.

“Even Brown was flummoxed by the whole incident, and immediately ordered them returned,” said Marsa Thom.

George had seen Acock standing guard at the copper mill in the rain this morning at the station. He’d heard from Walter Swan that Acock was out there all night. Brown was getting carried away with his authority. He was even abusive to his own men.

The train lurched, slowed rapidly. George heard the footsteps of the brakeman on the roof as he ran forward to set the brakes on the cars.

The train was heavily loaded, composed of three supply cars, and four box cars with two hundred troops, bound for Richmond. Marsa Thom had prevailed on Lieutenant Scroggins to add the first-class car as far as Knoxville, for ‘official business’.

The train came to a complete stop, waited for twenty minutes. It seemed that the southbound train was late, and a flagman had been sent ahead to stop any northbound trains at the closest sidetrack. The other train came through, only to report that the track was slow up north of the bridge over the Tennessee River near Loudon. In all the rain, the gravel ballast was disappearing into the deep riverbank mud, the track

~ 278

ties had started to sink, and become uneven; the shoulders had started to give way, allowing the rails to separate. There were troops working to keep the line repaired, but it was slow going.

The tracks of the East Tennessee and Georgia line were made of ‘U’ rails, of good quality steel and superior to the strap-over-wood rail that most lines used in the South. The ‘U’ rails were nailed down to the ties on each side. But even they were no match for the mud, and the overloaded trains taking the urgently needed war materials north. The result was the trains slowed to five miles an hour or less in many sections, and even then, there was danger of derailment. Sometimes the rails would catch up on the wheels and smash violently up through the undersides of the cars; the crews called them ‘snakeheads’. The troops repaired the tracks for the trains they were on, but few had the skills or knew what was required. As a result, the lines were in desperate need of repairs and improvements. It was going to be a long night.

“There won’t be any railroad if we don’t fix these tracks,” said Marsa Thom.

“Should be part of our report to Colonel Wood.”

The men nodded, drained their glasses, lifted them into the air for a refill. ≈ In Knoxville, the four men met with Colonel Wood. Their requests fell on deaf ears, and they soon realized that Wood was under the direct influence of Mayor Swan and his close advisors, Will Tibbs, Jim Tucker, and Crozier Ramsey. It was clear to the Cleveland men that this was a matter of personal vendetta and had nothing to do with the war. After two days of excuses, the men returned home to Cleveland; Topp, at Calloway’s request, drafted a letter to Jefferson Davis. Davis immediately ordered the Confederate Secretary of War, J.P. Benjamin to look into the matter. Stalled for several weeks, Calloway paid for John Birch, on the staff to General Pillow, to go to Richmond and make the appeal for the Union men’s release. Birch was successful, and the

~ 279

survivors returned home from the prison in Tuscaloosa downtrodden but victorious; they made no payments to Brown and company.

Bessy, Brown’s cook, told Ma that Captain Brown was furious, and swore his revenge against Marsa Thom. It was all over the Black telegraph.

~ 280

Chapter Fifty-Five Wednesday, October 23rd, 1861 Marsa Thom carefully tore the top off the waxed paper tube, emptied the black gun powder into the end of the Springfield rifle. George, Sean, and Marsa Joe all watched closely, each of them holding their new rifles, their cartridge boxes over their shoulders.

“Sixty grains of powder and a minié ball are in each of these cartridges.” Marsa Thom picked up an unopened cartridge from his box and passed it around. He took out a small wooden mallet and a small can with a tight lid, held up the large lead bullet.

“The grooves have tallow in them, but if it’s dry, dip it in the can of grease in your box. Be sure to place the pointed end up and give it a small tap if it’s tight.”

Marsa Thom demonstrated with the small wooden mallet. Once it was in the barrel, he rammed it home with the rod.

“Gotta get it all the way down in the rifling, if you don’t, the gun will likely explode, just like any musket.”

Marsa Thom replaced the ramrod, picked up the rifle, and placed a copper percussion cap on the firing post. “There’s no need for a wad on top of the ball, it’ll stay put even when pointed downhill.”

He flipped up the near-range sight, and taking aim, fired the rifle.

With a loud roar, a huge cloud of gun smoke rising around him, he struck an old whiskey jug a hundred yards away, blowing it to pieces.

Everyone laughed, even Marsa Thom.

The men were up near the old pitch cabin in the mountains above town, two miles from the nearest human, in the far corner of the Calloway farm. It was cold, the leaves were all gone from the trees, but

~ 281

the rain had let up, and the sun was glorious and felt warm on the skin.

Marsa Thom turned back to them.

“These rifles are accurate to about three hundred yards, a crack shot can hit a man at five hundred or further, or so I hear.”

George nodded, impressed. “A crack shot for sure.”

“I will provide powder and shot, so practice. Get good with these.

All our lives may depend on it.”

The men stayed for an hour, learning the rifles, the loading, the kickback, the best way to use the sights. How you had to aim below your target if it was up close, over it far away. At the end of the hour, Marsa Thom showed them the right way to clean the barrels while still warm from firing, important to get the unburned tallow out.

They set out back to town, stopping by the old cabin. Marsa Thom looked around, saw a few unburned raggedy clothes in the fireplace, and poked at them with a stick. They were still smoldering, but there weren’t any other signs of anyone there.

“Looks like a few uninvited guests were here, left behind their old clothes. I wonder where they got new ones.”

He turned to George.

“I guess with so many runaways, it was to be expected.”

George knew that somehow, Marsa Thom knew about helping the runaways. But he said not another word on the subject. Not for a few weeks, anyway.

~ 282

Chapter Fifty-Six Tuesday, November 5th, 1861 Marsa Thom gave George a .58 caliber bullet mold for the new guns, and two, twenty-pound ingots of lead. His instructions were to make as many bullets as he could, bring a hundred of them home and store the rest at the old cabin. George decided to make them at the cabin, and it had the added benefit that no one was around to hear him practice shooting. It also meant that he couldn’t use the cabin as a halfway house anymore. That was okay, large numbers of runaways were just boldly walking through the heavily forested mountain passes. Some even in the daylight.

This day there was a cold wind up on the mountain, the sky was clear, and he could see the flocks of geese making their way south for the winter from the window. There was a hot fire, and George had melted four or five pounds of lead in a cast iron pot with a long handle.

He cut the ingots up into four pieces with his axe, the soft metal easy to cut. He had a thick wool and leather glove that reached to his elbow that he used to pour the lead. He used an iron dipper, pushing aside the slag that came to the top with an old piece of iron wagon tire. After he got the hang of it, he could get 14 bullets per pound, each weighing close to 500 grains. He cooled the mold in melted tallow, which made it easy to pop out the bullets from the two-part mold. It was a slow process; he could only make twenty to twenty-five an hour. George spent the early mornings learning how to use the new mold. He then tried out the new bullets in his rifle, both to test his work and to practice his aim. He had always been a good shot, but he was getting better with the new rifle. As he proofed his rifle and his aim improved, he filed small notches in the gunsights to help compensate for distance. He paced off three tree stumps and two large boulders, each a hundred strides further away from the hitching post in front of the cabin. He painted each one with whitewash numbers, one through five. On each

~ 283

one he set up a pile of sticks and branches as targets, each further pile larger than the next one. When struck, they flew apart extremely satisfactorily.

He stopped for lunch, washing his hands in the nearby stream, ate his cornpone with bacon and cheese, napped in the sun for a few moments. His hands aching, he returned to his task, stoking the fire and adding lead. He decided that when he got a hundred good ones, he would stop and finish during the week when he could.

In late afternoon, as he waited for each bullet to cool and harden, George looked out the open window above the table he was working on. Out across the wide clearing stood a yearling buck, grazing on the fall flowers, carelessly coming further out in the open. The buck stood at the four-hundred-yard mark, nervously looking around as he ate. In the dark of the cabin, George slowly reached for his rifle, loaded it carefully.

Resting the tip of the rifle on the windowsill, he took aim, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger. As the smoke cleared, he saw the buck take one step, and fall unmoving on the shallow slope of the hill.

George smiled. There would be plenty of meat for the next week.

~ 284

Chapter Fifty-Seven Tuesday, November 12th, 1861 It was late in the afternoon and George was in his small cubby at the railroad office, loading up Marsa Thom’s books, ledgers, and records into three large wooden boxes, when Rupert, the telegraph operator, came in his office, and started speaking low and fast, even before George could turn to face him; his beard wagged up and down as fast as his lips could move.

“General Zollicoffer has issued a general order to seize all the guns from the Union men in East Tennessee!”

Rupert waved around the paper he had written the telegraph on, using it to point generally at those of whom he spoke.

“And to round up all Union men between the age of eighteen and thirty-five for the Confederate army!”

He stared at the telegraph for a moment, frozen.

“Christ, that’s me!”

The last three weeks had been eventful around Cleveland. It had all started with another gathering of the Union men up at Will Cliff’s farm at Candy’s Creek. Somewhere around two hundred men and boys had made camp up there, to protect themselves from the likes of Captain Brown. Cliff had fed them and helped them organize into an informal militia. Brown heard about it and decided to root out the lot. The Union men heard Brown was coming, and took off for Kentucky to join the US army, hiding out in the mountains. They were now living off the land, and generally causing trouble for the Confederates. Word was more Union men were leaving every day.

Then, last Friday, November the Eighth, a small group of local Union men in touch with the Union Army in Kentucky, burned down four of the railroad bridges on the East Tennessee line, from Cleveland to Knoxville, including the bridges across the Tennessee and Hiawassee.

In several places, the telegraph wires had been cut, poles cut down, and

~ 285

the wire burned in piles. The Union Army was supposed to invade east Tennessee, but the weather turned nasty cold, it started to rain buckets, the heavy mud and the rising rivers made an attack impossible. Or so the new Union commander, General Sherman, said. The Union insurgents hadn’t gotten the word they weren’t coming, went ahead and burned the bridges.

All hell broke loose. No one knew who the men were; that did not stop the Confederates. While the telegraph lines were repaired, Brown hadn’t waited for orders; he had arrested the older boys and the teachers at the boy’s school, requiring their families to pay fifty dollars a man, or see them shipped to prison or forced into the Reb army. Six men from near Knoxville were caught and summarily hanged. No one from Cleveland had been accused, though Brown was sure that Cliff was involved. Governor Harris doubled the number of the troops in less than ten days in Cleveland, and installed a permanent garrison.

“Yes, Suh, Mister Rupert. Marsa Thom says they’s comin’ for everyone ‘fore this war be over.”

George looked out the window, watched the new Confederate troops unload materials and tents in the yard; they were taking over the camp outside of town. The 7th Alabama Regiment, Colonel Sterling Wood commanding, ‘invited’ the town leaders, Union and Confederate, to a town meeting for that night; attendance was mandatory.

Across the other side of the tracks, the copper rolling mill was being expanded, with gangs of White men and pressed slave runaways working long hours to get the job finished quickly. Today, they were working in the light rain.

The Confederates raided Harper’s ferry armory, moved the heavy rolling presses to the Cleveland works, now the only copper supply mill in the South. Lead, zinc, copper, silver were all mined in the nearby mountains. The mill was heavily guarded day and night, with more trains on the line hauling the copper sheets and bronze ingots up to the Richmond armory. Colonel Wood had been told to protect the mill at all costs.

~ 286

≈ The courthouse meeting that night was packed. Standing room only, except seated in front were Marsa Thom, Captain Grant, and the other prominent wealthy men. George stood outside the courtroom doors along with Leander and other body slaves holding their master’s wet wool coats. Tobacco smoke hung heavy in the air, visible against the dark windows, oil lamps adding soot with the light; the mixture of odors was a heady brew, thought George as he looked back into the room.

Colonel Wood, in a formal uniform replete with epaulets and a sword, stood on a platform in the front, and held up a piece of paper as he spoke.

“This comes straight from Governor Harris. All Union sympathizers between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five must enlist in the Confederate Army or go to prison; every Lincolnite will surrender all his weapons.”

The crowd roared “NEVER” at the Colonel. Behind him, his bodyguard of six armed soldiers looked nervous, watched the Cleveland men closely. Off to the side, George could see Captain Brown smiling, his arms crossed, his right hand rested on his revolver handle at his waist. Judge Gaut stood, waved his arms, asked the men to quiet down. The Colonel continued, shouting above the crowd.

“I expect all Union men to enlist within the next ten days. The laws of the Confederacy will be recognized and obeyed! Dismissed!”

With that, the Colonel and Brown hurried out the side door, their armed retinue covering their exit. Shouts of “traitor” and “fuck Harris” followed them out. The Rebs in the crowd were conspicuously quiet, as they were easily outnumbered ten to one. George would remember this meeting as the last one at which the Union and Confederate men of Cleveland would be in one room together for the next sixteen years.

Outside, Union men gathered in groups, discussing what to do about rounding up the guns, the loyalty oath and the fact that almost none of the Union families had signed it. They would organize

~ 287

themselves into militias, fight as guerillas, they would go north to join the Federal Army.

Marsa Thom looked down at the ground as he walked home, deep in thought. “George, we’re going to help those young men get North.”

George said nothing, waiting. Marsa Thom looked over his shoulder, dropped his voice. “I know you’ve been helping the runaways.”

George knew that sooner or later, they’d have to have this conversation.

“I’ve known about the clothes and blankets for some time. Didn’t know about the cabin.”

George wondered just how much he knew, and for how long.

Marsa Thom turned and looked at him awaiting a reply.

“Yas Suh.” “You think you can get those White boys North?”

“Yas Suh. We can get them up to Kentucky. After that, they’re on their own.”

Marsa Thom nodded, and was silent for a moment, resumed walking.

“And George,” he said without looking at him, “don’t ever tell me who the ‘we’ are.”

George smiled. “Yas Suh, never.”

~ 288

Chapter Fifty-Eight Wednesday, November 13th, 1861 George rushed out the backdoor of the bank as soon as he heard the gunshots. Two more sounded close by; he tucked back into the doorway, peered around the doorframe, and looked towards the direction of the shooting. Past the trees, rode Captain Brown at the front of twenty or so troops; he holstered his revolver as he came to a halt in front of City Hall. Trailing behind the troops were two lines of White farmers, all Union men, the mud of the road clinging to their clothes and bare feet. Like a gang of slaves often brought to town to sell, these White men were tied together with heavy ropes, neck and hand, in long lines of twenty. McMillian and Acock each worked a horse whip now and then on a straggler. The irony of the spectacle was not missed by George, who reflected that the perverse skills refined by Brown as a slave trader were now so well applied to the Lincolnites.

George hurried to the Courthouse square as the sorry procession came to a halt; Brown wheeled his horse around near the door and waited for the townsfolk to gather. The troops dismounted and walked their horses to the hitching racks, save McMillian, who walked his horse into the shade under the large oak tree next to the courthouse. A crowd now gathered on the edge of the square, some shouted out angry epitaphs as they recognized a friend or relative, some entreated Brown to cut the men free, yet others yelled words of encouragement to the prisoners. Brown raised his hand, and the crowd fell silent.

“These traitors call themselves the 7th Tennessee Infantry. They were on their way to Kentucky to enlist in the Union army.”

Brown had put special emphasis on the word ‘Union’. He looked around the crowd slowly, person to person, for the effect of his words.

“These men will be given their choice, die as cowards in a prison work camp, or die with glory on the battlefield in the Confederate Army.”

~ 289

A few voices rose from the crowd, protesting such treatment.

Brown raised his hand again.

“There is one here, an agent of the vile traitor William Cliff and his band of Lincolnite bushwhackers, who has been recruiting men here in Bradley County.”

Brown held up a sheaf of papers, showed it all around.

“He calls himself Lieutenant James Hooper.”

Brown waved at Acock, who untied a thin man at the back of one of the lines, but kept his hands bound behind his back. In his late twenties, he was shoeless, his muddy feet cracked and bleeding from the forced march, his shirt ripped and his back raw from the whip. Acock pushed him as he staggered forward, stopped in front of Brown.

“James Hooper, will you of your own free will, enlist in the great army of the Confederacy, the Alabama 7th, commanded by Colonel Sterling Wood?”

In spite of his mistreatment, James Hooper shook his head no, spat on the ground. George saw the muscles in Brown’s jaw pop out as he clinched his teeth. George hoped he would break them.

“Corporal McMillian,” ordered Brown, “proceed with his punishment as ordered.”

Acock pushed Hooper towards McMillian, who dismounted and took a coil of rope off his saddle. He threw an end over the stout branch of the oak tree, made a quick noose in the end. The crowd cried out its disapproval; Brown drew his pistol, held it casually, rested it on the horn of his saddle.

Acock held Hooper as McMillian put the noose around his neck.

Hooper started to say the Lord’s Prayer out loud. Brown cut him off.

“I say one more time. Join or die,” Brown smiled as he said it.

Hooper did not respond, but closed his eyes, and continued to pray. McMillian tied the rope to the saddle of his horse, took the reins in hand. He stopped and looked at Brown, who waited a moment, then nodded. McMillian paced the horse forward about three feet, but it was enough to lift Hooper, now struggling, strangling, about a foot off the

~ 290

ground. Women cried out loud, men shouted. George wondered what was going through the mind of McMillian, who was watching his boyhood friend dying on the end of his rope.

The crowd began to pray, saying the Lord’s prayer, in place of Hooper’s voice as it was cut off. As the prayer ended, Hooper stopped struggling, hanging slack, still, the wind the only sound. Brown’s voice cut through the stillness.

“Drop him, and revive ‘em.”

Acock caught Hooper as McMillian backed down the horse. They laid him on the ground, released the noose. McMillian leaned over Hooper to listen for a heartbeat.

“It’s beating.”

Suddenly, and with a loud sucking sound, Hooper gasped, began coughing, and promptly retched. McMillian’s shoulders sagged, George knew he was glad his friend was still alive. Brown’s smile was so evil that even George got the chills. He prayed that someday the devil would get Brown.

“Put a pencil in that man’s hand.”

McMillian produced a pencil and a piece of paper with printing on it. He took Hooper’s hand and forced the pencil between the fingers of the half-conscious man.

“Sign the enlistment paper.”

Hooper lifted his bloodshot eyes, a purple ring already forming on his neck. He nodded. McMillian scratched the paper against the pencil.

“Congratulations, Hooper. You’re now a private in the Alabama seventh.”

The crowd stood, unmoving, in shock at the brutality; they had never seen a White man treated so badly.

It was only the beginning of the agony the war would bring to them.

~ 291

Chapter Fifty-Nine Friday, November 15th, 1861 “George, get my old musket and yours,” said Marsa Thom through clinched teeth.

Marsa Thom was in the front yard of the house, looking down the barrel of a .44 caliber Colt Dragoon revolver held by Brown, mounted on his horse.

It was early morning, cold and clear, and Brown had pointedly marched his men down the street and stopped in front of the Calloway house, yelling orders, drums beating. Everyone on the whole street came out to see what was going on.

Fifteen regulars on foot, all heavily armed, listened closely, as the neighbors drew near. There were several heated exchanges between Brown and Marsa Thom who barred Brown’s men from entering his house. Brown yelled that Calloway wasn’t a Confederate, and Calloway yelled he wasn’t a Unionist. That’s when Brown pulled his revolver.

George quickly turned and went for the guns, first to Marsa Thom’s study, then to his cabin. He left both powder horns and shot bags, brought just the old muskets, the new rifles safely hidden. When he returned, Marsa Thom stood right where he left him, arms crossed. He was staring holes in Brown.

George carefully carried the muskets over to a sergeant he didn’t know, who took the guns and stepped back into line.

“That all?”

“Those are the only muskets in the house.”

“Pistols?”

“My Colt Navy pistol stays with me.”

Brown sucked through his teeth, nodded, put away his pistol.

“Seein’ as young Thomas has signed the oath, I guess I’ll let pass the one pistol.”

~ 292

Thank the Lord thought George. Marsa Thom had been pushed as far as he was going to go. As it was, Marsa Thom would not forget that Brown pulled a gun on him in his own front yard; someday, that bill would come due.

“Besides, you need it to keep your niggers in line,” Brown smirked at George. No one believed George’s family was going to cause any trouble. Brown said it just to annoy Marsa Thom.

Marsa Thom stood his ground, kept staring at Brown, his brows knitted in a large frown.

Brown turned his horse away, he chuckled, and his men nervously joined in. “Next traitor’s house, Sargent!” he said loudly as he rode off, the soldiers followed, drums beating the pace.

George exhaled, surprised that he had been holding his breath.

Yesterday, the Alabama 7th had gone house to house in the town and the nearby farms, collecting all firearms from Union families that had not signed the Loyalty Oath. What homes they hadn’t gotten to were being visited today. This included the Calloway home.

Marsa Thom watched them go. As the Rebs got out of earshot, he spoke quietly to George.

“We need some better hiding places for the rifles… and the other supplies. The cabin is way too far away.”

“Yas Suh,” George nodded. George didn’t mention that he had already built a hidden cache in his cabin, a false wall in the back of the new armoire he had made for Elizabeth. And that his rifle and the new bullets were in it now. ≈ The Rebs were everywhere. On every corner, in front of the Courthouse, taking turns slipping into Bush’s Bar for a quick shot. George kept his eyes on the ground as he walked back to the house from the bank after closing. Union men were being rounded up in ever greater numbers.

George counted sixty-three men on the street, some in chains, most went peacefully to avoid trouble for their families.

~ 293

George stepped up on the boardwalk to allow a herd of cattle and pigs to pass in the main street towards the expanded Confederate camp.

Right behind them, were fifty or more horses and mules. Wagons with stacks of hundred-pound sacks of wheat and corn came next. The Union families were being stripped of everything.

It had been a busy day of errand running for Marsa Thom. George went out for a stack of newspapers at the rail station; at the bank he took time to read the news of the war in the Northern papers. Most was news of the Union blockade of Southern ports in the New York Times and the Philadelphia Inquirer; boats seized with war goods bound for the Confederates. And a report that the Reb army under General Zollicoffer, including the 11th and 17th Tennessee regiments, was pushed back to Cumberland Ford by the forces of Union General Thomas. The Cleveland Banner made no mention of the roundup of the Union men.

Its only war news: MILITARY CAMP – Cleveland has been made into a military camp, and William H. Tibbs has been appointed commissary. Captains McClary and Brown’s Cavalry Companies have gone into camps.

At the corner of Berry and Ocoee streets he almost stopped dead in his tracks. Sean Douglass was sitting on the steps in front of Doctor Thompson’s office, bound and gagged, not so closely guarded by an extremely bored young private who was reading the Cleveland Banner.

George’s eyes met Sean’s, who subtly shook his head no. George dipped his chin once, and continued back to the house. Marsa Thom would know what to do. ≈ “I… don’t know what I can do.”

Marsa Thom paced back and forth in the kitchen passing in and out of the late afternoon sunlight coming in the window. Ma had her back to the two men, working away, pretending not to be listening.

~ 294

“If Sean refuses to join, they’ll take him down to the prison in Tuscaloosa.”

George wasn’t sure if he should offer an answer without being asked for one.

“Can we buy him back? Still have more than fifty dollars.”

George noticed that Ma froze stock-still at the suggestion, then turned slowly to listen. She knew it was the money from renting Henry.

Marsa Thom stopped pacing, turned to face them. He shook his head no.

“There’s no provision in the military order for buyouts. Traitor, army, or prison for the Union men of East Tennessee.”

“De come a took ol’ Judge Trewhitt ‘day,” said Ma. “Dragged dat o’l man like he a hog.”

Judge Trewitt was a man over seventy, retired, no threat to anyone save he was a strong Union man. Marsa Thom sat heavily in a chair, hung his head. He sat for a moment, then slammed his hand on the table.

“Cain’t go on this way. Something needs be done.”

Yes, thought George, indeed it does. ≈ The Reb sentry didn’t know if he should let them into the camp or not.

It was near dark, the Union prisoners were already tied in a line by the gate ready for the next morning’s train. George had gone to Miz Douglass, suggested they take a bit of food for Sean up to the camp. She had teared up, smiled, and agreed. George had followed two steps behind her, carried the large basket, the contents of which had come from the Calloway kitchen. Ma thought the idea might work, and she put a little of Miz Susan’s sleeping powder in the pint of whiskey in the basket ‘just in case’.

“I think I should get the Sargent,” the sentry said.

Miz Douglass gave him her sweetest smile.

“Now you don’t want to share with him, do you?”

The young private looked confused.

