Crossing Ebenezer Creek Read online

Ben nodded.

  “Beastly people.” Rachel sighed, circling one arm around her little Rose, one hand spread on her big belly.

  A nighthawk cawed. Mordecai rose, tossed a few fence rails onto the fire, returned to Chloe’s side.

  “We was born in Virginia.” She sniffled.

  Mariah turned, saw Chloe with her head lowered, saw Mordecai patting her hand, saw Zoe swallow.

  “Was six years old when Doc Melrose’s father paid a visit. His wife took a shine to us. Given they important folk, our master—” Chloe took a deep breath, stroked Dulcina’s arm. “Night before we was to go, our mama fixed on our memories.” Chloe paused again. “Mama said, ‘You Zoe and Chloe from Richmond, Virginia.’ Then she had us say it back to her three times.”

  From off a ways came a squeal. Like a rabbit in an owl’s talons.

  “Next, Mama said, ‘You born on James Carter place.’ We repeated that three times.”

  Zoe sniffled.

  “Then she said, ‘Your mama named Ruth. She second cook on the Carter place.’ ”

  Zoe reached over Dulcina, took her sister’s other hand.

  “Your daddy named—” Chloe began to sob.

  Zoe, fighting back tears, picked up where her sister left off. “Your daddy named William. He a wheelwright and cooper on the Carter place.”

  Chloe spoke on. “You got five brothers and sisters—”

  Zoe spoke on. “Hannah, Daniel, Phoebe, Cyrus, Peter.”

  “Come morning,” continued Chloe, “after Mama and Daddy hugged us hard, Mama asked if we remember the lesson. We was too crying to speak, so we nod. She pat our heads, hold us tight one last time, then told us to keep remembering because”—Chloe took a deep breath—“because every good-bye ain’t gone.” After another pause, she added through tears, “That was nearly—”

  “Fifty years ago,” Zoe finished up, wiping her eyes.

  Mariah was stunned. She had never heard their story, never seen the Doubles cry, never known them to put an ounce of pain on display. And now there was a glistening in Mordecai’s eyes.

  “At ten I was made playmate to Miss Callie’s brother, taught to groom the boy’s pony, groom the boy.” Mordecai paused. “Was a cruel boy. Used to saddle me with a collar, leash, make me walk on all fours.” Mordecai paused again. “Time and again my pa looked on in pain when he was out there trimming hedges, pruning roses, weeding, swinging the scythe across the lawn. For Pa’s sake I tried to keep my tears inside.”

  Mariah saw Chloe squeeze Mordecai’s hand.

  “There were times he couldn’t do the same when the boy was abusing me. Also when he heard Miss Callie’s mother or father cuss my mama, smack her around. Was a horrible thing to see my pa cry.”

  Mariah saw Chloe rub Mordecai’s back.

  “One night I found my pa in the garden, weeping a river. ‘I ain’t a man. I ain’t a man,’ he kept saying.” Mordecai swallowed. “I helped him to our cabin, cheered him up some with a hand-shadow show, went to bed plum proud that I’d saved Pa from a consuming sorrow.”

  Mariah was by now on the verge of tears herself.

  “Turns out all I’d done was fool myself.” Mordecai’s voice quivered. “In the middle of the night, Pa slipped from the cabin and hanged himself in the livery.”

  Rachel shook her head. “Poor man.”

  Mordecai took a deep breath. “On that day I made a pledge. Never take a wife. Never sire a child, not so long as I’m bound. Kept the pledge when a young valet. Kept the pledge when Miss Callie, off and married, wrote to her father begging for me, saying none of the judge’s colored men had the quality to be a butler.”

  Chloe wrapped her arms around Mordecai. Mariah heard him whisper, “Now you know why.”

  “And to think,” said Della, “some of them shocked to see us take off with the Yanks.” Della, a high yalla, angular woman with a patch over her right eye, had joined the march only a few hours before. With her was a grizzled, old, humpbacked man, her father, Gus.

  Mariah soon learned that Callie Chaney was hardly the only one to give out scare talk about the Yanks.

  A woman named Nannie recalled her owner telling her that before the Yanks set fire to buildings in Atlanta, they locked up hundreds of colored people inside them.

  “We was told self-same story,” whispered Rachel.

  Ben cleared his throat. “Massa told me Yanks drowned all the colored women and children in the Chattahoochee.”

  “Them devils say anything to keep us bound,” muttered Mordecai.

  “And the Bible say the devil is a liar!” Hagar roared.

  “So many Yanks been mighty kind,” said Rachel.

  With that, talk turned to individual bluecoats. Thoughts, observations, news picked up while cooking, herding, laundering, blacking boots. There was talk of the ones who tickled them, like the burly sergeant who went about slapping younger soldiers on the back and exclaiming, “Prave boys! Such prave boys!”