~ 295

“This jug of whiskey I thought you’d like,” she said producing the brown jug.

George watched the young man; he still hesitated. Couldn’t be a day over sixteen, he thought. “It’ll keep you warm, Suh, as it get late and the cold get yo’ feet,” said George.

The guard smiled, took the jug and tucked it up under his thin coat.

“Make it quick,” he said, suddenly ‘in charge’.

The men were sitting tied ankle to ankle; every tenth man tied to a stake in the ground behind his back, the rope passing around their bellies; this left their hands free, even if they couldn’t stand. Sean was tied to the third stake in the line. Miz Douglass started to cry, but Sean shushed her, looking around.

“I’m okay Ma, really I am. No need to worry.” He shot George an angry look. George just smiled and reached into the basket. He withdrew two cloth wrapped sandwiches and handed them to Sean.

Hidden between them, a four-inch buck knife. Sean quickly tucked it under his left thigh while George handed a sandwich to several men to the right and left of Sean.

Miz Douglass put on a brave face but didn’t utter a word. George picked up the cloths they had used for wrapping the sandwiches, took the basket. As he bent close to Sean, he whispered.

“That guard will be hard asleep in half hour, hour at most after he drinks that whiskey.”

As he helped Miz Douglass to stand, he turned back to the men.

He looked directly at Sean. As he tipped his hat, “Y’all get on home soon as you can, you hear now, Mister Sean?” ≈ There was a soft knock on the kitchen door. George shook off sleep, rubbed his eyes. In the light of the full moon, George could make out three White faces as he looked out the window, and one was Sean’s. He opened the back door and the three quickly scurried inside. George spoke in a whisper. “Everything good?”

~ 296

“We cut everyone loose,” said Sean, “Figure we’ve got an hour before they discover the guard tied up in the field.”

George nodded. “Your ma thinks you’re going home to her house.

Don’t. They’ll be out with hounds looking for you by dawn.”

“But—” “That’s the first place they’ll look, they’ll tear her house apart if the dogs track you there. I’ll tell her you got away.”

George handed Sean a grain sack.

“Food, blankets, and spare clothes. Give me your shirt.”

Sean felt through the sack; looked confused.

“No gun? They got my rifle.”

“The Yankee army will give you all the guns you need. The shirt.”

Sean took off the shirt and put on a clean one.

“Keep off the roads, travel only at night. Follow the North star, and trust no one except in a Union army uniform.”

George looked over the other two and put another loaf of bread in the sack. He reached into his pocket and took out a five-dollar US gold piece; pressed it in Sean’s hand.

“Get across the Hiawassee tonight. There’s a small dock about a mile and a half upstream from the main crossing. Right behind it is a log cabin belongs to Apollo, a freeman. You can sleep in the woods there; he’ll keep watch and the White farmer won’t bother you. You got to get north of Cumberland Gap to find the Yanks.”

“How you knowed all dat?” asked one of the others.

George looked at him, recognized him to be the young farmer, Jacob Bacon.

“And don’t ask any questions of anyone. They might think you’re spies.”

Sean shook George’s hand firmly. His voice cracked as he spoke.

“Tell her I’ll write.”

George stepped out with the three young men and watched them go. Yet another man of his ‘family’ forced to leave by circumstance. He

~ 297

regretted the turns of fortune; whispered ‘God Bless’ as they vanished past the edge of the full moon into the night.

From his pocket, he fished a hank of rope five feet long, tied the shirt to it. He turned and quietly walked out to the pig pen by the stable, dragging the shirt on the ground as he went. He then selected a pig about three months old and tied the pig’s right rear leg to the shirt.

He opened the gate, the pig made a beeline towards the garden, but George whacked it with a stout stick, sent it squealing into the thicket along the road. He listened as the pig made good his escape into the woods away from the road. George smiled; it really was too bad he wouldn’t see Brown’s face when they caught the pig.

~ 298

Chapter Sixty Sunday, December 15th, 1861 The snow, soft two days ago, was now hard and heavily crusted by the freezing rain during the night. As he walked, George’s feet would crack through the surface, up to the middle of his calves, making each step a kind of awkward step-drop-lift as he made his way to the back door of the big house. He didn’t really feel like going to church today, but since it was Advent, and Ma had gone every day this week, he knew there was no way of not going. Though it was bright and sunny, as cold as it was, Elizabeth and the kids would stay home today. He had hitched up the buggy for the White family, just in case they were going to church, which he doubted, as Miz Susan had a bad cold, and Marsa Thom was lukewarm about church even on a warm day. Especially after Reverend McNutt over to the Baptist Church gave that sermon supporting slavery and the Confederates, printed it up, and passed it around Cleveland.

George had read it.

The government must be obeyed, as it is the law. And the law of this land is slavery.

For rulers are not a terror to good works, but to the evil. Wilt thou then not be afraid of the power? do that which is good, and thou shalt have praise of the same: For he is the minister of God to thee for good. But if thou do that which is evil, be afraid; for He beareth not the sword in vain: for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil. – Romans 13

It was the opinion of the good Reverend that breaking the law was a sin. George couldn’t figure out how he got to that conclusion. Not everything in the Bible was against the law. Not George’s bible, anyway.

~ 299

The sermon was a thorn between Marsa Thom and Miz Susan.

After she had read it, she left it beside his place at the dinner table. He read it, got up, and threw it in the fireplace. Not a word had been said about it since.

George opened the kitchen door to the smell of a hot breakfast, bacon, eggs, biscuits, and apple pie. Charles was plating the food to take into the dining room, Ma worked the stove with a loud rattle and bang, pulled the pies out of the oven. “‘Bout time. Get dem coffees out before Miz Susan start to yellin’.

How de girls?”

“They’re good, comin’ along in a minute. Jimmy got to sprayin’ all over durin’ his diaper change.”

Ma chuckled, a smile in her voice, “Just like his daddy.”

George walked over to the long low cabinet that held the everyday china in it. He bent over to inspect the molding to be sure it had been replaced to hide the edges. He’d had to work on the cabinet in the evenings; building the false rear wall out in the stable, he brought it in painted yellow and ready to put in place. The only parts he’d had to remove and replace were the moldings. He could get Marsa Thom’s rifles in and out by taking the china out and folding down the false wall.

Looked good, if he had to say so himself.

“Somebody be messin’ wid de china. Ain’t in de same place as I put it,” Ma said. She didn’t look over or stop what she was doing. He watched her for a second.

“Best not be askin’ questions you’re safer not knowin’ the answers to,” he said. ≈ The Reverend Edejiah Inman had been eloquent, thought George, as he and Ma made their way home after services. Even the most cautious among the community were at last thinking about how freedom might come. He had quoted Deuteronomy 23:15: “Thou shalt not deliver unto his master the servant which is escaped from his master unto thee…”

~ 300

The grapevine talk was now about the large number of runaways coming through the hills, following the railroad. The word was out pretty much everywhere, if you could get to the Union army, they would take you in, give you a job with pay. Or at least not make you return to bondage. Seemed some General name of Butler had decided that slaves were property that belonged to the enemy and, therefore on cause of the rebellion, now belonged to the Union. 18 It was so cold that the family decided to invite everyone in the church to have supper in the summer kitchen. George and Ma entered the large bright kitchen where Elizabeth had everything ready, a hot fire roaring in the big stove. It would be close inside, but the better to stay warm. The men stood, the women seated with the children. Grammy Caroline and the boys Leander and John were the first to arrive; none of the girls wanted to trudge in the cold, even the two blocks. The Swan brothers were there, and as usual Walter spent most of his time talking with Harriette.

“Brown hunted up ‘bout twenty field slaves on de road last two night,” said Isaac between mouthfuls of food, “Pressin’ ‘em for de chain gang.”

“Workin’ ‘em dawn to dusk buildin’ the new fort on de hill,” said Walter. “If any of ‘em stop for a moment, hit’em wid de whip. Couple cut up bad, one man done lost his eye.”

“Anybody givin’ dem any victuals?” ask Ma. Walter nodded with this mouth full, started to speak, but there was a loud knock on the kitchen door. It was Aunt Sally, the house slave from over to Doctor Thompson’s. She was agitated and in a hurry. She spoke to Ma without greeting anyone.

18 In August, the US congress passed the ‘Confiscation Act of 1861’ that declared any

property used by the Confederate military could be taken by Union forces. It included slaves as well as other property. It also said that the ‘contrabands’ were entitled to eight dollars a month pay in the service of the war. Four dollars for women.

~ 301

“Come quick! Doc told me fetch you to help. We got three White womens all whipped up!”

She dashed out the door, Ma grabbed her coat, and was right behind her. Without a word, George and Walter put down their food and were out the door following close behind.

George knew the three young women by sight; they were ‘war widows’, the wives of Reb soldiers that were gone to war. They had no food, no money, nowhere to live. They had taken to the ‘oldest profession’ to feed themselves. Dirt poor, all of them, and they had been hanging around the recruiting center and the Reb camp, tending to the ‘needs’ of the soldiers.

They were a mess. They had been badly whipped, their backs cut deeply, their clothes soaked with blood. They had cuts and bruises on their arms where they had been tied up. Ma jumped right in, helped take off the ruined clothes, shut the door to the surgery so the men couldn’t see the women in their all.

The door opened to the outer office, and Miz Susan and Marsa Thom came in, carrying old flour sacks and sheets.

“Where are they?” asked Miz Susan.

George pointed to the closed door, and before he could say anything she had gone in to join the other women.

“What did you see, how bad was it?” asked Marsa Thom.

“Bad. Their backs are laid open, lots of blood.”

Marsa Thom clamped his lips together, the same way as George did. They both breathed heavily.

“Go get the Sheriff.”

The afternoon wind had come up, and the cold bit right through his clothes as George led the Sheriff to the Doctor’s office. The Sheriff hadn’t really wanted to come out on a freezing Sunday, but when George told him about the condition of the women, he hadn’t hesitated.

Marsa Thom was pacing around the office as they came in. Cries and moans could be heard through the surgery door, low level voices talking, soothing words of comfort.

~ 302

“What happened?” asked Sheriff Low. “Don’t know much yet.”

Marsa Thom knocked on the door. There was the sound of something heavy set down, then the door opened briefly and Miz Susan stepped out, began to tell the story.

“Seems that yesterday Captain Brown had told the women they weren’t welcome at the camp. They were leading his men into sin, and he wanted them gone. Last night there was a big gathering around the women’s tent, drinking… and whatnot. This morning, without warning, Brown and several of his men knocked down the tent. The rest of the women ran but he dragged these three out to the trees along the camp.

He tied them up, stripped off their blouses, and had a couple of the soldiers whip them as he read Genesis from the bible.”

Stunned silence. Then Marsa Thom spoke.

“We need to go see the Colonel and find out if Brown was acting on his own or not. George, go ask Judge Gaut to join us at the Confederate camp. We’re going out there now.” ≈ George and Judge Gaut arrived at the headquarters as Colonel Wood was arriving. Clearly in a hurry, he had on his uniform jacket over his civilian clothes. He nodded to the Judge, ignored George. As the men went inside, George remained in the entry area while the White men assembled in the Colonel’s office. Not that it mattered, as George could hear every word, spoken as they were at high volume. The words ‘assault and battery’ were heard often. Captain Brown, escorted by two privates that George didn’t know, passed through the entry, the privates standing guard outside the office door. After a few minutes and a considerable amount of heated ‘discussion’, the door flew open, the Colonel first, followed by the Sheriff, then Brown, Marsa Thom, and the Judge. The Colonel turned to the privates.

“Take Captain Brown to the stockade, lock him up until further orders.” He looked at Brown, put out his hand.

“Your sword.”

~ 303

Brown took off his sword and handed it to the Colonel, his face flushed. He looked extremely angry, thought George. The Colonel returned to his office and shut the door as the privates escorted Brown out. Without a word, the rest of the party filed out into the cold.

George walked his usual three discrete steps behind Marsa Thom and the other White men, looked over his shoulder back to the Headquarters building. He was elated as he watched Brown being escorted out to the stockade.

~ 304

Chapter Sixty-One Tuesday, January 6th, 1862 “You have to sign it.”

J.E. Raht was sitting in the bank office with Marsa Thom. John Payne, the Reb lawyer, spoke next. “We’ve got everyone but Craigmiles and you. I’m going there next.”

George sat outside the open bank office door, looking out the window, occasionally glancing over at Miz Mary, who was too busy with her ledgers. Both were listening as best they could. The two men had come in without an appointment and walked right into Marsa Thom’s open door with a petition to free Captain Brown. The excuse was that he was only trying to protect his men. He set an ‘example’ of the women, so others would not join them. Or so the petition stated.

Raht and Payne had been carefully selected, thought George. Marsa Thom’s partner in the copper, lead, and silver mines, and Payne, the biggest ‘arranger’ for the Rebs.

“The man is guilty as far as I’m concerned,” said Marsa Thom, as the chair scraped on the floor as he stood. “Good day to you gentlemen.”

George stood respectfully expecting the men to exit. They didn’t.

He looked into the office.

“There is no need to go through a trial that will just upset everyone, and end with him being released,” said Raht.

The war had made Brown a man to be feared: the thug he always was now had an army. He took revenge, often violent, on the offender’s family. Nobody wanted to tangle with him.

“It will look bad for you to be the only one to refuse. Brown—”

~ 305

“I have considered your opinions. I can deal with Brown. I will not sign the petition.”

Payne snapped his portfolio shut, turned on his heel, and brushed past George, who barely had time to get out of his way.

Raht remained behind. He spoke softly.

“There’s already talk of you being on the side of the Union. No loyalty oath. Some say you’re helping the Union boys run north.”

“Hearsay and speculation.”

“Look at what you’re throwing away, Thom. Best for you to sign.”

George froze. An implied threat would push Marsa Thom into anger. And from Raht, too. George could still see Brown on that horse with his pistol aimed at Marsa Thom; he was sure that was the main reason he wouldn’t sign the petition. Brown, whether he knew it or not, had challenged the wrong man.

“Neutrality, my friend. You cannot cajole or will me to side with men I consider to be traitors and criminals, even if you have taken side with them. If you say I must choose between friend and principle, then principle will hold sway.”

“I’m truly sorry Thom. I think you’ll come to regret this opinion.”

George backed up, lowered his eyes as Raht stormed out of the office and slammed the door behind him. George knew that Marsa Thom would not now sign the petition. If there had ever been a chance, it was gone.

~ 306

Chapter Sixty-Two Friday, January 24th, 1862 ‘General Zollicoffer killed!’ was the lede in the Cleveland Banner. And there was a list of the dead and wounded. The battle at Mill Springs, Kentucky on January Nineteenth, had been fought to protect the essential East Tennessee & Georgia Rail connection to Richmond.19 The reports had been on the telegraph and had shot all around town. The battle had been a complete defeat: cannons, supplies, and thousands of mules lost; the wounded left behind. 125 Rebs killed, 404 wounded and missing. Several companies of Bradley County men were with Zollicoffer. An anxious crowd gathered around the newspaper office, each man eager to pay his half dime for a copy. The editor, Robert McNelly, had known for two hours the names on the list, but kept it secret until the printing. George was sure that was to sell more copies of the paper.

George ducked into a dark doorway to quickly scan the paper; some men dead of wounds, others of cholera and typhus. Fifteen of the dead were from Bradley County. George didn’t know them personally but knew the family names.

It was one of those end of January days, a brief warm spell between bouts of winter; soon enough the grip of the freezing cold would return for another couple of months. With no wind, and a bright sun, a body could stay warm if they stayed moving. As he walked along the street back to the house, George turned at the sound of screams, a woman in a wagon on the side of the ice crusted road. Her husband held the

19 Commander of the Union Forces, General McClellan: “My own general plans for the

persecution of the war make the speedy occupation of East Tennessee and its lines of railway matter of absolute necessity.”

~ 307

newspaper, head against the wagon, as the woman sobbed and laid her head on his shoulder.

It was the beginning of many sad days of loss for many parents, wives, and children, thought George. Those Northern boys had not cut and run like so many had promised.

The war brought many strangers through town, coming and going to the Reb camp. One man who caught George’s eye, a foreigner named Zulaski, thought to be a Hungarian, a Confederate, who was an iron monger by trade, or so he’d said to Marsa Thom. He’d come and he’d stayed, full of mysterious purpose. He’d bought the brick smithy from Brown, near the rail line and began to use it for the pig iron he brought up from Alabama. But George had also noticed a fair amount of gun powder, copper sheeting, and other war materials coming and going.

Marsa Thom said he thought he was a black-market trader, left it at that.

Zulaski kept to himself, kept the doors closed on the barn, and didn’t attend any church. He’d bought old Uncle Zeus from the wheel maker and put him to work cleaning out the junk in the building. Soon after, six White men from New Orleans arrived, and they all began working in the barn, building a smithy. Uncle Zeus sat out front to keep the curious away and keep the wood and coal coming for the forge. The only visitors were Reb officers who came and went. Uncle Zeus, threatened with death if he told anyone anything, would only say that whatever they were making, the things looked like ‘iron logs’. The ringing of hammers on anvils could be heard all the day long.

George hung his hat, stepped into the summer kitchen. Ma was serving lunch to the whipped women, soup, bread, and milk. She had set up the room as a makeshift hospital, one of the young White women on the cot, one on the table. The third one had already gone back to the campgrounds, well enough to be on her own, drinking hard trying to forget, seemed to George. Reverend McNutt had tried to stop her, but to no avail. She wanted to drink herself to death, Ma told him. Miz Susan, when told, agreed and added, “war kills in lots of ways.” The other two

~ 308

women were going to work in the church poorhouse, help make bandages for the war. They’d be leaving on Sunday after services.

George took a bowl of the soup, and a piece of bread, leaned against the cold window. Behind him, he heard the soft crunch of footsteps in the snow. As he turned, he froze, and then he jumped for joy, the soup forgotten. Standing there, looking the worse for wear, was his brother Henry.

Ma cried, thanked Jesus, the stars, and the ghosts of their ancestors.

When asked why he had come back, when he was living as a freeman, his answer was simple. “I figured that with a war going on, the best place to be was with family.” Even Marsa Thom and Miz Susan smiled to see him. If Marsa Thom had ever gotten any notice from Metoyer that Henry had run off, he never mentioned it.

There were so many Black folks coming by, they had to move the supper to the barn, cold as it was. Marsa Thom had allowed that “as this was a special occasion, a real celebration should be held,” and the word had passed quickly on the grapevine. George was proud of Henry, now nineteen, grown into a full man. He told his story well.

In New Orleans, Henry had fallen in love with the mistress of a wealthy White planter, an Octoroon named Maria Lopez Lavalle. She was young, a great beauty; part of a large community of mulatto women contracted to White planters, guaranteed by contract to a house, carriage, servants, jewels, and an education in France for the male children. Henry had never seen a woman like her, elegant, poised, educated, and unattainable. She was in every way, except for skin color, a White woman. His ardent pursuit of Maria crossed him with her White planter and the law. Henry, forced to leave New Orleans, ran off on a gambling river boat on the Mississippi, narrowly escaping the assassins hired to kill him. Henry did not write, afraid of discovery, ashamed of failure. He had made his way to Saint Louis, where he had worked in a newspaper printing office, posed as a free Black, kept to himself. With the war had come the opportunity to get back on the river; he headed back to New Orleans.

~ 309

Everything had changed. The freemen of color in New Orleans had organized into a militia call the ‘Native Guards’, offering to guard the city, to free the Confederate regulars to go north to fight. The White generals could not be convinced, the Native Guards were not accepted into the Confederate Army, and nothing much had happened. Except that the river boats were heavily loaded and were shot at by both armies along the Mississippi. It was so difficult to find crews that free Blacks were signed on the crews as stokers. Henry had the calluses to prove it.

Everyone was glad to see Henry, laughed and talked over old times. Marsa Thom would soon put him to work on the ledgers in the bank, helping Mary and running errands for the office, out in front where all the folks would be able to see him. As George watched Henry, he made note to teach him to shoot the new rifles. All the usual rules were changing, and George wanted Henry ready when the time came.

~ 310

Chapter Sixty-Three Friday, February 7th, 1862 George watched Captain Brown step off the train platform, readied to mount the bay mare that Private Acock had brought to the station. His friends in Knoxville had persuaded the military that all men were needed now; out west, a Union General by the name of US Grant had taken Fort Henry on the Tennessee River, cutting off Confederate use of the waterway. George was sitting on the front seat of the Calloway carriage, waiting for Marsa Thom to do his business with Raht at the copper mill. George had parked behind the building, pulling close to the downwind side, hoping to stay out of the blast of icy air. It was bitter cold, blowing hard, overcast, the kind of day the livestock just stood still, heads hung low, backs to the wind. He watched many Confederate soldiers, mainly from Knoxville, as they detrained and formed up regiments. They were all moving towards the camp, and George could hear the exhausted men talking about marching towards Alabama in a few days. Though the Rebel troops were needed to the west, they had to go through Chattanooga to get around the snow choked mountains.

George set the brake, tied the old grey to the rail and slipped inside the mill, stamped his feet to stop shivering. As he blew on his hands, the door behind him opened, and in walked Captain Brown, followed by Acock and a cold blast of air. They walked down the hallway and entered the office without knocking. After a moment, George edged his way down the hall to listen.

“You declined to sign my petition, so I have to tell you what I’m gonna do for you. I’m gonna sign the seizure of your share of the railroad, bank, and copper mill.”

It was Brown’s voice. A chair slid on the wood floor.

“You in this too, Raht?”

There was a pause.

~ 311

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I said yes.”

“Mister Raht is the loyal gentleman that informed us about your Union proclivities. We’ve agreed you can keep your house, only because we know Miz Calloway to be a loyal Confederate.”

“Not going to happen!”

There was the sound of a chair crashing on the floor, two quick steps, and the door flung open as Marsa Thom stormed through, walked in a hurry towards the outer door.

“I’ll see you in court!”

George had to trot to catch up.

Marsa Thom sat in total silence on the way back to the house. As they were passing the bank, he ordered George to stop, and follow him inside. George heard Mary and Henry laughing as they entered, another story of New Orleans.

In such weather there were no customers about; Marsa Thom locked the door and put up the ‘Closed’ sign. He turned and motioned them into his office. “I must tell you that Raht has turned against me, has informed on me to the Confederate administration. With the aid and support of Brown.”

They sat in stunned silence for a moment, Mary wiped at her eyes.

“I’ll take them to court, but expect to lose. It’ll gain us a few days.

They will seize everything.”

Marsa Thom gave each of them their tasks: Mary to copy the ledger and current positions from the last quarter to now; Henry to pack all the bank papers and mortgages and move them to the stable rafters; George to count and then take all the silver and gold from the safe to the study in the house.

And they were to get this done before the cold storm ended. ≈ As George and Henry loaded the trunk on the back of the carriage, they were not using any lamps, it getting hard to see in the failing light and falling snow. There were no other people on the street, and no lamps

~ 312

burned nearby. The two boxes of gold and silver coin were heavy, a two-man lift; the US banknotes Marsa Thom had changed for Confederate dollars were in another bag. Marsa Thom carried out a fat satchel of documents, Mary carried the ledger and another new blank one. Over the closed sign, Marsa Thom placed a hastily penned piece of paper that read ‘closed until Monday’ and locked the door.

The four climbed into the carriage, George and Henry seated in front, Marsa Thom and Mary in the back. Two Blacks driving, two Whites riding. Perfectly normal if anybody was watching. They made their way to the house, where Marsa Thom and George alighted, sending Mary home with Henry; George carried the satchel, held the door for Marsa Thom.

As soon as they were in the door, Marsa Thom took the bag and whispered to George.

“Tell no one of what’s happened. Not even Miz Susan.”

George nodded.

“Or Elizabeth.”

“No Suh,” George whispered.

“After supper we get the rest.”

“Marsa Thom… this is the first place they’ll search. I was—” “The cabin?”

“A small cave about 500 yards southwest up the hill from there…”

Marsa Thom raised his hand. “Good. Before dawn.”

George nodded, stepped back into the kitchen to help Ma and Charles with dinner. Tomorrow before dawn, they would carry everything of real value, including the household silver service, to the mountain cave. Miz Susan would stand unspeaking, weeping, and watch them disappear into the dark.

~ 313

Chapter Sixty-Four Saturday, February 8th, 1862 George, Henry, and Marsa Thom reached the hidden cave entrance at dawn. It was but two feet high, four feet across, and disappeared into the mountain, pitch black; the sound of dripping water echoed in the distance. Inside, the cave opened into a large, tall room, with a couple of smaller caves branching off. Just behind a bend in the right cave were three rock ledges of good size, stalactites beyond near a small pool of water. George held a lighted torch of pine pitch, the light bright, the smoke thick; but it drifted high against the top of the cave, blowing back into the recess, following the faint breeze to oblivion.

“This will do,” said Marsa Thom, whispering as though demons could hear them speaking.

Henry arrived with a pick and a shovel and set to work as Marsa Thom indicated. Into the two-foot-deep and two-foot-square hole they placed the boxes of money, documents, and household silver goods, including some of Miz Susan’s family jewelry. George set several twofoot boards across the hole about four inches down, placed a burlap bag on the boards, and carefully replaced the dirt on top. The excess dirt they sprinkled about to hide their footprints, sweeping with cut branches to smooth it all out. Outside, they pulled an old dead log in front of the entrance, blocking it from view. No one would be able to find the cave unless they knew where to look.

It was still early morning when George got back to the summer kitchen. As he walked up, he heard Ma talking out loud to ‘Boo’, her favorite name for Pappy Jim. “You be right proud of ‘em, Boo. They’s doin’ good by de family…”

George opened the door and Ma stopped talking and continued scraping out pots to feed to the chickens. George didn’t particularly believe that the spirits of Nat Grant and Pappy Jim were there with

~ 314

them all the time, but it gave Ma comfort, so he would never challenge her ‘vision’.

George removed his coat, sat, tired from the hurried climb and the looking over his shoulder every minute.

A quick knock on the door, and in walked Miz Tina. She was becoming a regular fixture now that the boys were off to war, and she was living alone. The school was only open two days a week lately, and since the troops took most everything, no one was showing up. So Miz Tina came to teach anyone who wished to learn to read—now in the Calloway summer kitchen since the old house and barn had been sold to Raht—just like she had done with George, Charles, Henry, and Louis.

Anyone, even the slaves nearby. If Miz Susan or Marsa Thom knew about it, they hadn’t said or done a thing. She greeted them cheerfully.

“Good morning, y’all. The girls coming in this morning?”

She had brought a short stack of readers with illustrations for young children. She set them on the table and helped herself to a cup of coffee and a piece of toast with peach jam.

“They’ll be along shortly,” said George. It was the only thing Little Caroline talked of these days: reading. Reading everything she could get her hands on.

He was glad Miz Tina was teaching the girls; he was proud that his girls would read. A slave girl that could read at her mistresses’ bedside would be less likely to be sold into poorer circumstance.

Ma suddenly looked at the small White woman, got up and placed both her hands on Miz Tina’s face.

“Someday when you eighty, young man gonna walk up to you and tell you dat he your dead son. Be Ian, different body but it be him.”

Then she hugged Miz Tina as they both started to cry.

~ 315

Chapter Sixty-Five Wednesday, February 19th, 1862 Panic had set in all around, thought George as he rested for a moment in the lee of the Broad Street Methodist Church. He and another colored man named Plato—a runaway from Chattanooga—had carried a wounded Reb up into the church, the man moaning and talking in tongues, burning with a fever. But Doc Carson had said it was typhus, so they put the Reb in the church stable with the other men with typhus fevers. At least he was still alive. George and Plato worked all morning, carrying the piteous souls wherever directed; a quarter of the men were dead or died on the way to help. There were so many, George lost track.

Thousands of them, civilians and the gravely sick and wounded flooded into Cleveland; many as could were headed on to Chattanooga. The rich Whites were traveling in the passenger cars, most with their household slaves in attendance; they were the fortunate few. Ordinary folk carried all they had on their backs, many with nothing but the clothes they had on.

For a week now the weather had been bad; freezing rain, sleet, snow, black ice. The trains were caked with ice and snow without heat.

In almost every box car were dead and frozen bodies, many the wounded soldiers from the hospitals in Knoxville. Like George, all the colored for miles around had been pressed into caring for the warwounded. The White refugees were put to work, making bandages, building cots and rough lean-tos to stay out of the weather. The men were emptying out and cleaning the churches and barns, the women cooking, nursing, emptying bed pans. There was getting to be nowhere to put them all, or food to feed them. The Inman boarding house was full of wounded, the Calloway barn had soldiers billeted there, the ones too weak to walk the thirty-one miles to Chattanooga. The Clevelanders would feed them as best they could for a few days, then the wounded would be pushed on to Chattanooga.

~ 316

Fort Donaldson had fallen to General Grant, closed the Tennessee and Cumberland Rivers, cut all supply lines from the south by boat and opened Tennessee to the advance of the Union Army. It had been a heroic battle on both sides, fought over several days. But in the end, Grant and his men had outfought and outmaneuvered the Confederate General Floyd, who, left to fight a rearguard action, was outnumbered, cut off from his supply lines, and had no choice but to surrender. The Civilian government of Tennessee ordered a hurried withdrawal overland from Nashville to Memphis; the Confederate Army retreated through Knoxville to Chattanooga, along the rail line in Cleveland.

Troops from Knoxville were sent to Chattanooga for reinforcement; but they weren’t battle ready, they had been on half rations for two months.

Many were sick, dying or near death.

As George and Plato made their way back to the station, the troops they passed looked like sick scarecrows, thought George. He made a note to be sure and wash his hands when he went back home.

As they approached the Calloway house the noon bell rang out, but no one paid attention. George’s stomach told him it was noon more than an hour ago. “You hungry?”

Plato, a thick set short man with stubby calloused hands, nodded.

“Two days now.”

George tilted his head to the left, and Plato started to follow him into the rear yard of the house, but hung back. George held the gate.

“These be my people.”

The two men walked through the frozen yard into the kitchen. Ma spoke without turning around, busy at the stove, every pot boiling, the fire roaring, she said, “All’s I got beans, bread, and hominy.”

George motioned to Plato to sit, went and got two bowls, filled them up full, took a small loaf and sat. Plato grabbed the bowl and ate with both hands.

“Where’r Elizabeth and the children?”

“Up to de Grants wid Grammy Caroline.”

~ 317

Ma turned around and paused for effect. Ma looked Plato over carefully; lot of these desperate Black boys would sell you out for a jug of whiskey or a silver dollar. She made her decision.

“We keep on feedin’ dis many, we ain’t got ‘nuff for our ownselves.”

George sighed heavily, went back to eating.

“How many’s in the barn?” he said with his mouth full. He knew they’d be missed at the train yard soon.

“Bout twenty Reb boys. Dey done took all’s the meat, ever-thing.

All’s but a fifty bag of wheat, same of corn. All’s we got is what I got in dis cupboard,” she said.

A clucking and scratching sound came from the low rafters. George looked up to see three small cages with feathers sticking out between the slats. He looked at Ma. “Don’t be sayin’ nothin’. De Rebs done ate all de others.”

“I’ll tell Marsa Thom when he gets back from the courthouse.”

“Miz Susan already knowed all ‘bout it. She fixin’ to take the chillens to her bruder Billy in Georgia,” Ma’s eyes teared up. “And she be takin’ Harriette.”

Marsa Billy would be there with Harriette in the flower of her youth. And he was an angry vengeful man. That can’t happen, thought George. He would have to think of something. ≈ The desk lantern shone brightly as George stood in the study and waited. He watched with great sadness as Marsa Thom placed the keys to the bank, the rail office, the copper mill, and mine into a small wooden box, set it on top of the warrant for the possession of the “cash, stock, and real estate” that belonged to the businesses.

“Take that to Judge Campbell. Raht and Brown are probably waiting there with him. And you better take this.” Marsa Thom handed him a pass to be out at night; it was the first time in nearly twenty years.

George started to leave, stopped by the door as Marsa Thom spoke.

~ 318

“And tell that new boy Plato he’s leaving tonight on the 10:40 to Knoxville. He’ll be taking the four White boys with him.”

The four White boys had been hiding in the cabin for days when George had discovered them. If they thought anything of the bullet making equipment, they didn’t say so. They were Union family boys from the hills south of the Chattanooga tunnel, hiding from the Reb ‘enlistment’ patrols. The CSA was pressing any fit male of soldiering age, weren’t taking no for an answer. George had brought them down just yesterday and hid them in Big Jackie’s barn. But they had to go.

George was surprised that he was to be delivering the documents, but Marsa Thom was so angry about the stripping of his property, he said he couldn’t trust himself in the presence of men of such low morals. It had been ugly at the courthouse. Raht, his close friend and business partner, had sold him out; named him as a Unionist and Lincolnite. He would become the sole owner of the businesses that he and Marsa Thom had spent years building. George had sat in the back as Judge Campbell had passed judgement, not even allowing Marsa Thom to speak. Marsa Thom had been shocked at the whole series of events. George had heard Marsa Thom tell Miz Susan, when he thought no one else was in earshot, “They treated me like they would a nigra!” It didn’t feel good, did it? thought George.

George made his way through the streets, still active at this cold late hour of eight o’clock. Ragtag groups of Rebs were gathered around fires, drinking heavily, trying to stay warm, the air thick with smoke. As George turned up the walk to the courthouse doors, a sentry stopped him at gunpoint.

“Stop right there, nigger.”

One of the many soldiers gathered around a fire on the courthouse lawn had lowered his gun at George. George froze where he stood.

“Where you think you be goin’?”

“Delivery Suh.” George held out his pass.

~ 319

“Ain’t no nigger ‘sposted to be out at night, and never to the courthouse!”

“Cap Brown be ‘spectin’ me, Suh.” At the name of Captain Brown, another sentry spoke up.

“Go check, Jess.”

Jess turned and started up the walkway, but before he’d taken two steps, the courthouse door opened, and Captain Brown stepped out.

“You boys send that nigger up here.”

So Captain Brown did recognize him by sight, thought George. He assumed he was invisible to the Captain.

“Thank you, Suh,” George said loudly, and hurried past the sentry, who shook his head and mumbled. “God damn rich man’s war.”

George had heard several of the Union boys use that term, he was surprised to hear the Reb say it. Since most White southerners couldn’t afford to own slaves, there was rumbling about poor boys going to die to protect the rich man’s property. Hate and fear of Blacks were about the only things keeping the Rebs fighting. But lately, many were deserting and going back home to their farms to feed their families, their one-year enlistments mainly up. It was beginning to dawn on both sides that the war was going to go on for a long time; maybe as much as another year.

George followed Captain Brown into the courthouse. Judge Campbell and Raht waited in the hallway.

“Where’s Mister Calloway?”

“He say bring dis to y’all, Suh.” George handed the box over to the Judge who opened and inspected the contents. Brown broke the silence.

“You tell that traitor I’ve not forgot his pistol.”

“Yas Suh,” George bowed his head to Brown, knowing he would never say such a thing to Marsa Thom.

While Raht eagerly examined the papers in the box, The Judge handed George an envelope.

“Mister Calloway’s receipt.”

~ 320

George bowed his head and backed out the door. He had to remind himself that hate was an agent of the devil. But he felt it anyway. ≈ Both side doors to the boxcar stood open exposing the stacks of food and clothes to the blowing snow that had started just an hour ago.

George watched the flakes fall and stick, not melting; the night was cold and getting colder. Marked for delivery to ‘the Army of Virginia’, some of the goods in the boxes had been taken by the retreating Rebs. The empty boxes were just the right size for four skinny White young men.

Plato stood in the car door, a wooden box top in hand, waiting. George looked down at Marsa Thom holding his pistol, a glint off the barrel reflecting the lights in the freight office. They stood on the far side of the yard in the dark, out of earshot of the soldiers inside. Marsa Thom waved the barrel at the boxes, “Get in.”

They were Unionists going to join up, didn’t want to be pressed into the CSA, needed to get away from the farms, there just wasn’t enough food to go around. They’d be one less mouth at home, serve their country. It was the leaving that was hard.

One of the four started to sniffle, wanted to go home. He was all of seventeen or eighteen, dressed in the threadbare remains of clothes, the best his family could afford to send him away in. These days there were no clothes or cloth anywhere to buy, everybody was just making do.

“You can’t go back. Told you that when we started this.”

The four nodded, but didn’t climb up into the boxes.

Marsa Thom sighed, “Y’all know what we look like, where to find us. Not that you’d willingly betray us. But if you were to be captured, or if your family were threatened, you’d tell all. Then my family would likely die. If we let you go back, that is.”

George had never heard Marsa Thom talk like that to anyone. The logic was right. But George felt a chill in the rising wind.

“My choice is between you, and me and mine. So your choice is to die here and now, or take your chances on the railroad.”

~ 321

Marsa Thom nodded towards Plato. “Plato will see you through to Richmond. He can’t go back either.”

The young men slowly climbed aboard the train, looked at one another and back at Marsa Thom with the pistol still in his hand, and stepped into their boxes, crouching low. Plato put the tops on, pounding them into place with the palm of his hand. George handed Plato an old jacket taken off a dead Reb, who put it on quickly, sat in an empty box, and pulled the top down firmly. George slowly closed the car door; dropped a stout stick into the bolt hole on the outside locking them in. No man wants to have to choose between death one way or death another. Sad what the war had brought to everyone; we’re all changing, thought George. And Marsa Thom had used the word ‘we’, as in ‘we’re in this together’; true now more than ever.

~ 322

Chapter Sixty-Six Thursday, February 20th, 1862 The Rebs were moving out of the barn, lining up, stamping their feet in the snow, the shadows of the trees were still long across the ground, yielding no warmth from the cold bright morning sun. Those that had a blanket were wrapped up, those without had their hands in their armpits to keep them from frostbite. In the daylight, George could see the patched clothing, the worn cuffs, the hanks of rope tied around their shoes to keep the soles from falling off. The glory of war had long worn off their faces; the creases and dirt telling only of survival.

Miz Susan had ordered Ma to make up cornpones, and they were outside handing them out, along with half a bar of homemade soap for each man. The men nodded their thanks, some shivering so bad they couldn’t speak. Henry walked behind, pouring the last of the coffee for whoever held up a cup.

The roads south to Chattanooga had been cleared by the wagon trains carrying supplies; the word was that General Johnson had ordered what remained of the armies of Tennessee to regroup in Corinth Mississippi. But the wounded would be left behind in the towns along the rail line. Every church, hotel, and warehouse for a mile in any direction, was occupied. There was not enough food, clean water, or blankets; and despite all hands helping, the wounded were half frozen, starved, and dying like flies. Overnight twenty more had died, their bodies borne out to the mass graves near the Reb camp by the slaves pressed into tending the dead. The sharp bite of the Corporal’s voice rang out, the soldiers making their way to the road, on to meet their destiny in this life and the next. ≈ George had finished pulling off the top board along each inside wall of the summer kitchen when Elizabeth hurried in. She looked around at the mess, and the three, one-hundred-pound sacks of wheat George had

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hidden in the barn under a pile of hay, right in plain sight of the now departed soldiers.

The Rebs had stripped all the food and blankets they could get from everyone, even the Reb families; there was little left to contribute to the wounded. Union homes had been hiding food for months; they had begun digging caches in the hills behind their homes. People had taken to filling the walls of their homes with grain, hiding what they could from the door-to-door searches of the Rebs.

“When were you going to tell me about all this?” she said, her hands planted on her hips, her head tilted to one side, smiling.

“Soon’s I got finished. Don’t want anyone to know where it is ‘till we need it.”

Elizabeth gave him a quick peck and picked up a long-handled pot and began to scoop the grain into an opening in the wall. The door opened, and in came Henry, who without a word assessed the situation, set down the coffee pot, began to fill the wall next to the stove. The door swung open again and in came Ma, empty pan under her arm, who froze in the doorway when she saw everyone working. George took the pan, closed the door behind her. They all stopped and waited for Ma to start complaining about the mess.

“Don’t none you tell Miz Susan. She be given way de entire kitchen,” said Ma. To their relieved laughter, Ma picked up a flour scoop, set to refilling each pot and bowl. ≈ George put the large iron soap kettle out in the front yard, boiled used bandages with wood ash to wash the worst of the dried blood and puss out of them. Without supplies, the makeshift infirmaries were forced to reuse what bandages as they had. Henry used a forked stick to hang the boiled cloth on the front yard fence to cool. Both were working under the supervision of Miz Susan, who even now was out with Elizabeth gathering the uniforms of the dead to cut up for the wounded.

~ 324

George stopped to watch the wagons of the Reb units pass by the house loaded with sacks of white fall wheat, taken at gunpoint from local farmers. This past year’s crop hadn’t been milled into flour; it had gotten a heavy rain right at harvest, had turned bad; the pigs and chickens tolerated it, that was about all. But the Rebs didn’t know that, and the Union farmers weren’t telling them. And now it was going to be milled for the Reb army. George just knew no good would come of that.

~ 325

Chapter Sixty-Seven Sunday, February 23rd, 1862 The weather had turned warmer for a spell, and like magic, the clouds parted, and the sun shone bright for Sunday services. A revival ministry had come to town, following the troops south, and had setup next to the Reb camp. Religious fever had seized the troops, many folks from Cleveland had joined the three-day event.

Reverend Jackson Jode spoke in a fine strong voice, a fine way with words, and would for a small donation, personally ‘lay hands’ on any soul wanting salvation. Every man attending would be given a free cup of whiskey, every woman a half cup of ‘women’s tonic’; it would put a body in the mood to see the hand of God at work, as defined by the good reverend. God was, as Reverend Jode said, on the side of the Confederacy and would protect all those who served.

George thought it had more to do with being in God’s good graces —so you would get to heaven if you were killed suddenly—than being holy. But whatever made the men come to the revival, it was on. As many of the wounded as could went to the meeting, some carried. The sight of all those men praying together was a good thing, a powerful thing, sure to get the attention of Him to the trials of the faithful.

The singing and shouting was heard clear across town. George listened to the strains of ‘What a friend we have in Jesus’ as he and Elizabeth walked home from their church. George knocked the ash and cinders from his pipe against the big elm on Ocoee in front of the White girl’s school, watched his girls skip along in the snow. Elizabeth, a few steps behind carried James, stopped beside him.

“I didn’t want to speak of it at church, but Miz Susan say Harriette and them leave tonight. On the train to Dalton.”

George’s shoulders sagged heavily, pulled out his tobacco pouch, refilled his pipe, “What’s Ma say?”

~ 326

“She’s really upset, you see she wouldn’t come to church today, just set in the kitchen talked to Old Jimmy, as if he was still with us. She kept saying ‘she cain’t go, she cain’t go’ over and over.”

Elizabeth rocked the baby from foot to foot, waiting for George to speak.

“Billy will beat her, have his way with her. And worst. You know that,” said Elizabeth.

George nodded sadly, turned to see Walter and Harriette walking together coming towards them, arm-in-arm.

“You walk the children on home, I’ll be there directly.”

George turned, waved and smiled at the couple, who stopped dead in their tracks. ≈ George and Walter sat at the crossroad near Blue Springs, three miles south of Cleveland, two miles south of the Reb camp. It was past one in the morning, the air was freezing cold, the night so still they could hear the train coming a mile off. The waning crescent moon was hidden by a thin high cloud cover, barely enough light to see, but not enough to make shadows. The two men huddled on the seat of one of Walter’s copper hauling wagons, the six-mule team standing quietly dozing on their feet, mules and men wrapped in heavy blankets. They were near the tracks where the road to Dalton crossed, where the trains on the Atlanta line stopped for water and wood.

Behind them, stacked like firewood, lay Confederate war dead; Walter had visited the make-shift hospitals around town that afternoon and collected them, seventeen in all. Though they were frozen solid, the odor of death clung to them; the bodies were the travel pass they needed for the night’s work. They had talked it all through, rehearsed it in their minds. If they got caught, they were all dead. The Reb soldiers would shoot first, never ask any questions.

The night train had been late. With all the military trains, the freight and civilian passenger trains had to take whatever times they could get, if they could get any time or rolling stock to begin with. A

~ 327

tacit trade had grown between the North and South: northern mills needed cotton; southern civilians needed finished non-military manufactured goods. The blockade of Southern ports had shut down cotton exports; an official limited exchange system had been set up. This train was given priority; it was loaded with medical supplies headed to Atlanta, it would return with bales of cotton. Aboard was Miz Susan and the children, Harriette, Charles, and Henry, on their way to the farm in Georgia.

The train was moving slowly as it approached the water tower; the noise of the brakes a loud screech as it slid to a stop on the icy tracks, steam bathing the crossing in a soft fog before settling to the ground.

The brakeman, stoker, and fireman got off on the far side and began the banging and clanking of refilling the train water tank, while the engineer fiddled with levers and valves in the cab.

George watched the rear door of the first-class car waiting for the prearranged signal from Henry. It seemed an eternity, as he wondered what had gone wrong, what were they going to do, when at last, the signal came; a red lantern flashed twice in the window. George raised their red lamp, waved it once. Two figures descended from the steps, jumped to the ground. They hugged, then one went back into the train, one began crossing the deep snow towards the wagon. There was a shout from the front of the train. Everyone froze stock still, awaiting discovery, but the shout was a command from the engineer to the crew.

The figure crossed over to the road. It was Harriette.

Nobody said a word. Walter lifted a tarp off a single coffin in the far back, draped with a hand stitched Confederate flag, the sides burned with the letters C.S.A. Off came the coffin top, a rotting stench wafting from the inside. There wasn’t a body, but a layer of stinking pig offal.

Walter helped Harriette wrap herself in layers of burlap, to stay warm and keep the smell away. As she stepped into the coffin she hesitated; Walter put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She crossed herself, lay with the rotting intestines. As the coffin top passed over her face, she closed her eyes.

~ 328

Walter slapped the reins and the wagon began to roll, the wheels crunching the icy road; the noise of the steam engine covering their escape. George took out a flask, took a sip, offered it to Walter who shook his head no.

“You don’t drink, George.”

“No, but we need that sentry to think we do,” he said, gesturing up the road.

George spilled a little of the whiskey on his coat, more on his sleeve. ≈ “Halt!” came the loud command, shouted at them as they rolled past the Reb camp.

“Night Marsa,” said George in his best subservient slightly drunk accent and offered the soldier a pull on the flask, the odor of the alcohol heavy.

“Didn’t I see you boys going the other way about an hour ago?” he said as he waved away the flask.

“Had to pick a body from de train. Poor boy goin’ home de hard way.”

The sentry held up his lantern, and as he got to the stinking coffin, put his sleeve up to his face and waved them on past the camp.

They made their way to the Reb cemetery just north of town, unloaded the frozen bodies. The coffin, stamped with Nashville on it, was waved on.

The story of Walter and Harriette would grow with time. How they made their way to Nashville, traveling by day in the open, the ‘pass’ that George had written on official railroad stationary, explaining the delivery to a Reverend Nathaniel Grant. How not a single Reb bothered to open the coffin once they got close to it, Harriette in the ever more stinking coffin, how it took a week of bathing to get the smell out of her hair. But they got to the Union army and safety; she cooked and cared for the orphan children, he drove supply wagons for the USA. After the

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war, they would return to Cleveland, start a hauling business, and raise nine children.

~ 330

Chapter Sixty-Eight Thursday, February 27th, 1862 “Miz Susan done gone off without him,” said George, “he ain’t come outta the house in five days now.”

Judge Campbell nodded, looked down at his desk. George was standing in the office on the side of the judge’s house. On his desk was an unsigned warrant of arrest for Thomas Howard Calloway, for theft of ‘various properties and gold specie’ belonging to the Cleveland Bank, Inc. “You tell him that I can only hold this warrant until the end of the day.”

“Yas, Suh.” “And tell him Captain Brown is waiting for it.”

“Yas, Suh.” George shook sleet and snow off his coat, entered the kitchen. Ma and Elizabeth were sitting at the table, Ma loudly slurping the creamrich sweet brew with a little splash of coffee in it that was ‘her drink’.

They looked at him, gestured wordlessly to the living room with their thumbs and raised eyebrows. The gestures said it all. Marsa Thom wanted to see him. Right now.

Marsa Thom was holding a telegraph in his hand, leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, tie askew. He didn’t open his eyes or hold the telegraph up.

“Read this.”

George took the paper, walked to the window for the light. It was from Miz Susan, reporting that they had made it safely to the farm, and befitting its remote location from the army, there was plenty of food.

And that Harriette had disappeared during the overnight train ride.

“You know anything about this?” came Marsa Thom’s voice from the chair.

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Like so many times before, George couldn’t tell the truth; he couldn’t not tell the truth. He had rehearsed his words carefully, spoke slowly. “I know she was scared to go down to the farm. Clear she took things into her own hands.”