  “That’s Sergeant Hoffmann,” said Mariah.

  “Ones like him,” said Mordecai. “They from Germany.”

  “That near New York?” someone asked.

  “No, across an ocean. In Europe.”

  “They have slavery over there?” asked Ben.

  “No, they do not,” Mordecai replied.

  Hosea recalled Sergeant Hoffmann handing out pants and caps. Hagar spoke about Private Sykes handing out socks. Rachel remembered Private Dolan bringing baskets for laundry.

  “You know it’s Captain Galloway behind their goodness,” said Chloe.

  “Captain Galloway, he’s the king of kindness,” added Mariah.

  The captain had supped with them that night. It had been a one-pot meal of cowpeas, rice, and pork.

  “Most delicious!” he said after his first forkful. “What flavor!” he exclaimed. “I taste the … hot pepper … onion, and …?” He looked at Zoe.

  A tightlipped smile was all he got back by way of a reply.

  “Go on.” Captain Galloway smiled back. “Aren’t you going to tell me the rest of the ingredients?”

  “Well, sir, if I tell you, sir, all the fine flavor will fade away.”

  Captain Galloway wagged his finger. “I’ve heard how you cooks guard your recipes,” he said. “But you know, you might want to give up some of your secrets. There’s money to be made in a cookbook. An uncle of mine has a small publishing company. I could make an introduction after, well, you know, when we get through all this.”

  Mariah was stunned to see the captain acting like he was with his own. Was something wrong with him? He didn’t smell like he’d been drinking.

  “And your cookbook,” Captain Galloway continued after another forkful, “it might just become a calling card for a catering business. You might even open a restaurant. I have some friends who might back such an endeavor.”

  Is he crazy? Mariah couldn’t recall a white person having a conversation with a colored person. She remembered plenty of talk—

  Fetch me a sherry, then draw my bath!

  Yes, ma’am.

  Can’t churn faster than that?

  Yes, ma’am.

  Have Jack butcher that hog Friday next!

  Yes, sir.

  Put the kettle on!

  Yes, ma’am.

  Send for Reuben!

  Yes, ma’am.

  That silver better have a mirror shine!

  Yes, ma’am.

  Where the blazes is Reuben?

  Don’t know, ma’am.

  Talk. Never conversation, like Captain Galloway was making, being more than kind, being friendly.

  They had just sat down to eat when the captain came over. When they stopped, stood up, he bid them take their seats.

  Awkward smile on his face, hands clasped behind his back, he rocked on his heels.

  “Something we can do for you, sir?” Mordecai had asked.

  “Oh no. I just, just came to see how you all are faring.”

  “Right fine,” replied Mordecai.
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  “Having supper?” The captain rubbed his hands.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Looks good.”

  “Would you like some, sir?” asked Mariah.

  “Yes, I would—if you have some to spare.”

  Mariah rose. “Zeke, give me your cup.”

  The captain tensed. Was he afraid to eat behind colored? No, she soon found out. It wasn’t that.

  “I wouldn’t dare take the child’s food!” he said.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, sir,” said Mariah. “I can put his in my cup—he can eat from mine. I’ll just give his cup a little wash up for your portion.” Mariah lifted the lid from the pot. “See, there’s plenty more.”

  Mariah watched Galloway peer into the pot, then get a fix on the beat-up tin half skillet Mordecai ate from, the Doubles’ dented dipper cups, her and Zeke’s tin cups. Dulcina, her back to the group, wasn’t eating at all.

  “No need,” said Galloway. “Please, Mariah, sit back down. Let your brother keep his cup. I’ll be right back,” which Mariah knew would be true, for this night, the captain camped closer to the colored than to his comrades.

  “Well, I never,” said Chloe when the captain was out of range.

  “That is one peculiar man,” added Mordecai.

  When Captain Galloway returned, Mariah eyed his tin plate, a strange long mahogany case with a brass shield and a silver cap. She had seen other soldiers’ eating ware, what Caleb had told her were called mess kits, but she’d never seen any as marvelous as the captain’s. Inside the case was a fork, spoon, and knife with fancy black handles. There was also a corkscrew and a strange little contraption. The case’s silver cap she realized doubled as a cup.

  “Salt and pepper anyone?” asked the captain, unscrewing the little contraption and revealing two shakers.

  As he supped, Captain Galloway seemed to be enjoying every forkful.

  “And what is this dish called?” he asked at one point.

  “Hoppin’ John,” replied Zoe.

  “Hahpin—”

  “Think of a boy named John, sir,” said Mordecai. “Then see that boy hop.”

  “Oh,” said Galloway. “Hopping John.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mordecai.

  “And why, pray tell, is it called hopping John?”

  “No idea, sir.”

  Before Captain Galloway left he gave Mordecai his tin plate and mess kit.