“You know where she was going?”

Marsa Thom was looking straight at him, watching closely.

“I imagine she goin’ to the Union, like all these runaways.”

George felt bad about having to tell a half truth. But Marsa Thom had sent Harriette there knowing how Billy treated slaves. George had prayed on this, and even if he told the full story, not much could be done with a war on. Marsa Thom had often said so about the state of things. George was really just agreeing with him. Silently.

“Judge Campbell says he cain’t hold the warrant past tonight.”

Marsa Thom sat up. George spoke quietly. “Hear tell Union men are hiding out in the caves.”

The Union men wanted by the Confederacy for all manner of reasons, were said to be hiding in well disguised hand dug caves in the hills above their farms and towns. Holes large enough to live in, some even with small shops and tools. The men would make shoes, buckets, baskets; the families would smuggle in food and take the wares to sell. The overheads were supported with poles and logs, the secret doors were disguised with branches, leaves and dirt. You’d have to know where the holes were to find them. Eventually, there would be thousands.

“Our cave would do very nicely.”

Marsa Thom nodded, stood.

“Gather together anything we have left of value. We’ll go in the next hour.”

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≈ George put the two sacks of Marsa Thom’s things on the first rock ledge in the cave. It was big enough to sleep on if you didn’t roll about too much. Marsa Thom set on it the two valises they’d brought with some deeds, papers, and books. A box with dried beans and ham, rice and corn flour, salt pork, half a dozen eggs was the last.

George set about getting in a few small dead logs for a fire, and green pine boughs for a bed. He used three blankets, made the bed, found a pot in the cabin down the mountain, filled it with water from the nearby stream. He made a fire circle of stones, laid and lit a fire, watched as the smoke was drawn into the rear of the cave, pulling fresh outside air into the small entrance.

All this time, Marsa Thom sat with his head in his hands. George worked quietly, didn’t say a word. He laid his hand on Marsa Thom’s shoulder for just a moment, then turned to leave. As he pushed the big log over the opening and scumbled dirt around it, he swore he heard this strong, stern man cry. ≈ It was well past dark when the clomp of horses and men stopped out in front of the house. George looked out the window, nodded to Ma and Elizabeth who retreated to the kitchen. They had doused all the table lamps and were carrying storm lanterns; they were concerned the Rebs would knock over the lighted lamps, setting the house afire. George opened the door as two soldiers were about to smash it in with a big log.

“Evenin’ Suhs,” he said as he quickly stepped aside to let the onrush of men into the house. Five groups of two went in different rooms and up the stairs. George heard the back-door slam open, and the sound of breaking glass and bowls.

Captain Brown entered the house, pistol drawn, pointed it at George.

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Both men stood still as the soldiers ransacked the house. The sounds of destruction met George’s ears; no stone unturned, pulling books off shelves, upending furniture, smashing windows.

The men returned to the entryway, some carrying ‘souvenirs’ of pots, clothing, and furniture.

“Where is he?” Brown asked.

“He be agoin’ South, Suh.” Brown looked at George for a moment, turned to Corporal Acock.

“Get one of them niggers from the kitchen.”

Acock returned with Elizbeth, her arm wrenched behind her back, stumbling, half dragging her. Brown smiled, looked her over. He reached up and felt her breasts. More than once. “I’m gonna get a good price for you ‘fore this war be over.”

Brown gave a nasty smile, then cocked his gun and put it to her head. He looked at George. “I ask you again.”

Nervous sweat trickled all over George’s body. He stood especially still now, knowing one wrong little move could cost him or Elizabeth, one or both of their lives.

“I’s told you all I’s know, Suh,” said George, as he slowly dropped to one knee, raised his hands as if in prayer. “Please, Suh, he don’t tell me all’s he do.”

Tears began to flow from Elizabeth’s eyes, though she did not sob or make a sound.

Brown looked down at George, his smile widening. He uncocked his gun. George did not relax; he knew better. Then suddenly, viciously, Brown struck George across his face with the barrel of his pistol.

That’s the last George remembered until he woke in Elizabeth’s arms, the Rebs already gone. George would be in bed for three days, left eye swollen shut, before he could stand on his own. He was the only one who knew where Marsa Thom was. From now on he must be much more on guard, careful, and meticulous about every movement.

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Chapter Sixty-Nine Thursday, March 13th, 1862 George yelled “G’morning, Suh!,” as he pushed aside the log in front of the cave. The morning sun, at last peeking above the horizon, shone into the dark hole. George waited a moment and let his eyes adjust to the dark. He could hear Marsa Thom stirring in the back of the cave.

“I’ve got fresh clothes and food.”

It had been two weeks since Brown started looking for Marsa Thom, and in that time he’d returned to the Calloway house three times, searching it each time, and had put sentries across the street to watch the house. George had boarded up windows, repaired furniture. Ma and Elizabeth worked hard to get the house back in order; but the Rebs would return, and the whole cycle would start over again.

There were no Rebs watching the house today; after three days of freezing rain, George guessed they had enough. The bad weather was the perfect cover for George to make his way up the mountain. It had been a difficult climb loaded with a large rucksack and Marsa Thom’s rifle. The mud building up on his boots meant he had to stop often in the dark to clean them; at least the continuous rain had erased his footprints. Once in the woods it had gotten easier, the grass cover held him above the ooze as he walked; the wet twigs bent instead of snapped. He judged he was so quiet he could even sneak up on a deer.

Just before dawn, he looked up and for the first time in days and saw the stars. He stood for just a moment, gazing aloft, reminded that even in a time of war, the heavens were not disturbed.

Marsa Thom blinked at George, sleep lifting from him as he stood up and put on his coat. He had nearly three weeks beard growth, snow white, hair matted and stringy. He was thinner. “Gonna take advantage of the sunshine today, stretch my legs” “Mighty fine day out there this mornin’. I’ll fix you somethin’ warm to eat for when you come back.”

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Marsa Thom crawled out, George heard him walking away towards the stream to the north behind the rocks where they had agreed the latrine could go, least likely to be seen. After the fire was stoked, George busied himself with food, clothes, the few letters that had come.

When George passed the latrine-rocks on his way back with fresh water, Marsa Thom stood, pulled on his clothes, made his way to the top of the largest boulder. He looked out on the mountains to the East, the meadow below, the wild crocus breaking through the crusted snow.

“Life takes a man down many paths, George. You’d think that after sixty years, I’d know that by now.”

George looked up at Marsa Thom, looking old, gaunt, tired. He felt for the old man.

“Yes, is does, surely does.”

But then, he hadn’t suffered any more than many others. Less than most, in truth. Money does buy comfort and power. ≈ George stepped through the rear door of the bank, saw Miss Mary sitting, reading a book. As he walked to her desk, he could see Raht sitting in Marsa Thom’s office, looking over the ledger books. George had gotten back to the house by mid-morning, with dirty clothes to be cleaned, and two letters to be sent to Miz Susan. That’s when he thought to see Mary. She smiled when she saw him, spoke quietly.

“What brings you this way, George?”

He pulled out the two letters and pushed them across the desk to her. He spoke in a whisper. “Letters for your cousin down Georgia way.”

There was no way to mail the letters directly to Miz Susan, Brown would watch for something like that, but George also knew Mary had a cousin who lived in Spring Place, not two miles from the old Lea plantation in Dalton. His face the question ‘can you do this?’ She paused a moment, then nodded, slipped the letters into her desk drawer. He took the silver dollar that Marsa Thom had given him and placed it on the desk. She shook her head no, George just smiled. He knew that a

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silver dollar, now so hard to get, would buy her two weeks food on the black market. He left it sit. It was the least he could do.

All the Union people, and most Rebs, didn’t want to do business with Confederate money. It was dropping in value all the time, and while the price of rice was up to a Dixie dollar a pound, it was still eight cents in Federal silver coin. So many people were hoarding the Union coins, both North and South, that the US government had taken to printing money on paper. ‘Treasury Notes’ they were called, printed with green ink, with a promise to redeem in gold at a later date.

Everyone called them ‘greenbacks’, and they quickly became the blackmarket currency in Cleveland. And all over the South.

~ 337

Chapter Seventy Saturday, March 22nd, 1862 “They took everything,” said Miss Tina in a panic, “I have no food a-tall.”

It was true; the Rebs were again going to all the Union families, searched basements, barns, and walls, this time stripping them of anything edible. They confiscated everything, even the seed corn for the spring. They searched the Calloway home and barn, but thankfully, not the summer kitchen walls.

Confederate General Kirby Smith was furious. The spoiled white winter wheat had been shipped to Chattanooga, milled, and issued, sickened eight thousand Rebs, who vomited and had bouts of diarrhea.

He had reported to President Davis that the Rebs in Chattanooga were without discipline; they were only protecting the railroad, the food supply, and the farms. In addition, “East Tennessee was the ‘enemies’ country, and the people, not near Confederate troops, are in open rebellion. Further, pickets from troops made of East Tennessee men cannot be relied on, and even officers are not free from suspicion.” He recommended they all be sent to other areas to fight, as they couldn’t be trusted near their homes and families. General Smith had ordered that all available food and rations be taken to Chattanooga for the army.

With no food locally available, the army was forced to move all the sick and wounded from Cleveland to Chattanooga. Now, stray dogs and cats had disappeared. Nobody said a word about it, but everyone knew they had been eaten by the desperate. Everybody was losing weight, the worry showed in their faces.

“We’s get by,” said Ma, putting an arm around Miss Tina as they sat in the kitchen. “You come each de noon bell, we’s get by.”

What she wouldn’t say was that over the previous weeks, fearing the Rebs would find the canned food in the root cellar, George and Elizabeth had taken the precious glass Mason jars to the church, where

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they were safely hidden under the alter. “We’s got to say double-grace to thank God for de food now,” Ma had commented. George had just said, “amen,” and let it pass. The garden seed was hidden in the dish case in the kitchen where Marsa Thom’s gun had been, safe until the spring planting. And there was still grain in the summer kitchen walls.

Mostly.

Ma had commented on them first. “Nebber saw so many rats and mice.”

It was true, as the weather had begun to warm, there were droppings everywhere. More and more. Most of the cats and dogs were gone, racoons too. The rodents had a field day; so too, the fleas and lice they brought with them. Everyone was scratching, especially the children.

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Chapter Seventy-One Friday, April 4th, 1862 “What de Rebs ain’t took, de plague will,” Ma told the family.

Typhus was running all through town, and Ma had ordered everyone to bathe in a mixture of pine turpentine and vinegar, which felt like your skin was on fire, but killed the fleas and louses that carried the killer disease. They boiled all their clothes, sheets, blankets; threw out all the pillows and bedding, burning anything that couldn’t be boiled or cleaned.

Elizabeth and Miz Tina—now living with the family—carried out the last of the straw filled mattresses and dumped them on the bonfire.

George had taken all the grain the mice didn’t eat, put it in bags, and hung them from the rafters in the barn. Ma flooded all the cabins and the summer kitchen with boiling water and turpentine to kill flea eggs.

George dipped the chickens in cedar creosote oil, and though they quit pecking at themselves, they didn’t lay an egg for several days.

George dusted some of the precious grain with arsenic powder, sprinkled it in the barn and around the buildings. The mice were disappearing, and every morning, he’d look for the dead ones, often found in a crack or behind furniture. Had to be sure to keep the children and chickens away from them.

The first of the Rebs to have the fever were from up in Knoxville.

The Rebs were forming new units, sending them out as reinforcements.

The CSA grouped the men that had gotten through all the ‘camp sicknesses’ for the new units. The local farm boys that were put in with them got sick; many died. And now typhus. You only had to touch someone with it, or eat with the same spoon, drink with the same cup; or get bit by the rampant pestilence. The bugs were so bad that the soldiers would turn their clothes and underwear inside out and roast them over the campfires.

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First came fever, then a week later a full body rash. If you were lucky, you’d live. If not, in another week, fear of light, delirium, stumbling and falling, then death. They were the walking dead.

Without enough food, the weak and the sick and the old folks were mainly the ones that the Lord was calling home. There was no cure, just luck and Grace. The death bell at the Berry house rang most of the day for the next few weeks. ≈ “Go on witch you!” shouted Ma. The sun was gone two hours when the young Reb soldier banged on the front door.

“Mama! Mama! I know y’all in thar!” he said in the thick accent of the high mountain farmers.

In the thin moonlight, George could see the man was sick with the typhus. Way gone sick. Wild eyes, weaving, half his clothes thrown off from the fever, rash all over.

“You ma don’t live here, boy,” George said through the broken glass of the front window, “go on back to de camp, now.”

George rested his right hand on his loaded rifle, just out of sight, should the need arise.

“I’s need to see my Ma!” The man’s breath was failing him, he was speaking barely above a whisper.

George hesitated, looked at Ma. “She out to de camp waitin’ for you, told me so herself,” said Ma. “What?…” The Reb’s voice gave out, he shook his head like he was trying to throw off water or confusion.

He stared up at the stars a moment, then turned and walked to the road. He steadied himself on the front fence rail, sat heavily, his back against the post. He looked around for a moment, then leaned back his head and closed his eyes.

George picked up his rifle, unlocked the hammer, removed the firing cap.

“God forgive me,” whispered Ma, as she mouthed a silent prayer.

~ 341

George nodded. “God is going to have to forgive everyone ‘fore this war is over.” ≈ There weren’t any people about in town as George made his way out towards the hills. He was not carrying a lantern, several times in the unusual stillness he thought he’d ‘seen things’ that weren’t there; it spooked him a bit, made him hurry along. He had as much in his rucksack as he could manage in the cold, in the dark, up the mountain.

The heat of his effort kept him warm, and now the heat of the fire in Marsa Thom’s cave dried the sweat from his person. The two men sat on large rocks that Marsa Thom had rolled from deep inside the cave.

He insisted George sit and rest while Marsa Thom ate his supper. It was ‘Brunswick Stew’, squirrels that Marsa Thom had trapped, and what few onions George had brought from the root cellar. And the loaf of bread Ma had made for him.

“You already read the papers?” Marsa Thom asked?

“Yas Suh, Lincoln closed all the ports, no cotton goin’ out, no money comin’ in.”

George had taken to going to the rail station as the trains came in, to sneak the newspapers out from under the noses of the Rebs.

Everyone wanted the Philadelphia Inquirer; both sides said it had the best, unbiased information about the war. Most times all George could get was a tired copy of the Cleveland Banner, but this week, he’d gotten an Inquirer, less than two weeks old.

“Seems there’s a new type of warship made of iron, had a big battle in Norfolk. Neither could sink the other. One Reb ship called ‘Merrimack’, and a new type of Union boat named ‘Monitor’.”

Marsa Thom, nodded, then shook his head, “So many new ways to kill one another.”

George hesitated before telling him about the typhus outbreak. And that there were no letters from Miz Susan.

“Ain’t much mail getting through, the army got all the trains used for them. I was surprised to see the newspapers get through.”

~ 342

Marsa Thom just nodded, occupied with the fresh bread. “Your family alright? Safe from the plague?”

“They are. Knock wood.” George rapped his knuckles on the nearest log. The two men stared into the fire for a long moment. George spoke first.

“Miz Tina has moved into the back porch in the house. The Rebs took everything in her house, food, money, left her to starve.”

Marsa Thom looked up at George, then just nodded. It was something that George had done with his property without asking permission first. Things were changing, indeed. ≈ It was well gone midnight, no lamps on in town as George arrived at the front of the house. He had cut through the back streets to avoid being seen. As he arrived at the side yard gate he saw the Reb still sitting out by the front post. He put his rucksack of dirty clothes on the steps of the back porch and went around to see to the soldier. As he walked up, the young man didn’t stir. George spoke softly and nudged his leg with his boot. The Reb was as hard and stiff as a board. George sighed. His mother would never know what happened to him; how he died. George pulled the soldier’s hat down over his eyes.

“God have mercy on your soul.”

He closed his eyes in silent prayer then went to his cabin for muchneeded sleep. No need to hurry for help now.

~ 343

Chapter Seventy-Two Friday, April 11th, 1862 George was on his way to the bank in the late afternoon to see about any letters from Miz Susan to Marsa Thom by way of Miss Mary. He saw a large crowd of White men gathered in the square, near a signboard that had been set up on the Courthouse lawn. Tacked to it was a large piece of heavy paper. By order of the President of the Confederate States of America, Jefferson Davis, martial law was issued by proclamation for all of Bradley County and East Tennessee. George thought the men looked agitated, many standing around in small groups talking loudly.

The Confederates had lost a major battle at Shiloh, Tennessee, the beginning of the week. CSA General Sydney Johnson had attacked the army of US Grant by surprise. Forty thousand men on each side, the battle had lasted two days. Tens of thousands dead or wounded.

General Johnson had been killed; the Reb army, routed and in complete disarray, fled south into Mississippi.20 20 The loss was a huge blow. It was the biggest battle to date ever fought, twenty thousand

dead and wounded. It shocked both North and South. The papers said there were more dead than all the other battles of the war combined. “Men… lying in every conceivable position; the dead… with their eyes wide open, the wounded begging piteously for help… I seemed in a sort of a haze.”

– a Tennessee private. “…piles of dead soldiers’ mangled bodies… without heads and legs… The scenes of this field would have cured anybody of war.” – Sherman.

It was the harbinger of a long destructive war that would last years. Both sides knew it; a draft of able men for the armies was instituted and enlistments were extended from one year to three.

The Confederate Generals were angry, worried. So, in addition to martial law, they declared that internal passports were now required to travel, and absolutely no travel at night. They were issued by the military, and only for cause on official business. Wherever people were living, or traveling, or fleeing the war, they now couldn’t go anywhere without permission. There were no passports for Black people under any circumstances.

~ 344

President Davis couldn’t easily supply his army in Virginia without the East Tennessee rail line. The Rebs had tried to raise a civil militia to protect the rail line, but the local men went north by the hundreds to join the Union instead, burning the rail bridges as they went.

George had watched the Whites moving south fleeing Knoxville, and now after word of the battle got out during the last few days, poor farmers had come down the roads, all their worldly goods on their wagons; more and more people trying to outrun the war, by road and rail. They were desperate for food and shelter, they began to follow the Reb army, setting camp up outside of town near the military base camp.

For a Black man, it had never been safe to talk politics. Now it wasn’t safe for anyone, White or Black. Every Unionist in town was hiding their true feelings about the secession, the war, the lack of food, and most of all, who was to blame.

George had noticed the change at the train station at first. The peculiar way some of the Union farmers greeted each other. A pull twice on the left ear, while pointing three fingers sideways with the right hand against their chest. A handshake with the ring finger and pinky folded into their palms. He watched more closely, never saw the Rebs do this, only the Linconites. Local Rebel families were being openly ostracized.

Miz Tina had taken to sitting out on the front porch whenever the troops passed by—which was often these days—and writing down what she saw. Called it ‘her diary’, but George had noticed it only had the number of troops, wagons, cannon, mules, and their company insignias. When she caught George reading over her shoulder, she didn’t say a thing, until later that night. She handed him an envelope, sealed with red wax.

“Next runaway comes by, hand him this and tell him to give it to General Rosecrans up in Kentucky.”

~ 345

George stared at it for a long minute. “Death if he gets caught with it.”

“Freedom and a job if he don’t,” she replied.

George took the note, gave it to Big Jack who was working with the runaways cutting firewood and railroad ties. Once a week Miz Tina gave George a note. Once a week he went to see Big Jack. But today he didn’t have a note. Which saved his life.

George knocked on the back door of the bank, opened it a pinch, watched Miss Mary. She looked up, shook her head almost imperceptibly. He nodded, closed the door quietly, turned to make his way down the narrow alley when he was suddenly hit from behind.

When George came to, he was lying in the dark, his hands tied behind his back. His head hurt, he was dizzy, and he had to squint to make his eyes focus. The barn stall he was in stunk of human waste. He felt a push on his right shoulder, and there beside him was the man without a tongue. He held up a knife. George must have looked scared because the man smiled, laughed silently, then cut the rope. George rubbed his wrists and nodded.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

The Tongue-less man put his finger to his mouth, shook his head no, sat back against the wooden wall, hid the knife in his crotch. George felt the bloody bump on the back of his head, tried to stand, but the Tongue-less man pulled him down, made a sign of sleep by putting his hands together next to his face and closing his eyes. George nodded, slumped against the wall, closed his eyes, and lost himself not in sleep, but worry.

~ 346

Chapter Seventy-Three Saturday April 12th, 1862 In the morning light, George saw he was in a portion of the rail yard stable, with fifteen other Black men. Some were in poor condition with whip marks, other oozing wounds. Most in chains. He didn’t recognize any save the tongue-less man. A Reb soldier came in, ordered the men to line up and walk outside. The men were lined up against the yard fence. They waited.

The wind was still, the sun warm. George turned his head to face the sun, closed his eyes; tried to imagine himself home. He opened his eyes at the sound of approaching footsteps. Captain Brown was walking down the line of men, looking them over. He came to a stop in front of George.

“Well, well, well… if ain’t one of Calloway’s blue-eye nigger boys.”

Brown pulled his cigar from between his yellow stained teeth and leaned in close with his stale tobacco and alcohol fueled breath. It was a dare for George to look up.

He steadfastly stared at the ground. “Yas Sir.” Brown snorted, drew his riding crop, smacked George across his face; he stumbled, but didn’t fall. Or look up. The Tongue-less man reached out to steady George. Brown didn’t seem to notice.

“You speak when spoken to, boy.” Brown raised the crop again and screamed into George’s face.

“Seen but not heard!”

George braced for another blow, but it didn’t come. After a long pause, Brown spoke.

“Where is he?”

George knew Brown must think he knew where the family farm was in Dalton. Just tell him what he wants to hear.

“Down Dalton, Georgia way, wid de Missus at de farm dere,”

~ 347

“Yes, thought so. Good. Know the sheriff well.” Brown leaned in again, a smile on his face.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Then he chuckled. Brown turned to Acock, right behind him.

“Put him to work on the fort.”

Brown drew his pistol and casually, offhandedly, shot the Tongueless man in the head as he walked by. He fell without sound or movement, like a stone.

The Lord would forgive him, thought George, for what he was going to do to that buckra if he ever had the chance. ≈ George was put to work stripping branches off pine trees as they were dragged up the hill to build the fort rampart. He was using a shorthandled axe, bent over to work, his back was killing him. The one time he’d stood to get relief he’d been shouted at, and a whip cracked overhead. Just now, the water boy came along the row of logs and offered him a ladle. He took the handle, stood as he lifted it to his lips, saw Elizabeth standing at the end of the road. He nodded slightly.

“She say she get help,” the boy whispered.

George looked at the boy, nodded his thanks. He couldn’t be older than eight, wondered what his mother must be thinking, worried where he might be. All Black men in the camp had been ‘requisitioned’ to build the Reb fort on the hill near the cemetery. Whether they were known as ‘runaways’ to the South, ‘contraband’ to the North, they were at the mercy of whoever caught them.

George bent back to work, stole a glance at the end of the road.

Elizabeth was gone. For a moment he wondered if he’d really seen her. ≈ Acock poured a bucket of a hot, sloppy mix of chopped pig hearts boiled in field corn into a long trough, whistling loud, off key, and to no tune. He got down to the end, stuck a finger into the gruel and tasted it, noisily sucking off the broth. The pressed slaves stood in a row, hands behind their back, and waited. “Dig in coon boys,” he laughed.

~ 348

George watched the men dig into the trough, sucking the mix from their scooped hands. He knew that this was the way the field hands were fed on the big plantations; some folks thought this was the way things should be done. George didn’t. Hungry as he was, he decided not to eat at all. He sat against a small tree, waited for the day to end; the sun was well behind the hills to the west. Behind him, the footsteps of three horses grew close. He turned as Sheriff Low and his two grown sons arrived and dismounted.

Sheriff Low put his pistol in his waistband and walked towards the Reb soldiers who were already drinking their evening corn whiskey.

The Sheriff nodded to George as he walked by; his sons had their muskets out of their saddle scabbards and walked a few paces behind, casually cradling them in their arms. One of the Rebs elbowed Acock while he was taking a long pull on the jug, who turned and watched the Sheriff approach. His scowl quickly gave way to a large false grin.

“Well, now Sheriff, you’re a ways out of your way. What brings you up here?”

“Come to collect some personal property,” he said as he tilted his head towards George.

“Now I knows that boy don’t belong to you,” Acock smiled harder.

“He belongs to Mister Calloway, as you well know. It’s military law now, Sheriff. What we say goes.”

“He ain’t a runaway like these others. He don’t fall under military law.”

Acock was clearly confused by that idea.

“Military law now, not Sheriff law.”

“Military law for all the military. Sheriff law for all the townsfolk.”

Acock looked at McMillian, who shrugged.

“Alright then. But I’m agonna check with Captain Brown and see what he say.”

“You do that.” The Sheriff nodded to his sons, each took one of George’s arms, and led him to the road. The Sheriff walked backward a few paces before he turned away, returned to his horse, looked back.

~ 349

Acock was hot-footing it in the direction of the camp. George smiled to think what Brown would say to him when he got there.

As the three men slow-walked their horses past the courthouse, the Sheriff spoke. “You thank Captain Grant next you see him. He’s put you under his protection. You also tell him that we’re even.”

It didn’t take but a moment for George to understand what had transpired. Elizabeth had gone to see the Captain. He would not refuse his slave granddaughter protection for her husband.

“And one more thing. The Confederate Army put a bounty of one hundred gold dollars on Mister Calloway’s head. Dead or alive.”

That was enough money to get Marsa Thom killed. Real money was scarce; gold was lots of real money.

“And tell him we’ll see him when the war’s over.”

The way the horses were heavily packed, George should have noticed. The Sheriff and his sons were headed North to join the Federals. Both the sons would return home at the end of the war; Sheriff Isaac Low would be lost at Gettysburg.21

21 On April 25th through the 29th, 1862, Flag Officer David Farragut, commanding the Union

Fleet, broke the Confederate blockade of New Orleans saying, ‘damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead’ (The US did not then use the rank of ‘Admiral’; impressed with his courage, Congress passed a law promoting him to Rear Admiral, the first in US history). Anticipating the attack, the Confederate Army had withdrawn from the city. The Confederate ‘Native Guards’, free men of color, refused to retreat with the Rebels and later welcomed General Ben Butler and his 5000 men to the city, without resistance. The Native Guard quickly swore allegiance to the Union Army and became the 73rd Regiment Infantry US Colored Troops.

The Mississippi River was now cut north and south. The Union was closing its grip on the western theater. The railroad through Cleveland became even more important.

~ 350

Chapter Seventy-Four Tuesday, May 6th, 1862 “We gonna sweat it out.”

Ma was putting the quilt Elizabeth had made for Mary on the little girl as she lay in her bed. Bright and cheerful, it was made of scraps of fabric she was saving for a larger ‘summer quilt’. Nobody knew how little Mary got the typhus; sick for days, she was now unconscious and covered with the deadly rash. It had been two days since she spoke. The whites of her eyes had turned pale yellow; Doctor Campbell had shaken his head, there was nothing he could do. Mary was only three, but she was a spunky soul; Ma told everyone she would live, would hear of nothing else. Ma had burned leaves of rose, dried chrysanthemum flowers, and the inner bark of the yellow pine in the cabin the past three days, prayed. The less she slept, the more she talked to Pappy Jim ‘on the other side’. Each morning Ma had boiled the bark of the willow tree to make a light brown sour tea for Little Mary. It helped with the fever.

“He say he take good care of her if she come over.”

George could only look at his mother and nod, “Got to rest Ma. We need you to stay well.” Elizabeth and the other two children, James and Caroline, had moved over to the Grant’s with Grammy Caroline till Mary was better. It was a wealthy Confederate home, there was plenty to eat there. George was relieved they were safe, as long as no one else got sick, they would return home in a few weeks.

Ma, her shoulders rounded, her eyes bloodshot, a hanky twisted around her hands held in the prayer position, stood to leave, “Give her a spoon of tea ever ten minute, make sure she can breathe easy.”

“I’ll be right here, try to rest.”

Ma closed the door behind her as George sat heavily in the chair by the bed, laid his head down on the blanket by her feet, took Mary’s hand in his, and promptly fell asleep.

~ 351

George had worked the past three days on the garden that stretched between the Big House and the cabins, turned the soil, broke the clods, tossed out rocks, it kept his mind off Mary. He planted what seeds they still had, beans, corn, squash, beets, onions, carrots, sweet potatoes, and tomatoes. The garden was twice the size of last year’s, near an acre. No food was available at any price, what there was, taken by the Rebs. The rest of the land was given over to the one cow. With enough rain there should be grass at least for the summer. There would be plenty of weeding to do. Everyone would have to work, even the young ones. But now, at the end of the day, he was tired. He needed sleep before he hiked up the mountain to carry food to Marsa Thom.

George woke, half dreaming, with a vision of Pappy Jim touching Mary on the forehead. To clear his head of the vision, he stood and stretched; she lay still, breathing slowly. He put his hand on her forehead, just as he had ‘seen’ Pappy Jim do it. Her skin was cool.

George fell to his knees and wept. Ma had been right. The death bell atop the Berry house would not ring for Mary.

Mary’s eyes would never blink together again, instead one after the other, a double wink that seemed to say, ‘I’m letting you in on this joke’.

But she would be fine, just fine.

~ 352

Chapter Seventy-Five Saturday, June 7th, 1862 George was chopping weeds in the garden when he heard the first low boom thunder across the valley. The days had been hot, still, and humid, so he now worked in the cool morning sun. He had heard rumors of Yanks in the area, and the Reb General Smith had issued orders that anyone on the street had to carry a ‘permit’ to go anywhere.

Except the Reb soldiers. There were now so many that they were camped alongside the roads, in every field, thousands of them. They were all headed down to join Kirby in Chattanooga, even Captain Brown and the local regiment. It would leave Cleveland unguarded, but Chattanooga was higher priority. Whoever occupied it controlled the upper Tennessee River and the Southern Railway and could secure, or cut off, the much-needed Reb main supply line to the Army of Virginia.

The railroad was secured by the Reb troops, but rumor was that twelve thousand Yanks were massing at Cumberland Gap up north, and nine thousand more outside Chattanooga. George had heard these rumors for months, years really. But today he heard the proof. Everyone in town did, including the troops passing in the lane. People all stopped what they were doing, listened. There it was again, louder, then several at once, low and rolling. Cannon fire.

Yesterday, the news was of Memphis falling, the Governor and the entire Tennessee Reb government had run to Corinth, Mississippi; the Union now had total control of western Tennessee.

Last night, campfires could be seen in the mountains to the south.

No way could George get up to the mountain for Marsa Thom; it had been three weeks now. But he would have to try soon, and tonight might be good, as so many men were out on the road, and so many runaways were trying to get to the Union armies and freedom.

~ 353

George watched the officers shout commands at the passing troops, the heavy footfall of an army in a hurry filled the air. George had to admit it was a powerful sight.

There were thousands of new Reb recruits; Jeff Davis had ordered all able-bodied men between the ages of 18 and 35 to join the army upon pain of prison or death. Rumor was the Federals had done the same, except that a man of means could hire a ‘replacement’ for $300 to go in his place. The Confederate rule was that for every twenty slaves a man owned, one ‘exemption’ was granted; it was known as the ’20 Negro Law’ and hated by the poor Whites.

“Po’ boys do all the dying,” muttered George.

The sound of the Union army cannon fire came closer together, the men passing fell quiet, the anticipated thrill and fear of battle settled into the heat of the day. George picked up his hoe, returned to work, concentrated on the soil, shrugged off the future. ≈ The bullet blew a fist sized chunk out of the pine tree directly in front of George. He dropped flat on the ground, rolled down the hill to put the tree between him and the direction of the shooter.

George had set out for the cave before dark, earlier than normal, concerned about the many men on the road. The first stars were appearing in the east, the sky still blue in the west. He wanted to be able to see Rebs at a distance; he stuck to the woods, less likely he would be seen.

He had just passed a log cabin, there was a smoldering campfire he hadn’t seen or smelled on the far side away from his ascent. He lay stock still looking for movement. The front door opened a crack, a young male voice rang out.

“Don’t want no niggers on my land up here.”

“That would be fine, except this ain’t your land and that ain’t your cabin.”

A long silence followed. George wasn’t armed, he had wanted to make faster time, and carry more supplies to Marsa Thom.

~ 354

“You hungry boy?” George yelled.

The door opened up a bit further.

“I’m gonna leave a day’s worth of bread and cheese here. I’ll be passing this way again tonight, and you best be gone.”

George took out a loaf and cut a generous piece of fresh cheese, put it on the rock by the tree. The door opened, a skinny White boy stepped out, musket in hand. George looked him over, decided he could back away without getting shot. He spoke as he moved into the trees.

“If you want to get to the Federals, cross over that ridge behind you, follow the creek till you get to the river. On the other side is a farmer by the name of Clift. He’ll help you.”

George double timed the next quarter mile up the mountain, stopped to rest. In the distance, the dull thunder of the cannons rolled over the hills. He could see the young man sitting by a stoked fire, eating. He shook his head. No more travel when it was still light. ≈ “Thought maybe you forgot me,” Marsa Thom smiled as he spoke.

“Not in this life,” George smiled back.

This had become the familiar greeting between them.

The two men discussed the news, the cannons, the food supply, the incident at the cabin.

“I thought that cabin might be a problem. I brought up the lead, pots, and mold just last week,” said Marsa Thom.

“Lots more people traveling,” George agreed.

After food and rest, the two men made their way down to the cabin, George carried Marsa Thom’s rifle, just in case. The young man was gone, the fire still smoldered. They took apart the bed, table, and chair, carried them up to the cave, and reassembled them. It was hot, dirty work, but they were done before dawn.

On his way home, George put a large pile of tinder and kindling in the corner by the small window. He put the remains of the fire from outside on top, blew on the coals until they flamed up, went out, closed

~ 355

the door behind him. He picked up his rucksack, loped down the mountain.

As he entered the kitchen back door, he looked up to the mountain and saw a thin stream of smoke in the morning light. It was a quiet morning. The cannons were silent.22

22 The Rebs, thinking they were out gunned, withdrew from Chattanooga. The Yanks, thinking

they didn’t have enough men to fight the Rebs, retreated.

Lincoln, frustrated by the slow pace, telegraphed Gen Halleck: “Nothing should be done to give up or weaken or delay the expedition against Chattanooga. To take and hold the Railroad at or east of Cleveland, East Tennessee, I think fully as important as the taking or holding of Richmond.”

~ 356

Chapter Seventy-Six Friday July 4th, 1862 There were no fireworks. Reb families did not want to celebrate the holiday, Union families didn’t dare show their true feelings. A man could get killed just for showing the Union Jack.

There weren’t many men about anywhere. Only the old men and the women were left at home. Women were doing the jobs that the men had done before the war; they held their own, working farm and shop to make ends meet. Even in the copper rolling mill.

The big news was that Henry was back from the farm in Georgia.

It was late in the day when Henry walked into the summer kitchen, groggy, as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Ma was napping on the cot, woke as soon as she heard him speak to George. After all the shouting and hugs, the talk turned to the war; what Henry had seen along the way. Seems there was as much troop activity down Dalton way as in Cleveland, and Miz Susan wanted to send her letters to Marsa Thom; Henry had walked for the past three nights along the rail line over the mountains to reach home.

“The hills are full of White men, so many I lost count,” said Henry, “Hundreds, over a thousand, hiding out. People traveling everywhere, mostly Whites headed south, mostly Blacks headed north. Food is scarce!”

Henry described the taking of food and livestock, the breaking of anything not of use to the army. The Rebs left IOU receipts, in Confederate dollars, to be paid back after the winning of the war. Miz Susan had told everyone who would listen that it was her duty to feed the troops, and she would never redeem the IOUs. “How be the family down der?” asked Ma. “Good, I guess. As good as can be, considering. The head man, Timmy, stashed food for the Black folks so the Rebs cain’t find it.”

~ 357

And then what about Marsa Billy? The Old Farm had seventeen slaves owned by Billy. With the three from home, Marsa Billy had tried to get the local ‘conscript’ troops to give him a twenty-slave exemption.

Miz Susan had foiled him, informed the authorities that three of the twenty slaves were hers, not his, and they were just visiting. According to Henry, Miz Susan felt especially strongly about “fidelity and duty to the cause”. There had been heated words, Billy accusing Miz Susan of “throwing his life away” but Billy eventually backed down. “Up and joined the Rebs. He was told ‘volunteer as an officer or get taken as a private.’ Took Second Louie.”

George nodded, “Where’s he now?”

“Still hangin’ around the house, up to no good, drinkin’ too much.

Supposed to go to Virginia to join Lee. Unit movin’ out shortly.”

George remembered the last time he’d seen Marsa Billy. How he told George he’d kill him the next time he saw him. These days Marsa Thom wasn’t around to protect him or the family. This threat was now extremely real even with Captain Grant’s protection. With a new uniform to hide behind, there’d be little doubt that Marsa Billy would kill him or Elizabeth if he could get away with it. If Billy came up this way, George would have to figure something out.

~ 358

Chapter Seventy-Seven Sunday, August 17th, 1862 George stood out in the stifling heat and waited. August was always the hottest month, and today lived up to that notion. He had on a widebrimmed straw hat of his own creation, not evenly circular and a bit scratchy, but it kept the heat off the top of his head. He’d set Elizabeth and the oldest, Mary, to working on making them to trade for what staples could be had these days. The working women in town were eager to buy, they sold as fast as they could make them. George fingered two Union half-dimes in his pocket from the hats he had delivered that morning at the mill. He’d buy a bit of salt for the morning bread and butter.

George waited at the station for the noon train, which was over two hours late. He sighed to himself, worried over the fact that the trains were never on time now that the CSA had taken over all the southern railroads. There were few passengers anymore, mostly soldiers and supplies going one direction or another. But today was a good day, as Miz Susan was coming home with the children and with her was Charles. It was a good thing, they needed help with the garden, about the only fresh food keeping them alive.

He had been harvesting the wheat in the abandoned field next to the old house by hand, getting just enough to make a few days’ worth of bread each time. Thrashed inside the carriage house out of sight of any neighbors, he could grind ten or so pounds of grain by hand in just a couple of hours. It was rough course bread, but it was fresh. And then there would be enough straw to make a few hats. Neighbors had noticed the smell of the fresh baked bread, and he had told them all to cut what wheat they needed. “Birds’ll get it all if y’all don’t,” he had laughed with Miz Tina. God would have to reveal what they were going to do for the coming winter.

~ 359

In the distance, the sound of a steam whistle, a ‘wakeup call’ to the station attendants to look lively. The mill on the other side of the railyard was going strong, smoke rising from the steam engine, the only copper mining and mill operations in all of ‘Dixie’ as the South now called itself. As the back to work bell rang, he observed the long leather drive belts jump to life. He watched through the open windows as the women doubled up, lifted the heavy plates from one machine to the next, drive belts screeched their complaints as the plates started through the rollers. The women really were getting the hang of it.

The train rolled to a stop bellowing and belching like an old bull; the brakeman descended the ladder, opened the one passenger car door.

Out stepped Charles, carrying a small trunk, which he immediately set down and turned to help Miz Susan. George started forward to give a hand, when a man’s voice stopped him.

“Boy!” shouted the voice.

George turned and stopped dead, his blood running cold. It was Captain William ‘Billy’ L. Brown, who wore the red bandana of the Alabama 41st. He rested his hand on his pistol, shifted his weight to one leg.

“Well, boy, don’t just stand there, grab that other nigger and unload the horses!”

Ignoring Brown, George quickly walked towards Charles as Miz Susan stepped down. He started to speak before she had landed.

“Hello Miz Susan,” he nodded, “Captain Brown say we have to unload the horses.”

Miz Susan looked up the track at Brown, smiled, and turned back to George, spoke quietly without losing her smile.

“You boys keep getting the luggage and help Aunt Sally with the children.”

“Yes um.”

Miz Susan straightened her shoulders and walked over to Brown.

She spoke a little too loudly.

~ 360

“Captain, I thought you’d want to see our traveling pass from General Johnson.”

She extended it out in her gloved hand. Brown looked down at the folded paper, hesitated, and bowed slightly. She never broke eye contact with him.

“No Ma’am. I’m sure they are in order. How is the General?”

General Johnson was the commander of all the CSA in the Southern region. No one challenged his authority, at least not twice.

“He is most well. I will extend your greetings when next I write.”

“And give your husband my regards when next you see him.”

Mix Susan didn’t lose a beat as she turned away, but she walked with that stiff-legged pace George knew to be irritation. She stopped, turned back.

“My husband is well. But if you have need of further inquiry, take the matter up with Captain Grant.”

George had watched out of the corner of his eye, enjoyed the whole exchange. So had a platoon of Rebs who were alighting from the box cars. Brown smiled weakly, turned and shouted.

“Get to work! Now!” Several soldiers mumbled “yes sir” and returned to what they were doing. George was glad to a have the family back home.

Something else caught George’s eye: the mysterious black iron cylinders that were being made in the old smithy were suddenly out in the open, a stack of twenty, about eighteen inches long, being loaded onto a copper wagon. The Hungarian was shouting at the two Blacks and half a dozen soldiers to be careful with the canisters if they “dent vant to meet maker!” The small old Black man that George had seen first working there was playing a fiddle, lively dance music as the men worked; it struck him as strangely opposed. But the whole operation seemed curious.

He made note to tell Miz Tina. There was now a larger group of Union ladies who were keeping track of the Rebs and all their whereabouts. They made regular weekly logs and sent them north, via

~ 361

George and Big Jack. ‘Freedom and a job’, that was the promise. George hoped the runaways got what they were risking their lives for. ≈ George watched young Marsa Joe carry his mother’s heavy trunk up the front stairs, grunting a little, but with a straight back and curled arms, the way a man carries. Young Joe was three weeks shy of fifteen, but tall now, like his father. He had turned that corner between boy and man almost without anyone noticing. His voice had dropped, the darkening shadow on his upper lip told the tale. Miz Susan stepped up next to George.

“He’s becoming a man,” she said softly, watching Joe ascend the stairs.

George turned and smiled. “Getting ready to shave, seems to me.”

Miz Susan nodded, looked back at the stairs. “Maybe it’s the moment for him to spend a little time with his father.”

“A young man does need a father.”

“You’ll see to it.”

“Yes ‘um.”

Indeed he would. He wondered at what Marsa Thom would say.

Tomorrow night.

~ 362

Chapter Seventy-Eight Monday, August 18th, 1862 George was busy picking the peaches from the orchard below the old house. Fresh fruit could be traded for coffee and sugar from the Reb soldiers as they marched by the new house. The family was doing alright, they had coffee for the first time this summer.

He watched the railyard as Brown and the Rebs loaded into the box cars. They were on their way up to the Hiawassee railroad bridge.

Rumors ran wild about Federals in the area, but so far, no eyewitness could be found who actually saw one. Looking towards the recruiting camp, hundreds of tents had popped up again; Buell’s army was on its way north to retake Kentucky. Once there, everyone knew the local men would gladly join the army of their ‘liberators’. But George wondered how any sane man would willingly join in a war that would as likely kill you from sickness and starvation as the enemy’s bullet. The number of Bradley men hiding out in the hills these days attested to that.

A loud disturbance from the direction of the camp caught his attention. Cannons fired, then a few seconds later, another explosion in the direction of the cannon fire. George stashed the peaches in the shade of the windbreak and quickly walked up to the slave graveyard on the hill. He got up there just in time to see the second round fired. In the further distance the ground exploded with great violence. The cylinders’ shape, the handling warnings, the soldiers; it all made sense.

Exploding shells. He had to tell Miz Tina for her ‘diary’. Right now.

And who was making them.

George and Miz Tina knew the necessity of keeping the ‘diary’ and the delivery of the copies away from the scrutiny of Miz Susan. Nothing good would come of her finding out about their actions. Miz Tina had been forced to open her home as a hospital since she wasn’t living in it.

In her eyes, the Rebs had taken her sons from her by murder or treachery, and now they had the home she and Jerry had built by hand,

~ 363

without any financial help of anyone. “They’re guilty, just guilty,” is all she would say about the matter. ≈ The wind was blowing hard. The rain wouldn’t be far behind, thought George, as he and Marsa Joe made their way along the dark trail. The trees were making so much noise in the wind that no one would be able to hear them walking, if anyone was up this way to listen. But they did not talk, as sound carried exceptionally far downwind, and voices would alert the Reb pickets along the roads.

Every White person needed a pass to travel between towns; curfew from dusk to dawn. Blacks could be on the street in the day if alone, without a pass, as they were presumed to be on an errand for their masters, but never out at night. The Rebs kept pickets on the roads to enforce military law, they were told to shoot first and ask questions later. An infraction would land a man in jail and forced enlistment into the Confederate Army. If a slave was considered to ‘be in rebellion’, he was shot on the spot.

Traveling light without rifles, George had brought his hunting knife along. They each carried a rucksack with food, matches, newspapers, and a letter from Miz Susan.

The moon pushed a small amount of light through the clouds, but it was diminishing as the storm blew in. As they approached the white outcropping of the rocks near the top of the hillside, they dropped their rucksacks, opened the entrance to the pitch-black cave, and shouted softly. There was no reply. George shouted louder, identifying them by name. Silence. Gesturing for Marsa Joe to stay by the entrance, George crept slowly in, hunched over, and called again. Going by feel, he examined the bed, dreading the worst, finding nothing. George lit the oil lamp on the table, looked around, called for Marsa Joe to come in. He looked around, then back at George.

“He ain’t here,” shrugged George. “I honestly don’t know where he might be, other than at the spring we passed, and he wasn’t there, so…”

~ 364

Marsa Joe’s look of disappointment was so painfilled, that George made a quick decision. “We’ll wait for a couple hours, he could be out walking, just to shake off the blues of being alone up here.”

Young Marsa Joe sat down heavily in his Dad’s chair, and put his head in his hands and nodded, exactly like Marsa Thom. And George.

The rain came with a vengeance, lightening so close there wasn’t a heartbeat between the flash and the ear-piercing thunder. George heard overflow from the spring dribble down into the pool in the back of the cave. He made himself busy restocking the supplies and straightening up the piles of loose paper on the desk. Marsa Joe stretched out on the bed and was soon asleep.

To save oil, George turned down the lamp, noted that he needed to resupply the gallon can of kerosene. Where he would find any was a question, but one thing at a time. He stood in a cove near the entrance, crossed his arms, dropped his head to his chest, and went to sleep. ≈ He woke with a start, his senses told him ‘something’s wrong’. He stood stock still, did not breathe, listened. The rain had stopped, but someone was coming into the cave entrance. He lifted the hunting knife, ready to plunge. As the top of the man’s soaking wet head came through the opening, he recognized Marsa Thom. He exhaled with a burst of air, loud enough that Marsa Thom froze and looked up at George with the knife.

“Just me George!” he said too loudly with a bit of alarm in his voice.

“Yas Suh, so I see.”

They both laughed a nervous chuckle as George helped him to his feet.

“I was worried about you.”

“Went for a walk that took me all the way home.”

“To the house?”

George thought that was a really bad and risky idea. It must have showed on his face.

~ 365

“You see Miz Susan?”

Marsa Thom shook his head no.

“A man needs… I thought the rain would cover my tracks. I was careful.” George nodded, thought he would rake the yard in the morning just to make sure.

Marsa Joe, hearing voices, stirred. “Father!”

Marsa Joe jumped like a deer and embraced his dripping father.

George was sure that even in the dim light, he could see Marsa Thom’s eyes glisten.

~ 366

Chapter Seventy-Nine Saturday, November 15th, 1862 George leaned against the barn door and looked up at the dark grey sky, rain drifting in curtains across the garden and pasture beyond, sometimes parting, or swirling, or closing in on the horizon so that it all became one continuous sky and earth, a reminder of how little the works of man affected God’s Nature.

It was a good thing that George managed to put up enough wheat and corn to tide the family over winter, before the fall rains. What with the potatoes, turnups, and the four barrels of apples, they would be alright with careful rationing. Most of the root crop was buried in the floor of the barn, wrapped in straw. They turned out the old mare, they couldn’t feed her, and they couldn’t bring themselves to eat her. George and Henry went hunting every ten days or so, sometimes they got a deer, mostly just a few rabbits and racoons. But always enough to make a gamey stew. Geese were headed south, and George had set snares out at Wildwood lake; it kept Marsa Thom and the family in meat. Unless the traps were emptied by either two legged or four legged poachers.

The rain was about the only good thing so far this day; it was cold and getting colder, and it was but noon. The CSA, under Bragg, had been chased out of Kentucky again, this time by Rosecrans, and were now going south on the rail lines in as big a hurry as they had gone north last summer. Old Will Clift ran north to Kentucky with his two hundred fifty Tennessee Union Irregulars, hounded by the withdrawing Rebs. There had been much noise and commotion, many men were marching south by night and by day. Miz Tina sat up at the window all night to record the troop movement; Ma would find her sound asleep at dawn, the ‘diary’ slipped from her hand to the floor. Ma gave it to George, who had taken it back to Miz Tina out in the barn. He leaned against the door jamb, noted she had gotten even thinner.

“You really have got to eat your own food.”

~ 367

She looked at him and out at the rain. One curt nod. George knew that meant ‘don’t need your advice’. He also knew she’d been giving the greater part of her food to the children, both Black and White. She looked back at him, “I taught you to read and write.”

George sighed, raised his eyebrows, “Yes, and I’ll be forever grateful. You still need to eat if you’re to be strong enough to care for the children.” George held out the diary to her. Which she took, her shoulders settling, relieved.

“From now on, make only one record, and we’ll see that gets north.”

“Who’s we?’

It was George’s turn not to answer.

“And burn that before Brown hangs you in front of the courthouse.

You know he’d do it. And Miz Susan wouldn’t stop him, if she found out.”

“Near on six hundred wagons going south in the last day and a half,” she said, ripped out the last few pages of the ‘diary’ and handed them to George who stuffed them in his coat pocket.

“Gonna snow soon. Guess they’re going to where it’s warmer,” he replied.

They pulled their coats tight around themselves, made their way to the kitchen. Ma looked up as Miz Tina walked over to the stove, opened the firebox door and dropped in the diary. No one said a word. ≈ George stopped and looked back several times as he ran up the wooded hill. He was on his way to meet Big Jack and give him the pages from Miz Tina. But he had been spotted by a Reb picket near the main road turnoff for Wildwood lake. The picket hadn’t said a word, pulled out a pistol and shot at him. George had only his hunting knife and a wooden canteen filled with hard cider, a gift for Big Jack. Jack was cutting firewood, the juke joint had been shut down now for most of two years, but he was a man who appreciated his drink. George thought the cider would be helpful to ‘keep the wheels greased’ for the notes going north.

~ 368

Despite the veil of night, the Reb was still coming on. He stopped to look up the mountain, spotted George a hundred yards further, shouldered his rifle, drew a bead on him. George watched him squeeze the trigger, waited half a heartbeat then jerked to the right, before leaping a good four feet to his left. The ball careened through the brush next to him, whistling its message of death close to George’s ear.

They were a good half mile up from the road, and he could hear shouting of the other pickets in the distance. George left the canteen in the bush and belly-crawled twenty feet into a heavy growth of hazelnut brush. Now out of sight, he pushed himself through a dense stand of pines, until he could find an old tree and disappear up into its dense dead branches. He could see the soldier coming up the trail slowly, looking about cautiously. When he got to the bush he’d shot at, he stopped and drew his pistol.

“Come on out I got ‘ju!”

The soldier walked around in a circle behind the bush, watching closely. “Got ‘ju nigger!”

He made a sudden rush at the bush, to find only the canteen.

“Well, well.”

George sat rock still, dead needles pricking his skin, dust and nervous sweat making him itch all over. He watched the soldier pick up the canteen, draw the cork, sniff at the top, and take a good long pull.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, chuckled.

“Alrighty then. You gone now, nigger.”

He looked around as if expecting a reply, then turned, waved the canteen and started back.

“A trade for your life. I’ll get ‘ju next time.”

Not gonna be a next time, thought George. You’ll ship out, die of some sickness or wound, and your kin will get a letter from your commander. That’s the real trade. ≈ George waited awhile for the Reb to be really gone, and the sky to get so dark that there was no possibility of being seen. He slipped out of the

~ 369

branches, made his way carefully to the ridge trail at the top of the hill.

Safest way back in the dark, he thought. No pickets, and you’d have to know the land to find the overgrown road; no one used it since the start of the war. Besides, he still had to get to Big Jack and give him the papers. George loped along the crest, on a downhill straightaway, round a sharp bend. And came face to face in the starlight with a bunch of rough disheveled White men, heavily armed. Bushwhackers, the worst of the worst. All of their guns were pointed right at him. George just stared at them.

“It’s okay, boys,” one said, “I know him.”

George couldn’t believe his eyes as one of them approached him, walking with a limp in his left leg. He had a beard and a bandana over his face, but George recognized the voice. David Lee Fine.

~ 370

Chapter Eighty Sunday, November 16th, 1862 “Sappers.”

George held a cup of hot coffee in front of a small smokeless campfire, across from Fine. The men were eating oatmeal and drinking coffee, a luxury the Union troops had as daily rations. Snow was drifting down slowly between the high mountain pine trees in the windless dawn, the silence of the snowy forest apparent in the whispers of the men’s talk. George looked around at the thin men, dressed in civilian clothes, beards and long hair. One other he recognized, young Jacob Bacon.

“What’s a sapper?” asked George.

“Field engineers,” said Fine.

“We blow stuff up,” injected Bacon.

“And build whatever is needed.”

They were part of the East Tennessee 5th Cavalry, here on a secret mission. Fine and Bacon were chosen for this operation because of their familiarity with the area. One of the men offered the last of the coffee around, then dumped the remains on the fire to put it out.

“Should get movin’ sir.”

Fine nodded, knocked back his coffee. The man at the fire stood, put his hand on his pistol, stared at George.

“What ‘bout him?”

“He’s goin’ with us, Sergeant.”

The Sergeant didn’t look too happy and kept his hand on his pistol.

Fine stepped in the Sergeant’s line of sight.

“This man saved my life. I vouch for him.”

“Have to second that, Sarge,” said Bacon, “snuck me out under the nose of them Rebs that were ahuntin’ me.”

The Sargent stared at Fine, then let his hand fall.

“As you say, sir.”

~ 371

George reached into his pants, withdrew the paper from Miz Tina.

The Sergeant watched George warily until he could clearly see the folded paper.

“You should have this,” George said as he extended the paper to Fine.

Fine opened the paper, read the contents. He nodded, handed the paper to the Sergeant who read it, nodded at Fine, then tucked it into his pack.

“How long you been doing this?” asked Fine.

“Awhile now, close to a year.”

“They’ll do worse than kill you if they catch you. Your family too.”

George just nodded, there really wasn’t anything to say. Each did what they had to do; maybe this was his road to freedom. For all the family.

In September, Lincoln had issued the Emancipation Proclamation, freeing all slaves in the territory of the Confederacy if they didn’t rejoin the Union, to be effective on January 1st, 1863. The Northern papers such as the Philadelphia Inquirer had made it a headline. Every Southern state had rejected it outright, the “illegal” proclamation justifying the Confederate rebellion. Blacks everywhere were talking about it. Now slaves had a real stake in the war.23 The Sergeant snapped orders as the men broke camp, buried the fire, erased their footprints with dead branches, left no trace of anyone ever there. Though they were on foot, they had half a dozen pack mules with them; within ten minutes, the group was on its way, sergeant in front, Fine in the rear with George.

“Where we goin’?”

Fine just smiled, put a finger to his lips.

23 Harriette Tubman, ex-slave, was employed by the Union Army to lead armed

reconnaissance parties into the South as well as to aid slaves escape to freedom in the North. She led the Combahee River Raid, June 2, 1863, freeing over 750 slaves. Praised by the Northern papers, she was the first woman employed by the US as a spy.

~ 372

≈ It was already well dark when they arrived at the Hiawassee River.

They broke for a rest about a half mile upriver, a cold meal of cheese and hardtack. In spite of the hazy cloud cover, from where Fine was sitting he could see in the light of the crescent moon, the redoubt on the bluff beside the railroad bridge. He peered at it through his eyeglass, softly called out the size, shape, and defenses to the Sergeant.

“Distance from the redoubt to the bridge, one hundred yards. One small four-inch cannon overlooking the river and bridge. Pickets at both ends of the bridge.”

Fine put away the eyeglass, “Under cover of darkness.”

The Sergeant nodded assent, “Float down on it with charge satchels, tie off, fuse, and drift down.”

The group of men began the rigging of two large logs on the river’s edge with rope. Another two, Bacon and one other, emptied a large mule sack of canvas pouches, began rigging each with a fuse and a sturdy length of line. Fine turned to the sergeant, unrolled his maps, laid out the plan.

“You, Grigsby, Brooks, and Carter take the bluff on our side, cover the pickets. Bacon, Bradshaw and Erwin cross the river, circle behind the redoubt, cover the pickets and the rear entrance. Every man take a satchel. Hardwick and I will float the logs and tie off to the pilings. As soon as the fireworks start, they’ll pour out of there. Take out a couple, they’ll go back inside, you place your charges, then hightail it down river, cross back one at a time on the Russell or Bunker Hill ferries.

We’ll all meet where the Hiawassee runs into the Tennessee, day after tomorrow, by the Blyth chain ferry. George, you’ll take the mules, circle

~ 373

around through the woods, meet us at the Meigs road cut-off by sundown.”

The men went to their tasks without further instruction. George thought it was a good plan. He should tell Fine one thing.

“Captain Billy Brown is the officer in charge there.”

Fine clamped his jaw shut, looked at the bridge, back to George.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Been out here two months.”

Fine walked over to the Sergeant, “Change up. You’ll go with Hardwick. Bacon, you stay on this side. I’m going across the river.” ≈ George tied the mules together in a string, made the pack bags secure, and looked around the camp to see if anything had been left behind. He cut up two of the now empty saddle packs and tied the pieces on the feet of the two mules that were shod and would make too much noise clopping on the river road. Satisfied that all was good, he stopped a moment and watched the men work each of their tasks. They communicated with hand signals and the occasional nod or shake of the head. These men knew each other well. They planned in a way he’d never seen in the Reb units around Cleveland.

Fine looked over at George, nodded, then slipped into the dark cold river water; rifle, satchel, and gun belt held over his head as he started across, the other two men already safely on the other side. George knew that water was near freezing, other than a sharp intake of breath, not a sound was heard from any man.

George led the mules up the road as Bacon and three other men dropped off the path, each taking a firing position on the bridge entrance. Bacon shimmied up the big pine on the edge of the road so fast he looked like he must live in one.

A low freezing wind started to blow through the trees. The sound of the pine needles whispered in the wind, covered the sounds of the men in their approach to the bridge. George decided that God must be giving them a helping hand, so he sped up the mules across the main

~ 374

rail tracks, then slowed them, down to the river road on the other side, glad a row of trees was between him and the Reb sentries. The same wind blew the clouds across the hills, one moment clear and bright, the next dark and murky.

George continued down the river, through the woods about two hundred yards, then cut out of the trees onto the river road. The Rebs likely couldn’t see him but even if they did, he was traveling away from them. Just to be safe, he walked with the mules between him and the bridge sentries. He hoped he wouldn’t run into a Reb picket.

George picked up the pace, passing a small point out into the river when he heard shouting, then rifle fire, first from the sentries, then from the Union men in the trees on both sides. He hadn’t gone another fifty yards when the biggest explosion he’d ever heard blasted. He turned in time to see a huge fireball in the center of the bridge, then two smaller ones on each end. The bridge hung in the air unmoving for a moment, then began to fall and twist, faster and faster, pulling ties and rails from both directions into the river below. As the bridge was falling, another explosion erupted from the cannon placement of the redoubt, red fire balls erupting from within as the cache of gunpowder began to explode and burn. Another explosion on the far side of the redoubt cast bright orange light on the trees behind it. Gunfire seemed to be coming from every direction on the higher riverbank. Screaming and yelling, confusion. Against the firelight George saw the outline of men fighting hand to hand, impossible at this distance to know who was who. The mules, frightened of the loud noise, became skittish and uncoöperative, refusing to walk on. George led them one by one into the trees, tied them up.

He sat at trees’ edge near the reeds to watch the battle, kept a lookout for any of the men floating down river. The Hiawassee was wide but shallow, not more than ten feet deep all the way down to the Tennessee; with all the recent rain, it was running faster than usual.

First, the Sergeant and Hardwick floated by in front of logs to avoid being shot by any remaining sentries. As the minutes passed, a few

~ 375

dead bodies drifted by with pieces from the blown-up bridge. Some larger chunks had men clinging to them, some clearly wounded. George watched quietly until he heard someone struggling in the water, splashing close to the bank near him. George looked both up and down the river, then made his way into the water, through the muck and reeds, and listened closely.

“It’s me,” he heard Fine’s voice.

George waded out to his waist, and grabbed Fine’s leg and boot, pulled him into the reeds, Fine grunting in pain. Even in the dark, George could see the large wooden splinter that passed through Fine’s right thigh, sticking out on both sides.

“Careful. Brown is in the water right behind me somewhere,” he grunted through clinched teeth.

George lifted Fine up, sinking in the muck, struggling as the mud pulled at his boots but he pulled Fine onto the bank above the water line then fell to his knees gasping, fear and effort cramping his stomach.

Behind him, he heard another man come out of the water through the reeds. George turned to see Brown, holding a hunting knife, limping badly, but coming right at them, the knife held high. George didn’t hesitate, grabbed a large piece of driftwood, charged Brown, side stepped the knife, and hit Brown with all the strength he had left, square in the face. George tripped, fell, his feet tangled in sticks and mud. Brown fell beside him, out cold, face down in the shallow water.

George raised the club, waited for him to move again, but Brown didn’t stir. George watched him for a moment, then shoved him, face down, out into the water. God would decide thought George, as he watched him wash away downriver.

~ 376

≈ In the spring of 1867, David Fine would return to Cleveland, with an odd, pronounced gait caused by the limp in both legs, but he could walk and “that’s all that mattered,” he said. He would visit George at his place, stay with him and Elizabeth, help build the proud house that would be the family home of the Calloways for the next forty years. He would re-tell George about the hand-tohand struggle with Brown on the cliff and how they slipped, fell into the river below. He would tell about how George saved him, and about his recovery in Washington, DC, his service in the quartermaster, his new store in Brooklyn, New York. He would offer a job and home to George if he ever wanted to move North.

He would tell George that Brown’s body was never found.

~ 377

Chapter Eighty-One Thursday, July 9th, 1863 “Three dollars gold. Or one hundred dixies.”

For one bushel of corn. George was dumfounded at the price. In the fall, it had been four silver dimes. But Miz Susan had sent him out to find food, at any price. And there wasn’t any choice. They’d grown plenty of greens, but the corn and the beans weren’t yet in, and green corn would just give everyone diarrhea, get nothing out of the rest of the food they’d eaten.

The Cleveland Banner had been running a notice to the farmers for the last month: Capt. W. D. Tappe, A.Q.M. is assigned to duty at Cleveland, for the collection of the tax in kind, in the 3rd Congressional District, composed of the counties, Monroe, McMinn, Meigs, Rhea, Polk, Bradley, Hamilton, Marion, Sequatchie, Bledsoe, Grundy and Franklin. He will appoint suitable agents in each of the counties in which it is practicable to collect the tax, to whom farmers will deliver the Governments portion of the produce of their farms, taking their receipts in duplicate, one of those to be sent to Capt. Tappe, to be taken up with his official receipt.

As it is all important that the army should be supplied, farmers are urged to bring forward their produce as rapidly as possible.

The food supply was dwindling further, if that was possible. The Confederate government stripped farms of their food all throughout the South, what they called a ‘food tax’. The dirt road that led down to the Hiawassee near Candy’s Creek was called ‘No Pone Valley Road’ by the Union folks living out there. People were flooding into town looking for something to eat, the trains were again bringing in more and more wounded men, the courthouse and the churches were hospitals now and no day went by that a wagon load of bodies did not travel to the

~ 378

grave pits outside of town, stopping to pick up the dead. Starving poor White farmers traveling to find food laid down by the roads and died.

It was before sunrise, George and Henry were behind the old mill at the edge of town. Everyone knew there was an underground market for grain, but everyone looked the other way. Those with union money or gold could still eat, and the ‘authorities’ got a cut. George opened his burlap sack. “Okay then,” George responded, “we’ll take two ‘o dem.

No tax.”

No questions asked, no answers given. To make a desperate situation worst, the Confederate government had put a 10% tax on everything, including food. George didn’t know the two White men he was buying from, they looked like Rebs in their civvies, making a bit of ‘black money’ on the side. The corn was probably the property of the CSA, or was once headed that way. Whether the men were scalpers or whether they were desperate to get money for their starving families back home, who could tell? It really didn’t matter. Everyone did what they could to survive.

The war news was bad. Vicksburg had fallen, starved into submission by U.S. Grant. At Gettysburg, Lee had lost a great battle, many thousands killed, the South lost a third of its armies. Bragg was trapped at Chattanooga, the rail line was his only supply line. Seemed to George that there were Reb pickets every fifty feet up and down the rail line, in both directions.

George nodded at Henry, they picked up the bushel baskets, poured the corn into their sack, hurried the half mile back to the house.

The corn was put in four different locations around the homestead; if one were found by the Rebs, the other three might be safe.

Ma quickly ground up the day’s rations, boiled okra and collards, cooked the pones directly on the stove top with ashes to keep them from sticking; cooking oil was nonexistent. Both White and Black families sat in the summer kitchen. They ate in silence, Miz Tina helped Ma serve up the bowls. Except for Miz Susan, who wouldn’t eat at the same table and ate alone in the house.

~ 379

They were only eating two meals a day, to save wood and there wasn’t enough food. The smell of cooking would sometimes bring a beggar to the door; better not to cook than to deny some poor devil. The stragglers along the road looked like walking skeletons, famine in their eyes; it was a wonder they could walk at all.

“Major Cox has ordered all men in the county to report to the courthouse August 4th. No ‘scuses,” said Henry. “Every man, no matter how old or whatnot.”

“All White men,” corrected Miz Tina, “So stay away from there.

Nothing but trouble to get into.”

“If dey think all dem boys in the hills come down for dat, dey’s dumber dan I thought,” Ma scoffed.

Everyone looked at Ma. George laughed, the rest joined in. The number hiding out had grown into the thousands, and not just Bradley County. All up and down the rail line in East Tennessee, the word was no Union man was going into the CSA without a fight. The Rebs wanted names; who didn’t show up was the issue. When CSA patrols came through, most men would form a group, and head to the Union lines in Kentucky. Some of the Reb patrols never returned.

George looked through the open kitchen door, saw Miz Susan step out. The next person to step out froze his blood. Captain William Lea, in person. The man that killed George’s father, threatened his life and family. Marsa Billy. ≈ “Most my niggers have run off, talk about the proclamation runs high,” said Marsa Billy, as he drained his whiskey glass and gestured for more. “They think I don’t know, but I do.”

Miz Susan and the older White children, Joe, Luke, and Lucy, were seated for dinner in the Main House. George was annoyed that Marsa Billy sat at the head of the table, acted as if he owned the place. He and Charles were tending table, Ma and Miz Tina banging around in the kitchen preparing the dessert, a raspberry-hazelnut crumble made with corn and honey. The last of the honey. George would have to make a

~ 380

trip to the mountains to find more; it was getting harder to find as all the farmers hiding in the hills were looking too.

“Means I pretty much got nothing if we lose this war. No land, as that belongs to you, no slaves to sell.”

George and Charles made themselves invisible with their quiet smooth unhurried manner.

“No problem here,” said Miz Susan with a dip of her head to the two ‘house boys’, “I treat my coloreds well.“ “And the proclamation doesn’t apply here, happily,” said Marsa Billy.

It was true. The only benefit of the Emancipation Proclamation was for the slaves within ‘states still in rebellion’. As the Reb government had fled to Mississippi, Tennessee was considered ‘subdued’. For George and his family, freedom remained a dream.

Marsa Billy turned and looked directly at George.

“Ain’t that right George?”

George turned, looked down at the floor.

“I apologize, Suh, I weren’t listening, Suh,” he lied.

“Don’t matter if you were or not, you ain’t free, never gonna happen.”

“Yas Suh.” “George, go on out to the kitchen and give Ma a hand,” Miz Susan ordered.

“Yas ‘um.”

As George was retreating, Miz Susan spoke, a bit too loud. “Don’t need you coming in here and riling up the help.”

“Cain’t trust ‘em, be gone first chance they get,” said Marsa Billy.

George was sure Miz Susan knew that wasn’t true, but would say nothing. A long silence followed, punctuated with the shifting of chairs.

George carried the plates of crumble into the dining room, set one down in front of each of the children. Marsa Billy drained his glass again, held it up for a refill. George looked at Miz Susan who slightly shook her head no. Billy watched her. He stood, walked to the sideboard, and

~ 381

poured the glass to the rim with whiskey. And then in a low threatening voice, “Jesse Raht put your husband’s bounty up to one thousand dollars just this week. In gold. Dead or alive. Could tempt a man.”

Young Marsa Joe sprang to his feet, red in the face. “If you touch—" Miz Susan cut him off. “You children are dismissed. Now!” George caught the eye of Marsa Joe and shook his head no. Marsa Joe blew out air from between his lips, stomped off.

“Charles, fetch Captain Lea’s hat. He is retiring to his barracks.”

Marsa Billy, chuckling at his success in his disruption, downed his glass of whisky and wove out the door.

“Gonna be a lotta men out looking at that price, to say nothing of where all the money from the bank went,” he said as he went out.

Charles closed the door behind him, looked at George with a worried expression. As if she had eyes in the back of her head, Miz Susan spoke as she stood. “Don’t worry boys, this will come to naught.”

George nodded and smiled, knew that just wasn’t true. ≈ “So, Miz Susan say that as long as Marsa Billy around, he should be here,” said George.

Marsa Thom nodded solemnly at George, smiled at his son.

“Your mother is right.”

Marsa Joe stood, arms crossed, looking bored and at the same time belligerent as only sixteen-year-old boys can with their father. It was much safer for Marsa Joe here in the cave, torn as he was between the opposing sympathies of his parents. Marsa Joe had a desire to ‘help out’ with the war effort. Being around Marsa Billy would come to no good.

“You’ll stay here and we’ll catch up on your studies.”

It was late, well past midnight. A full three weeks had passed since George could get up the mountain, with many troops passing through, gathering to the south of Cleveland. Something big was coming, and everyone knew it.

George surveyed the cave, now chock full of books, with a small painting of Miz Susan set up over the low table, while he exchanged

~ 382

food and clean clothes for the dirty ones. “Miz Susan says she needs more money, just silver and small gold coin.”

Marsa Thom opened a small box on the table, extracted a handful of coins, dropped them into George’s hand.

“Near a hundred Union dollars there, should do for a while.”

“Might be a while ‘for I can get up this way again, the Rebs are searching everywhere for men to press into the army.”

George made his way back down to the road, through the bushes along the pastures, and back home.

Miz Susan was waiting for him on his return. She was holding Marsa Thom’s pistol. “You have to show me how to use this. The bushwhackers and deserters are killing families for no reason if they refuse to give them food.”

George nodded as he handed over the food money.

“My children are not going to starve,” she said.

Mine either, thought George, mine either.

~ 383

Chapter Eighty-Two Tuesday, September 8th, 1863 Thousands more Reb soldiers had passed the house in the last three days and nights; wagons, cavalry, cannons, headed south, forced to again abandon Knoxville by General Rosecrans, and moved towards Chattanooga. Men shouted, animals snorted and complained, wagons shook, cannons clunked, rifles clinked. Noise, constant noise. Again, the hospitals were broken down, disappeared down the road. The rail line was loaded with as much equipment as could fit, all headed to General Bragg’s army. The Union army, under Col. John Wilder, had attacked Chattanooga just two weeks ago, retreated, and no one knew where they were. The Southern armies were consolidating, expecting an attack anytime. Dust of thousands of feet drifted, fell on everything. Miz Susan had shut all the windows and doors to keep the dust out, then retreated to the summer kitchen to escape the now broiling interior. George stood

by Miz Tina as she silently counted the wagons, cannons, men. She took note of their battle flags, company numbers.

As the day wore on, only supply wagons passed, all driven by Black teamsters, then just as the sun set below the mountain ridge, silence. Nothing, no one passing. No trains. Only the birds, also going south for the winter, stopping to rest.

Neighbors came out on their porches. George walked up to both corners, nothing, no one out walking, silence, not a Reb in sight or earshot. Not a runaway, not a poor White farmer. Miz Susan and the White children came out, and around the edge of the house, Elizabeth and Ma walked out too.

Then, as if an apparition, Marsa Billy leading twenty cavalry came up the road, headed north. Elizabeth and Ma retreated to the back of the house; the White children stood behind Miz Susan. George watched as they came to a stop in front of the Calloway house. Marsa Billy tipped

~ 384

his hat at his sister, she hadn’t seen nor heard from him since the dinner near two months ago.

“Goin’ up to the Hiawassee to join General Forrester’s cavalry, rear guard. Hope to kill a few Yanks, maybe get draft dodgers for the army.”

Miz Susan stood, mouth agape. George guessed this was as much of an apology as Billy could give. At least he seemed sober.

She nodded,“ You take care Billy. Come home.”

“Don’t worry about me, big Sister. When this war is over, I’m coming back for what’s mine.”

He raised his hand like a pistol, pointed at George, ‘shot’ him with his thumb, then laughed, slapped his horse with the reins, waved without looking back. Miz Susan stared holes in his back; he might have turned into a pillar of salt if he had.

George clenched his teeth, unmoving. And again thought, not if I see you first.

“George, see to it that your family all move into the winter kitchen.

Too dangerous to be out in the cabins.”

George nodded, said “Yes ‘m.”

He thought he knew what the real reason was. Miz Susan worried they might run off now that there was no military, no sheriff; she could keep an eye on them. As if she could stop them. She really doesn’t know me, he thought.

~ 385

Chapter Eighty-Three Friday, September 11th, 1863 George walked along the main street towards the abandoned wheat field at the old farm. It had been picked pretty clean, but there was still some thin stalks among the weeds on the edges. As he passed the bank, still open, he watched Mister Raht packing his files. Two armed guards loaded a strong box onto a wagon out front. All four of Raht’s house slaves sat in the hot sun in the back of the wagon, small bags of clothes and household goods spread among them.

This was the last that George would see of Jesse Raht until after the war; word was he’d run to family in Ohio. He would slink back, open a separate competing bank; only the Reb families would bank there. The Union folks would bank at Mister Calloway’s bank. As long as they lived, the two men would never speak again.

The noon bell rang at the school as George passed by; he noticed the Reb families in town loading wagons, in a panic to get out of town.

The Yanks were expected to arrive any day now. Rumors had been floating for days, since the Union army had now occupied Chattanooga, the telegraph was cut, there were no newspapers nor trains, not a sight of the Reb army. The prominent Confederate families had already gone down the Dalton road to avoid the Yanks, including the Grants.

Elizabeth had been crying for the last two days, her entire family was gone.

George guessed they too would have gone, if not for Marsa Thom and Joe up in the mountains.

The copper mill was shut down, all quiet, no one at the rail station or mill. As he walked, George followed his nose, the smell of meat cooking. He poked into the mysterious black smithy, and found only Uncle Zeus, sitting and roasting a rabbit over the foundry fire.

“Where’s ever one?” George asked.

~ 386

The old man shrugged. “Gone south I reckon. I jus’ hid out ‘till they’s gone.”

“You gonna tell me about those things?” George said, pointing at the enormous pile of cylinders. There looked to be thousands of them.

“Cain’t say.”

“Exploding shells” said George with authority.

Uncle Zeus just looked his direction and smiled.

“As you say, you cain’t say,” George nodded.

George heard horses and the murmur of men marching, he looked up the road, didn’t believe his eyes. Three mounted Union officers rode in front of orderly rows of several hundred Union soldiers, flying the Union flag. He leaned back in the door of the smithy without looking away.

“You gotta see this.”

All of the Union soldiers were Black. ≈ George had to smile. Captain Raif Douglass wore the uniform of the Union Infantry. “Company B of the U.S. Fourteenth Colored Troops.

Regiment organized out of Nashville.” Raif was addressing Miz Susan.

Miz Tina had been weeping off and on for the last hour. They were all in the front entry hall inside the house. Henry and Charles stared out the window, gawked at the platoon of Black soldiers sitting around the side of the road in the early afternoon sun, doing their best to find shade. Henry slipped into the kitchen.

“I assure you no harm will come to you,” Raif continued.

Miz Susan nodded, not convinced.

“There are others in this county that’s not true for. But you needn’t worry.”

He tilted his head towards his seated mother.

“You’ve taken good care of her, despite our differences. I am in your debt.”

Miz Susan smiled, knew that to be truth.

~ 387

“Please take a seat Captain, can I offer you a drink of something?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you Ma’am.”

George watched as Raif walked over to a wooden chair next to his mother, sat stiffly, a military soldier in every way. All grown up and in charge. Henry passed by the side windows, went out to talk to the soldiers.

After a few pleasantries, and general catching up with Miz Tina, Raif announced they had to keep going, a schedule to keep. A hug from his mother, and a wish for all to be well, George and Charles went out with him, just to see the colored soldiers up close. They were a friendly bunch, mostly ex-slaves, a few freemen, those that could read were the sergeants and corporals. George watched as one of the Sergeants handed Henry a pamphlet. The cover said, ‘Why a Colored Man Should Enlist, by Frederick Douglass’.24 George pulled Raif aside as they made small talk about training, uniforms, and weapons.

“There’s about fifteen hundred Reb infantry up at the Hiawassee, who probably are hearing about you right soon.”

Raif nodded. “That many? That’s nine miles. They could make it here before dark.”

“I tell you what else. That old smithy you passed across from the copper mill?”

Raif listened carefully.

“Full of exploding torpedo shells. Thousands of them.”

Raif stared at George.

“You Sure?”

“Seen ‘em fired myself, just a few months back. They make a big hole in the ground.”

24 “Once let the Black man get upon his person the brass letters, U.S., let him get an eagle on

his button, and a musket on his shoulder and bullets in his pocket, and there is no power on earth which can deny that he has earned the right to citizenship in the United States.”

~ 388

Raif turned and shouted orders to form up. He pointed at George and Henry. “You come with us.”

Raif pressed every able-bodied Black man he saw as they doubletimed back to the rail depot, including Big Jackie Crusor and his wood cutters. George was surprised to see Isaac Swan working with him but it made sense; no copper mill, no need for copper hauling. There were many old White men standing and ogling at the Blacks as they passed, surprised at Black soldiers. Some said derogatory remarks, others only stared, a few cheered them on.

The soldiers worked just as fast as they could, moving the shells from the smithy to the copper mill. George counted one thousand six hundred thirty-five. It took almost three hours. After the shells were in the copper mill, Raif ordered his men to rip up two hundred yards of rail line in both directions, put Jackie and his crew to moving the engine firewood into and outside the copper mill. They threw engine oil on the piles.

When they were done, Raif ordered his men to march south towards Chattanooga, while he and one of the lieutenants rode their horses around the piles lighting them with pitch torches. The men torched several railcars; Raif threw his torch on the pile inside the mill, turned to Jackie.

“I could use a good platoon of woodsmen.”

Jackie turned to his crew. To a man, they all nodded. They were glad to have helped, and knew their lives were forfeit if they stayed.

Raif rode over to George, handed him an envelope addressed to Miz Tina. George could feel coins through the paper.

“Till we meet again. Thank you. Now get as far from here as you can,” he said as he pointed at the growing flames.

Henry watched the soldiers marching away, turned back to George.

He was a young man with the look of adventure in his eyes.

“Death or Freedom!” he said as he held up the pamphlet.

George arched his eyebrows, started to say no, but Henry had already decided.

~ 389

“Thank you, Brother, for … everything. Say goodbye to Ma and them.”

He saluted, and walked away, spun around smiled and waved, while walking backwards.

Then he was gone, trotting up the road to catch up.

Henry would serve with distinction: garrison duty at Chattanooga until November 1864; then action at Dalton, GA, Siege of Decatur, AL, battle of Nashville, pursuit of Hood to the Tennessee, then duty at Chattanooga until July 1865. The unit would be mustered out March 26th, 1866. Henry would reenlist with the cavalry, was one of the Buffalo Soldiers at Fort Hays in Kansas, serving there with William “Buffalo Bill” Cody. No one in the family would hear of or see him again. ≈ “Hellfire and brimstone,” said Ma, looking at the rising smoke. It was thick and black, huge orange flames shot towards heaven.

George had gotten to the house as fast as he could, half running, half walking. By then, it was half past six, and while not dark, the sun was long gone beyond the mountain ridge.

He arrived just as General Forrest and the first of his cavalry had galloped into town. They stopped along the main road just to the north of the courthouse, short of half a mile from the copper mill, but not more than a city block away from the Calloway house. There were maybe two hundred, all mounted. He saw the General raise his sword, spin his horse around towards the mill, to go only a few yards when the first torpedoes exploded. They sounded like cannons firing. Forrest stopped his horse. Several of the other officers, George thought a major and two captains, rode up beside him, they began to gesture, waved their arms. Then the real fireworks started. Volleys of ‘cannons’ went

~ 390

off, in quick succession. It sounded as if there was a large artillery company firing. Forrest started forward to go into the ‘battle’, his men followed towards the smoke and fire. Suddenly, a shell crashed through the house next to the General, and one fell on the road not more than a hundred yards away, exploded. There was the sound of a bugle sounding retreat, and the entire unit thundered past the house going north away from the mill. They bivouacked up by the church near the Grant house, sent out scouts and waited.

George, Ma, Miz Susan, Miz Tina, and Elizabeth stayed in the garden behind the summer kitchen, watching and listening. Charles remained in the house with the children.

“What do you think is going on?” asked Miz Susan.

She was answered by several thunderous ‘volleys’, shells crashing through trees in the neighborhood, one hitting the roof of the Inman boarding house across the street, setting it aflame. No one had to say “let’s get inside”, they just did. Miz Inman and her two daughters ran into the street, Miz Susan yelled and waved them into the Calloway house.

By the time the rest of the Reb unit from Hiawassee arrived twenty minutes later, it was dark, and only an occasional exploding shell. The scouts must have reported seeing nothing, as Forrest and his cavalry bedded down for the night. When George got up before dawn, they were already gone, the Inman house a heap of smoldering ash.

Ma and Miz Tina would weep—George too, a bit— for their sons were gone to war.

~ 391

Chapter Eighty-Four Tuesday, September 15th, 1863 George walked all around the utterly destroyed copper mill. A light rain, falling since last night, had washed away most of the ash.

Everywhere, chunks of metal, twisted and bent rollers, slag heaps of copper. That was one hot fire, he thought. Nothing of use remained. He was on his way towards the old farm to see if any of the stone fruit was edible, either some late peaches on the trees, or some early apples.

On his way, George watched men gathering around the courthouse in spite of poor weather. Word had gotten around: the Rebs were gone and Cleveland’s Union flag was hung on the rail of the courthouse after its long storage. Nigh on two hundred and seventy-five Union men had gathered to form a volunteer company, planned to head north to Kentucky in the next three days. Some of the men he recognized, most he didn’t. Self-appointed Union Colonel Edwards was in the courthouse signing up his men. It was still the forenoon, but jugs of whiskey were handed about, the mood elevated by the recent rumors and events.

George walked through the field below the old house, avoided the muddy worn road, so deeply grooved from the thousands of wagons of recent weeks, filled with water and rotting horse droppings. He scanned the fruit trees, saw a few shrunken peaches towards the center of the trees, they could be boiled, better than none at all. The rain let up, no more water in his face as he climbed the trees; small blessings.

Motion caught his eye. On the other side of the wheat field, thirty or forty white-tailed deer came running out of the woods towards him.

He froze stock-still as they raced past him, not seeing nor caring about him. Behind them came the Reb cavalry, full gallop, dozens strong.

Clutching his bag of fruit, George hugged the trunk of the tree for safety. They didn’t see him either.

After they passed, George ran through the train station, stopped at the edge of Judge Gaut’s house on the main road, peered down the

~ 392

street towards the courthouse. The Rebs rode into the crowd of men, striking them with poles and rifle butts, breaking up the gathering with bitter fury. But no one fired a shot. Union men ran in every direction, leaping fences, stomping through yards and gardens, most escaping.

Several ran right past George, sprinting on into the nearby forest hills. A large group of men ran up the road by the grist mill, twenty of the Rebs giving chase. The Rebs arrested as many as they could, maybe twenty or so, and tied them up. Then he heard a pistol shot from that direction.

Wasn’t more than five minutes, and George saw smoke. The Rebs had set fire to the big feed mill, burning five tons of grain that had been collected for the Reb army. As they couldn’t take it, they burned it to ‘keep it out of the hands of the enemy’. They returned, set fire to the rail station, the wagon barn.

The whole time George sat still against the doctor’s house, watched the smoke become thick and black. When the commotion had died down, he made his way through the alleys and backyards to his house.

He put the sack of fruit on the table, found Elizabeth and the three children were down for their nap, fallen asleep. He wondered how they could sleep through such noise and commotion. He looked fondly at them, marveling at how beautiful they were, especially Elizabeth.

They’d had no time to be alone these days; he bent and kissed her. She opened her eyes and smiled. Later, he would take supplies up to Marsa Thom. But right now, that would have to wait.

~ 393

Chapter Eighty-Five Thursday, September 17th, 1863 No one in town had seen soldiers from either side for the last two days.

The Rebs had taken their captives, sworn them into the Reb army at gun point, and gone south towards Dalton, Georgia.

George had taken Miz Susan out to shoot the pistol just yesterday; the shots had attracted attention, so they decided not to pursue practicing. Miz Susan had learned how to load and fire, not that George thought she would unless her children were threatened.

The day started quiet enough with George, Ma, and Charles in the garden working, getting in the corn and beans, hiding the crop in the barn. Pretty much everyone in town was doing the same. No armies around to see the food and take it. The soldiers wouldn’t do the harvesting, but they sure did the taking.

George heard the noon bell ring an hour and a half before noon.

He looked up from his bag of corn, could see troops come into town, this time it was Yanks. Several hundred fell out at the courthouse, a few scouted around town. George went out to the road for a better look and was approached by one of the mounted officers, a man whose name George would later learn: Captain Dickerson. He was holding a copy of the Cleveland Banner.

“You know this paper?”

“Yas Suh, printed right around the corner.”

“Show me.”

George put down his bag and led the twenty Federals three short blocks to the newspaper office. The Captain gestured and the troops surrounded the building. The Captain dismounted, strode into the office followed by a Lieutenant and three armed soldiers. George waited, the street fell silent, several passersby stopped and watched.

A moment later, the Captain exited, followed by the soldiers, leading the editor Robert McNelley out, his hands bound. The soldiers

~ 394

marched him away as Captain Dickerson mounted his horse. He nodded to the Lieutenant as he passed, returning to the courthouse.

“Burn it.”

The soldiers immediately tipped over the presses, lit the piles of newspaper. In three minutes, the building roared, with heat so great that bark on the nearby trees smoked.

George watched the men go, walked out to Ocoee street, turned for home. A single shot rang out, and George turned just in time to see the Captain’s horse stumble and fall. The soldiers turned and pointed at Campbell’s warehouse on the corner across from the courthouse. They lined up, two rows, one standing, one kneeling in firing position, while the Lieutenant returned fire with his revolver. The Captain struggled to pull his leg from under the horse, knelt, fired his pistol. There was a shout, and a volley of rifle fire directly into the building. All was quiet for a moment, then a platoon of soldiers went to enter. They were shot at, retreated to the cover of the trees in the street. Orders were shouted, then a loud voice.

“Come out, you’re under military arrest.”

George couldn’t hear what the shooter said, but he fired another few shots at the Feds, who returned with heavy fire. A small group worked their way alongside the building, entered the rear. Shots were exchanged and the Feds exited carrying a wounded man. By this time, the platoon that had burned the newspaper office had made it to the rear of the warehouse with their torches still burning; they threw one in the back door, and the side window in the office. As the building caught fire, the Feds waited.

“Surrender!”

The response was several wild shots in the direction of the Feds, who withheld their fire, waited. Then two shots inside, and nothing. No sound or movement.

Later, not much would be found except the burned remains of two men. It was said they were Reb bushwhackers. Everyone knew both armies had spies, irregulars, and scouts in the area, each side wanted to

~ 395

know the position and strength of the other, and to harass and disrupt the supply lines of the opposing armies when possible. Military personnel caught behind enemy lines in civilian clothes were considered spies and were shot on sight. And anyone who shot at a uniformed soldier.

~ 396

Chapter Eighty-Six Friday, September 18th, 1863 George peered out of the door of the root cellar, searching for movement, listening. Ever since the shooting started, before dawn, the entire household had been hiding in the dark.

After burning the warehouse, the Yanks pitched camp at the old Reb recruiting station just south of town. Word of mouth had it that there were a thousand mounted cavalry; they were escorting a supply train to General Rosecrans’s army in Chattanooga.

This morning at gray dawn, General Forrest led his cavalry, about twelve hundred strong, through town at a gallop, and attacked the Yank’s camp. George figured spies were all about, and word had gotten to Forrest during the night about the events of the day before. There was a lot of shooting, riding back and forth of companies, cavalry from both sides passing the house all morning. The Yanks had chased the Rebs, each side breaking up into smaller units, then ambushing one another. Civilians were left alone, but soldiers fired so many wild bullets that three of the front windows had been shot out, one upstairs.

Around noon, George went out and cautiously looked about; there hadn’t been any sounds of horses passing or gunfire in more than two hours. Smoke came from the direction of the camp outside of town. Old Judge Campbell was talking on the corner with another man George didn’t recognize so he walked over, got in the Judge’s line of sight and waited at a respectful distance. The Judge finished, the other man left, he turned to George.

“Seems we’ve had a complete rout of the Yanks, they’ve retreated, leaving the supply wagons behind. A hundred twenty of ‘em captured.

Yank Captain causing all that trouble yesterday got kilt. Name’s Dickerson, from the 112th Illinois. When he got killed, his men panicked and run off. Forrest raided and burnt the wagons, killed the mules.

Now he’s gone too.”

~ 397

George thanked the Judge and reported right back to Miz Susan.

She put everyone to work, cleaning up and getting things ‘back to normal’ though the way she tapped her left hand as she sat at the kitchen table, it looked to George that she didn’t believe it. Miz Susan decided to board up all the windows and the door on the front of the house. Everyone would have to use the back door from then on; the boards would come down the day Marsa Thom came home.

George slipped his hunting knife into his waistband, grabbed a burlap sack, and walked to the camp. He was hoping to get any food he could. He wasn’t alone. Lots of folks, White and Black, were picking over what was left. All the guns and ammo were gone, the uniforms gone, the barrels of meat were empty, no corn or flour. But there were seventy-five to eighty dead mules. George set to butchering.

~ 398

Chapter Eighty-Seven Wednesday, September 23, 1863 “You think the Rebs have been run off?” Miz Susan was asking, George supposed, so that Marsa Thom and Joe might be able to come home. He was in the kitchen, resupplying Ma with more firewood.

“No, Ma’am, I don’t. Not yet.”

“So… you think we’re losing?”

George had revealed too much with his ‘not yet’ comment. Damn.

“No Ma’am, don’t know, just think the war is still all around.”

“Maybe time for Joseph to come home.”

George nodded his agreement, he’d been up in the cave all summer, going back and forth was getting downright dangerous; better to have him home and safe, as rumors were irregulars were operating in the mountains. But no one had seen soldiers from either side in town, or for that matter, any military age men from either side for nigh a week.

Union General Burnside’s Calvary was said to be just on the other side of the Hiawassee; Forrester’s down towards Chattanooga. The town was quiet, but folks were staying home ‘just in case’.

There’d been a major battle just across the hills in Georgia, at a place called Chickamauga. Seemed Forrest had headed into Georgia after driving out the Yanks in Cleveland, and run into Union General Croxton. Shooting started, then more troops arrived from each side until there was a major battle. Everyone in town could hear it, the cannons booming across the foothills thirty miles to the south. The battle went on for two days. Rosecrans withdrew to Chattanooga, Bragg followed but did not attack, trapping Rosecrans in a hastily built fort of logs that surrounded the city. The siege was on.

The battle had been costly, word was twenty thousand Confederate casualties, sixteen thousand Union. It was a standoff, but the Rebs considered it a victory. Seemed both Generals just wanted time to lick their collective wounds, bury the dead.

~ 399

George wasn’t inclined to travel up to the cave, but they needed more food money. Butter had gone to twelve gold dollars a pound, flour fifty cents a pound if you could find it; that was twenty-five times the price in three years. Sellers refused Dixies. ≈ It was raining again. Cold wind blowing the large drops at a heavy slant; George had waited until after the noon dinner hoping the rain would let up. No such luck. The higher up the mountain George went, the lower the temperature, the stronger the wind. At least the bad weather had put pause in the endless Reb patrols, mainly from Forrester’s trigger-happy shoot first, ask questions later cavalry. If there were any questions. They’d been living off the land, treating the civilian families poorly. Complaints abounded of their destruction in finding the hiding places, leaving fences cut, barn doors smashed, even taking the old milker cows that the children depended on. Report had it that the McNeal family just north of town, with four sons in the Reb army, had tried to hide the two mules they had left so they could work the farm in the spring. The Reb scavengers had horse whipped the children, shot the old man dead, then killed the mules and left them to rot.

General Bragg would hear of this and other indecencies, order it stopped; but the angry ragtag men continued to do almost anything.

George came across a group of four young Black men, all dead, all shot at close range judging by the holes in their backs. They’d been camped about a hundred yards off the road, made a cardinal mistake: they’d lighted a campfire. Long soaked by the rain, the fire was cold; cold as their stiff bodies. George had closed their eyes, pulled them together, said the lord’s prayer, and placed a few stones and logs over them. Though it wasn’t much of a funeral, he knew it was better than anything they would get back on their owner’s plantation. George doubled back towards the road and carefully covered his tracks. ≈ “Thought you forgot about me.”

~ 400

“Not in this lifetime.”

George and Marsa Thom both smiled, warm in their usual greeting.

Marsa Joe waved, didn’t look up from his seat at the table, engrossed in the book he was reading.

George conveyed the handful of notes from Miz Susan to Marsa Thom, made himself busy straightening up, went out in the approaching dark to gather what firewood he could that was dry enough to burn. He gathered dead leaves and pine needles, spread them around the outside of the cave, as it was looking too well trod.

When he returned, father and son were in something of a heated debate.

“You’re going home as your mother requested!”

“We have a whole house full of servants to take care of her, she doesn’t need me!”

The back and forth went on for a few moments until a draw was declared by a long silence. Marsa Thom sat for a moment, exhaled slowly, turned to George.

“How are things out there, George?”

George looked only at Marsa Thom as he spoke. “Things are gettin’ rougher and rougher. Many desperate people, not enough food for the folks and the armies. Shootings and killings. I had to bury four boys, shot through the back, on my way up here. Getting downright dangerous just to go outside. Rebs and Yanks shot up the whole town fighting last week.”

Marsa Joe stood and asked, “How’s Mother?”

“Oh she’s fine. Taught her to shoot the pistol a few weeks back.”

Marsa Thom and Marsa Joe looked at each other, Marsa Thom pulled at his beard, arched his eyebrows. Reluctantly, Marsa Joe agreed with one curt nod.

~ 401

Chapter Eighty-Eight Sunday, October 18th, 1863 The procession came through the center of town, banners flying, the military brass band playing ‘Dixie’ and ‘On to the Field of Glory’ as they passed, on their way to Loudon near Knoxville. Confederate Generals Forrester and Wheeler had camped out with about four thousand men for the past three weeks, just south of town. They traveled in spite of the freezing rain, the mud as bad as any George had ever seen. This much rain had to be biblical, he thought. It had been raining almost every single day since the beginning of September. The corn yield was especially bad, never quite drying out, most ruined by black rust. Those who ate it said they saw things that weren’t there.

The few times George could get to the cave, Marsa Joe wanted to go, but Miz Susan wouldn’t let him. Rosecrans in Chattanooga and Burnside in Knoxville had been sending dispatches via courier back and forth, and any White man seen traveling alone through the area would be shot on sight by the Rebs. Miz Susan had seen the bodies of several young men carried through town to be buried in the pits out by Candy’s Creek. In a strong voice, she’d say that Marsa Joe wasn’t going to be one of them.

George heard a commotion in front of the house. There were several Reb soldiers walking alongside two mounted horses; one carried an older Union soldier, hands tied, the other with a younger Reb officer holding the leads from his saddle. Marsa Joe went out immediately to see what was going on, Miz Susan mildly protesting without effect. She turned to George, and with a nod, he followed Marsa Joe into the street.

Marsa Joe spoke to the nearest man who, instead of answering, looked over Marsa Joe’s shoulder at the approaching George.

Marsa Joe turned around and stared at George, who halted.

“Mother told you to come?”

“Yas Suh.”

~ 402

“Go back inside and tell my mother I’m old enough to walk unaccompanied in the street!”

“I dasen’t say any such thing to your mother.”

George stood his ground. He couldn’t believe what he saw. The ‘Lincolnite prisoner’ was none other than Will Cliff. The old man sat stony faced, back straight. No wonder. The arresting Confederate officer was his oldest son, Will Cliff junior.

Will Cliff senior had worked tirelessly for the Union Cause, had recruited and assembled units of Union men, had helped them travel north with food and money. Of his four sons, two had joined the Confederate army, two the Union army. His three sons-in-law fought for the Rebs. He was too old to fight, but he had joined the effort as a courier.

This war had broken everything, tore families apart. George grimaced, watched closely. The old man’s anguish was manifest in his unwavering stare.

George and Marsa Joe watched the passing of the sad, small group.

Marsa Joe looked visibly upset. “What kind of man would turn in his own father?”

Or any member of their family, thought George. War was a terrible cruel master.

~ 403

Chapter Eighty-Nine Saturday, November 28th, 1863 George sat in the winter kitchen by the window, the trees outside barren. He watched the women in the household pull apart Miz Susan’s French silk bed sheets and all Marsa Thom’s black wool sweaters.

They’d been working for two days, bits of fluff had floated all over the lower floor of the house; he would have to help Ma with the cleaning after they were done. Now in her sixty-fourth year, she was slowing down, grunted as she stood or sat or bent, but never complained. She wouldn’t ask, he’d just lend her a hand.

The big news was the utter defeat of the Rebs at Lookout Mountain and Missionary Ridge down near Chattanooga. The entire town had heard the fighting, the cannons; seen the thousands of Union troops double-timing through town, heading south.

Ma set up the loom in the drawing room, fit it with twisted white silk threads on the warp, and the thinned-out yarns from the black sweaters on shuttles for the weft. When woven together, the effect was that of a gray cloth, fine and smooth in appearance, yet thick and warm.

Miz Susan and Miz Tina picked out the threads from the garments and knotted them into strands; Elizabeth ran the spinning wheel to twist the fine silk into long heavy threads.

Marsa Joe sat in the dining room by the big window, reading ‘The Collected Letters of Cicero’; he would close his eyes now and again and mumble to himself, as he tried to memorize a significant passage. He successfully ignored the work about him as he ‘studied’. Next to him, laid on a pallet on the large wooden dining table, was Marsa Billy.

The women wove a new Confederate officer’s uniform. There wasn’t any cloth to buy, no wool or cotton for sale anywhere. So the solution was to make it. Marsa Billy’s old one, ripped and worn beyond repair was covered in blood, the dirt so ground into the grease on what was left of the sleeves, it had given Marsa Billy a rash on both arms.

~ 404

Thursday week, middle of the afternoon, Marsa Billy had stumbled in the back door and collapsed on the floor. He’d been laid on the long table to tend to him; no one wanted him to die in a bed that they’d have to throw out on account of death being in it.

But he didn’t die, he was recovering. He’d been shot twice, in the left foot and the right calf. That the gaping hole in his leg hadn’t killed him was plain luck. Doc Campbell said Marsa Billy would walk with a limp, wouldn’t be able to bend the foot. Doc had wanted to saw the leg off, but Billy announced he’d sooner die. The Doc shrugged, Miz Susan cried, but they granted him his wish. For two days he’d been unconscious, lips turned blue, Doc thought he was a goner. Miz Susan packed bags of hot sand and stone all around him, covered him with thick blankets, then prayed all night. Evidently the Lord listened, as Marsa Billy awoke the next morn.

The story he told was of an encounter with Union guerillas, his horse shot out from under him, a stand and a fight in the woods from which he was the only survivor. It was a good story thought George, but he didn’t believe a word of it. More likely he’d been shot running away from somewhere he shouldn’t have been. There’d been stories about jackleg Rebs raiding peoples’ homes and taking money and jewels. The Confederate command had even sent out patrols to hunt for them. Too bad the bullet couldn’t tell them if it was Union or Reb. Marsa Billy pleaded with Miz Susan for money; his slaves were gone and nothing of value remained on the old farm anymore. He was desperate for a ‘fresh start’. He needed to get back to his unit, but for now he needed to stay low, out of sight of the Union forces nearby.

No civilian could tell what was happening with the war, the landscape was full of soldiers, seemed like they were coming and going, both armies chasing the other, and as always, trying to break supply lines, and generally raise hell with the other side. General Sherman had been camped out here in town for a week, then left going north, returned six days later going south. Meanwhile, Wheeler and Forrest were leading raids on the Union wagon trains. It wasn’t safe to venture

~ 405

out of the house, let alone to go into the high country. Marsa Thom would wonder, but surely he’d heard the same cannons. The word was that the Rebs were on the run to the deeper south. George hoped they’d all leave, and let people get back to their lives.

“What you reading?” croaked Marsa Billy.

“Collected letters of Cicero,” said his nephew.

“The words of dead Romans can’t help you now.”

Marsa Joe dropped the book and gazed at his uncle, appraising him for a moment. “Read to lead,” he said quoting Cicero, went back to reading.

“Suit yourself.”

George smiled. Marsa Joe would always be one step ahead in this world. George would take a trip to see Marsa Thom tonight, cold as it was. But from now on, he would always take his rifle. He would be killed if caught with it. He would be killed caught without it.

~ 406

Chapter Ninety Wednesday, December 16th, 1863 The frozen wind was rising with the sun as George tended his morning chores of grinding the day’s corn, splitting wood, and fetching water.

For the past week, the pasture next to the house had been covered with white tents. The Michigan 4th regiment bivouacked in neat rows, now campfires were lighted for the morning meal. George watched the men toast coffee in skillets, then crush the beans on the rocks with their rifle butts. George had been able to buy ten pounds of bacon and two pounds of coffee from the captain of the quartermaster for a five-dollar gold coin just the day before. All the Calloways would eat a hearty breakfast this morning.

The Union soldiers were in desperate need of shoes, many barefoot; he’d seen several sets of bloody footprints in the fresh snow around the camp. George watched the supply drivers change out the mule team on the cook wagon, he asked what they were going to do with the wornout animals. The teamster told him they were shot, to keep living stock out of the hands of the Rebs. George traded two pairs of Marsa Thom’s shoes for the two best mules. They were too worn out to pull wagons for the army, but fine for packing supplies into the mountains. In just two days of foraging and rest, the mules already looked stronger.

Marsa Billy was gone. Miz Susan had given him a twenty-dollar gold piece, all the spare money she had; it didn’t mollify him. Again, he threatened he’d be back after the war “to settle up”. He rode off with a worn-out horse, his new uniform, and a bad attitude a week past. He left with a small group of Forrest’s cavalry. The Rebs, in raiding parties around the county, were looking for the Union army positions to determine what the Lincolnites were up to.

The first fortnight of December had seen Union and Reb cavalry riding through town, shooting from horseback at one another, always at a gallop, setting homes aflame. The Confederate civil structure, such as

~ 407

it was, collapsed. The Reb families, those who had stayed in Cleveland, now fled South.

Just three days ago, General Sherman arrived with the XV Corps of Army of the Tennessee and the Reb’s patrols disappeared. Sherman took up headquarters in the Raht house, the old Calloway home on the hill. General Grant stayed with Sherman for three days; the Union families sent him hand-written notes of thanks. George had seen Grant as he rode by the house followed by officers and flags and banners and bands. A skinny small man, George knew he must have a lot under that hat to be so important.

Today, long lines of The Union Army of the Tennessee marched by the house, leaving for other battles. They had started at first light, marching ten abreast, and were still passing four hours later. George had never seen so many soldiers. They sang as they marched, drums beating, Union flags and company banners flying, men proud of their service. After them came supply wagons, a thousand or more, pulled by mules driven by Black teamsters in uniform. It seemed endless. Miz Tina had stopped counting.

The 4th Michigan, a small part of Sherman’s army, had stayed behind to care for the town, stop the marauding Rebs and other miscreants, and reestablish law and order. The Union flag flew on the courthouse pole at last. There had been much boisterous cheering by the Union families as it was raised by the army.

George had not been up to the cave in a week. As Marsa Billy had recovered, George grew wary, had been especially careful when going.

He wasn’t sure if Marsa Billy would follow him there. George had never forgotten Marsa Billy’s threat to collect the thousand-dollar reward on Marsa Thom’s head. Miz Susan didn’t believe her brother would harm her husband, but she’d never seen his mean side like the Black slaves had.

George was never alone with Marsa Billy the whole time he was recuperating. Or any of the other Black family for that matter. George put a ‘two-man rule’ in place, always two people in the room with

~ 408

Marsa Billy at all times, even while tending him at night. George couldn’t shake the memories of Pappy Jim out of his head. He was long gone, ‘gone for glory’ as Ma said.

George entered the backdoor of the house. Ma and Miz Tina were busy slicing up the bacon as he put the corn on the table, stoked the stove fire, and set about toasting coffee. Miz Susan came through the door. “It’s time for Mister Calloway to come home,” she announced.

Miz Susan paused, looked at each of them in turn, not really expecting a reply. “The Confederates are well gone now. Proof is the flag in the square.”

George considered, things had changed, the Rebs were nowhere about. He nodded. “Yes ‘um. Today? Looks to be clear for a while yet.”

Miz Susan gave a tight-lipped smile in spite of her stern demeanor.

“Today would be good.” ≈ George cut around lake Wildwood, a longer but safer route, and easier for the pack mule. He had his head bowed into the wind as he walked over the small rise that revealed the lake. He could hardly believe his eyes. Hundreds of tents, some new, most not, a few fires burning, hardly anyone moving about. He saw a few Black men gathered at a campfire under the trees. Approaching cautiously, he got close enough to see they weren’t soldiers. It was an encampment of army followers.

All Black.

George sat against a large pine having taken the invitation of the men to warm himself by the fire. He had plenty of time to take a moment to rest before making the steep climb to the cave. Besides, he’d recognized Timmy, the head house slave from Billy’s farm in Georgia.

He told George he had joined the ‘camp followers’ of contrabands in the late summer, having sent all the other slaves north in groups of two or three. Satisfied that none of them were returning, he’d gone north only to run into Sherman’s army near Knoxville and thought that this version of freedom was good enough for now.

~ 409

The camp followers lived by working for the Union army, selling firewood, cooking, taking in the laundry of the soldiers, a few engaged in the ‘world’s oldest profession’. George took the offer of a pipe fill from Timmy, pulled a burning stick out of the fire, lighted up, leaned back with a large puff. He set aside his loaded rifle, careful to keep it close, and dry. Timmy turned towards George.

“You should come with us. Times are hard, but we answer to no one.”

George hesitated before he spoke.

“That does appeal… I have to think of my family. Too many people starvin’ and dying these days,” he said shaking his head.

They talked on, about the merits of freedom, if it would come, what they would do. After a while, three wagons piled high with laundry came into the camp. As Timmy turned his full attention to unloading, Black women emerged from the tents, carrying washing tubs. George led the mule out of the camp and towards the mountain cave for the last time.

George slogged through a deep snowbank no more than a quarter mile from the crest of the hill near the cave. The mule, though slow, was a good climber. They weren’t climbing on the usual trail, more of a slant up the face. He neared the clearing, stopped to catch his breath by a large copse of trees and brush. He listened for a moment, saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He stayed still and watched. A heavily bundled White man, maybe a hundred yards away, no weapon showing, but clearly on the direct path to the cave entrance. George took his rifle from the pack bag, dropped to one knee, and slowly put a cap on the firing hammer, set it on safety. He watched the man for a moment. By the way he walked, he realized it was Marsa Joe, here against his mother’s wishes. George watched, let Marsa Joe get up the hill in front of him. Just as he was about to step out from the tree line, he saw another man carrying a pistol, following Marsa Joe, well behind, moving from tree to tree. George tied off the mule and waited. The homemade Reb uniform was a dead giveaway. Marsa Billy.

~ 410

Alarmed, George let him get well up the slope before low-running up the hill towards the large boulder in the center of the clearing.

George ran when Billy walked, stopped when Billy stopped. He had to be careful, out in the open sound carries. He was right below the mouth of the cave, and he could see well from there, even if he was two hundred yards downhill. He watched as Joe gained the top of the ridge close to the cave entrance. Billy quickly sprinted up the hill, grabbed Joe from behind in a chokehold. They struggled for a moment; Billy put the pistol against Joe’s temple.

“I know you’re in there, you son of a bitch!”

Joe tried to get free, but Billy held on, cocked the pistol.

“I’ll kill him, I promise I will!”

George could only hear a muffled shout from inside the cave, then the log was pushed away from the low entrance. George slowly leveled his gun on the top of the boulder, carefully pulled the rifle hammer all the way back to full fire. He breathed slowly, his hands getting cold, he gritted his teeth. He checked how fast the wind was blowing the drifting snow across the hill, adjusted his sights for two hundred yards.

Marsa Thom crawled out on his hands and knees, looked up at Billy.

“Let him go, I’ll go with you.” Marsa Thom stood slowly.

“Father, no! He’ll kill you!”

“SHUTUP!” screamed Billy, clearly rattled.

George sighted down the barrel of his rifle, barely breathing, looking for an opening to shoot, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it.

“Leave him go, we can work this out,” Marsa Thom implored.

“Cain’t have any witnesses,” Billy said almost wistfully.

Marsa Thom looked at his son, his lips trembling. He spoke, the words flowing out too fast. “I’m worth more to you alive than dead, give you enough money for a new start.”

“Don’t want a new start, just what’s —”

~ 411

Before he could finish, Joe stomped on Billy’s bad foot, and started to make a run for it. Recovering, Billy whirled towards him and took aim.

George pulled the trigger. Billy dropped dead where he stood. ≈ George watched the fire burn the cave contents they couldn’t carry home. They had dug up the bank’s gold and family silver, packed some books and papers, broken up the furniture for the fire. They’d wrapped Billy’s body with blankets, placed it on the stone ledge in the cave, covered it with stones. Marsa Thom had insisted on saying the Lord’s prayer but left without looking back. With a piece of charcoal George scribed a cross on Billy’s chest. Someday, Judgement Day, Jesus would be able to find Billy and give him all that was coming to him.

The last item George placed in the roaring fire was the bloody uniform. Satisfied that it was burning well, he took the reins of the mule and turned to follow Marsa Thom and Marsa Joe down the mountain trail.

The war, for George, was over.

~ 412

Chapter Ninety-One Monday, April 2nd, 1866 George smiled to himself, lost in thought about the Easter Supper the day before; the gathered family celebrated the end of the war, gave thanks for the end of slavery25.

This day was a fine fresh spring day with no breeze to speak of; the sun was high in the sky, a hazy sundog foretelling of the rain to come in the next few days. George took off the coat of his new medium-gray suit, folded it carefully, and set it on the seat of the small farm wagon that held the tools and survey equipment.

He waited for Mister Thom to finish checking the figures of the eighty-acre parcels of land they were laying out. This was the last of the five lots on the shore of Wildwood Lake that would soon be sold.

George gazed over the land, it really was the best of the five he thought; a small stream ran through it, a good stand of hardwoods set against a large natural meadow with rich thick grass. George had surveyed this parcel himself—Mister Thom had resumed teaching him how to survey—and now Mister Thom was checking all the angles, altitudes, and arithmetic.

Thanksgiving, Mister Thom had gathered all the family on a Saturday morning, to announce what everyone already knew: they were freemen, now and forever. There were tears, a sob or two, a ‘thank Jesus’ from Ma. Mister Thom had wished them all well, offered four dollars per week to the women, seven per week to the men, for all those who wanted to stay. Everyone did. There really was nowhere for them 25 Acting military Governor, Andrew Johnson, freed the slaves of Tennessee

October 24th, 1864 by proclamation. On Dec 22nd, 1865, Tennessee voters passed a new constitution abolishing slavery. The 13th Amendment to the US Constitution forever abolishing slavery was ratified on December 6, 1865, thus making it impossible for a state to reestablish slavery.

~ 413

to go, especially with so many people on the road, many Blacks going North, some West.

Mister Thom scratched a note in his notebook, closed it, turned to George. George concentrated on smiling and remaining calm.

“Well done, George. It all checks out.”

Mister Thom’s words of praise were few and far between, these were praise indeed. George smiled even larger. “Thank you, Suh.” Mister Thom reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a thick document, unfolded the large legal paper, smoothed it out on the wagon seat.

“George, read this over.”

In large bold letters, the top said, ‘Land Lease’, then a description of the lot they had just surveyed. The last paragraph stood out.

“In consideration of services rendered, I hereby grant George Calloway the exclusive right to farm Wildwood Lot 5. The rent shall be one dollar per annum. This contract shall have the term of the rest of his natural days.”

George looked up at Mister Thom, surprised, thankful. He smiled so hard his cheeks hurt.

Mister Thom looked at him eye to eye, man to man, he too smiling widely. Mister Thom reached out and offered his hand, shaking George’s for the first time in his life.

“You didn’t think I’d forget?”

George took a deep breath before he trusted himself to speak without his voice cracking.

“Not in this lifetime, Mister Thom, not in this lifetime.”

~ 414

Coda After the war, George and Elizabeth raised a large and healthy family; they built a successful peach preserve business.

George would name his second son Thomas Junius Calloway, born 12th August 1866.

With the money he saved, George was able to send all his children to school. His three sons would graduate from Fisk College, James (my grandfather) and Clinton (b: 1869) became college professors and help build Tuskegee Institute and the Rosenwald Schools. Thomas became the Assistant Principal of Tuskegee, later a lawyer and developer in Washington, D.C. Later (1899), James would be hired by the German Crown to teach cotton farming to the Blacks of Togo.

Ma and Caroline would continue in the employ of their former owners; Ma would pass in 1870, Caroline in 1885.

Elizabeth died in 1877, shortly after the birth of their daughter, Sadie. George married Harriette Schooler; they had no children. George died in 1911; Harriette, 1916.

Mary would graduate from Marysville Tennessee State College, and become a teacher, own her own home and small farm in Cleveland.

On the day of her Fisk University graduation, Baby Caroline’s dress would catch fire; she passed away, 1874.

Charles would marry Phyllis Porter, raise ten healthy children.

In October 1894, Leander Grant, and two of George’s sons, Thomas, and Clinton Calloway, went to Monrovia, Liberia, Africa to reclaim

~ 415

Nathaniel Grant's property. On their arrival, they discovered it had been repossessed by the government for back taxes.

Mary Payne would receive a letter from Louis after the end of the war in the summer of 1865. She would disappear two weeks later, and no one, not even her father, would hear from her again.

Thomas Howard Calloway would have all his land, mines, bank, and railroad reinstated by the US government. He would pass away the 1st of September 1870; Joe would honor his father’s lease to George.

On July 24th, 1866, Tennessee would be the first Confederate state readmitted to the Union.

General Forrest would found the Ku Klux Klan and serve as its first Grand Wizard.

General U.S. Grant would become the 18th President of the United States, 1869 to 1877, enforce Reconstruction and suppress the Klan.

Neither George, nor Thom, nor Joe ever told Susan what happened to Billy. He is still listed as missing.

~ 416

Author’s Note Slavery was legal in all thirteen US Colonies when the Declaration of Independence was written in 1776. The Northern states, over the first twenty years of our country, slowly repealed and outlawed slavery.

Still, slaves were held in the North as late as the Civil War; they were those who were born just before the date of emancipation in their individual state. In New Hampshire and New Jersey as late as 1865, there were still people held in bondage.

Slavery has defined this country, from its earliest beginnings to the present day. A caste system of bonded labor, first indentured, then based on race—the enslavement of Africans—and their subsequent reduction to chattel, was then and is now, cause of the destruction of moral, economic, and religious wellbeing for all those ensnared, both Black and White, by the lies made necessary for its existence. That racism, transformed into today’s racism, is still the cause of many of our country’s woes: fear, xenophobia, outright lies in politics and the media.

It seems we are in spirit still fighting the Civil War. It is my fond hope that someday America will grow beyond the damaged past that was deeded to us by the founding fathers.

E Pluribus Unum.

~ 417

Acknowledgements Many thanks are owed to the people who helped me build this story of family.

I am grateful to the many family members who gathered the letters, pictures, and stories, passing them on to later generations: my father Nathaniel Calloway, my brother Aubrey Calloway, cousin Jimmy Johnson, cousin Ernest Grant, Aunt Willie Taylor, my son Peter Calloway, and nephew Nate Calloway.

Thanks to friends who read and commented on too many drafts of the book: Victoria Golden White, David Fein, Mark Griffiths, Bill McClure, Ginger Clark, The Nerd Herd (you know who you are), Linda Gunnerson, Susan Davis for her brilliant cover art; and to all for their encouragement.

And thanks to those who, at the Port Townsend Writers Conference, taught me how important every word can be: Luis Alberto Urrea, Pam Houston, and Jonathan Evison.

The largest thank you goes to my best friend Wendy, who encouraged me never to give up.

~ 418

Bibliography Barrow, Charles Kelley (2001), Black Confederates (Forgotten Confederates), Pelican Publishing, ISBN: 1-56554-937-6.

Hurlburt, J.S. (1866), History of the Rebellion in Bradley County, East Tennessee, Sink-Moore Publishing, Inc., Limited Edition 1988.

McPherson, James M. (1965), The Negro’s Civil War, Pantheon Books, Library of Congress card number 65-10012.

Blockson, Charles L. (1987), The Underground Railroad, Berkley Books, New York, NY, ISBN: 0-425-14136-5 Douglass, Frederick (1857), The Dred Scott Decision, speech delivered before American Anti-Slavery Society, New York, May 14, 1857.

W. F. Allen, C. P. Ware, and L. M. Garrison (1867), Slave Songs of the United States, Applewood Books, Bedford, MA Murray, Melba Lee (1992), Bradley Divided, The College Press, Collegedale, TN Yetman, Norman R. (2002), When I Was a Slave, Dover Publications, Mineola, NY Horwitz, Tony (2011), Midnight Rising, Henry Holt and Company, NYC McPherson, James (1988), Battle Cry of Freedom, Oxford University Press, Oxford, England Allen, Thomas B. (2006), Harriette Tubman, Secret Agent, National Geographic, Washington, D.C. Grant, Ulysses S. (1885), The Complete Personal Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant, Seven Treasures Publications, Amazon.com Keri Leigh Merritt (2017), Masterless Men, Poor Whites and Slavery in the Antebellum South, Cambridge University Press

~ 419

“Calloway’s elegant prose effectively captures the tension and textures of the period… he shows himself to be such a talented writer of historical fiction that the biographical element of the work barely registers.”

– Kirkus Reviews

“David Calloway has written a powerful and moving story… His writing style draws in the reader from the first page…not easily forgotten.”

4.5 stars – The Manhattan Book Review

IF SOMEDAY COMES David Calloway

David Calloway was born in Chicago and grew up in Palo Alto and Berkeley.

Calloway holds an MFA from UCLA in Film Production. His first job was as an Editor, progressing to Cinematographer, then Producer of features and television. He is a member of the Producer’s Guild, the Director’s Guild, and the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences.

Calloway is a Director on the board of the Angel’s Gate Cultural Center and on the board of the Offshore Racing Outreach Foundation.

Calloway lives and works in Los Angeles, California.

Cover photo: only known picture (1905) of George Calloway, top center; clockwise, Thomas, Clinton, and James Calloway, my Grandfather.

Cover Design by Susan Davis

DAVID CALLOWAY

This is the true story of my Great-Grandfather George Calloway, a slave in Cleveland, Tennessee, before and during the Civil War. It is a tale of determination, perseverance, and achievement. It is written as historical fiction, based on George’s life, and stories I heard growing up.

More fact than fiction, George’s story has also been my journey, grappling with the humiliation of slavery; sorting through the many myths and false modern-day narratives, and discovering a long lost relative, I found that to understand America, you must first understand the Civil War. George was then, and remains, a hero of our family.

IF SOMEDAY COMES

“This is an essential read… for readers looking for a more accurate view of true history.” 4/5 stars – The San Francisco Book Review

IF SOMEDAY COMES David Calloway “My Great-Grandfather’s true story from slavery to freedom during the American Civil War.”