  “Oh no, sir, I couldn’t possibly take your things,” Mordecai protested, but the captain insisted.

  “Captain Galloway, he’s the king of kindness,” Mariah said again, later that night during the bonfire gathering. She looked over at the captain bundled up in his overcoat, warming his hands by a small campfire.

  “Captain Galloway, sir!” Mordecai called out. “You should know a host of us pray you up every day!” Standing at his full height, Mordecai gave the captain a salute.

  Captain Galloway returned the salute.

  “We pray for all the good Yanks!” Effie hollered out. “Sherman on down.”

  “I heard Sherman insane,” whispered Hagar.

  “Aw, stop that now,” said Mordecai, shaking his head.

  Nannie looked over one shoulder, then the other. “Is odd how he go about more like vagabond than ginral. Black hat half-covering his face, ratty brown overcoat like—”

  “Ever get a close look at his face?” interrupted Hagar.

  “Not close,” someone replied.

  “Red hair tussled up,” said Hagar. “Pale eyes jump all over. Face like a skirmish.”

  “That’s the truth,” said Mariah. The few times she’d laid eyes on Sherman his face was a scowl.

  “Don’t much sleep, I hear,” added Lovie. “Deep in the night, up a-walkin’ an’ a-walkin’.”

  “Sound like he haunted,” said Hagar.

  “Ghost of his son.” That was Hosea’s guess. “Heard it only been about a year since the little fella died.”

  “Boy must be comin’ to him in his sleep,” insisted Hagar. “That’s why he walk the night.”

  “Could be the son’s death is what made Sherman crazy,” offered Ben.

  “Crazy or not,” Mordecai weighed in, “if not for Sherman we wouldn’t be on the freedom road right now. I say if crazy make a man bring wreck and ruin to secesh and freedom to us, we all need to pray every hour for a hundred more crazy General Shermans.”

  “And no more General Rebs!” declared Mariah. She knew that if some thought Sherman was crazy, they all saw Jefferson Davis in Union blue as a son of ole slewfoot, evil shot-through. “Put nothin’ past that man,” she said. “Not after what he did today.”

  “What happened?” asked Gus.

  “Before we all could get across,” explained Hagar, “soldiers pulled up that newfangled bridge they got.”

  “It’s called a pontoon,” said Mariah. “Pontoon bridge.”

  “Did it on General Reb’s say is what we heard.”

  “And who is General Reb?” the newcomer asked.

  “Evilest Yank in the world,” replied Hosea. “Was him, they say, ordered the bridge pulled up. Left us to slosh our way across.”

  “If anybody deserve a hauntin’, it’s Ginral Reb,” said Hagar. “And I don’t mean no playful haints.”

  “They say five or six of our people drowned,” added Mariah.

  “Some turned back,” said Hosea.

  Hagar frowned. “Lord knows what they up against now.”

  Mariah could see that Mordecai didn’t like things going gloomy again. “People, let us cease from talk of evil,” he said. “I say it’s time to speak of our dreams, our new tomorrows.”

  Mariah looked around. Everyone seemed adrift.

  Caws of a nighthawk came and went.

  Mariah wondered if anyone would dare speak of dreams, of a new tomorrow, what with nothing certain. After a few more nighthawks cawed away, to Mariah’s surprise, the night became a wishing well.

  Sleep in a proper bed … Sleep till noon for just one day … Find my sister … Find my daughters … Get my little ones some learnin’ … Learn my letters … Weeklong barbecue! … Get my picture took … Shoes that fit my feet … Be lazy one whole day … Fair money for my labor … Go to a real church … Brick house … Become a soldier … Go to Europe …

  “Have shops side by side,” said Zoe. “Eating house. Healing house.”

  Mordecai squeezed Chloe’s hand.

  “What about you, Mariah?” asked Hagar.

  Mariah looked up. “I hope to get my brother some help.”

  “But for you, what you want for you?” asked Ben.

  Caleb. Mariah didn’t dare say that out loud. But there was one thing she’d always wanted whenever she fixed her mind on freedom. She fingered the tiny sling sack she’d made for the gold coin from Jonah, a sack tacked in her apron pocket.

  “My own ground,” she said sheepishly. “Don’t need to be a lot. I’d be content with one acre. One acre with good soil for growing our food. One acre near a fine fishing spot. One acre to call my own. My own ground.”

  RELISH IN DESTRUCTION

  “Division moved at 7. Made 10 miles,” began Caleb’s entry for Saturday, December 3, 1864. “We passed through Millen.”

  The more Caleb thought about what he wanted to do after the war, the more he thought of his diary becoming a book. He doubted that many of his people on the march could write, and he was certain that a load of Yankees would write articles or books about the march. He’d bet money that most would give colored short shrift.

  “Did Jack tell you about those monkey-like pickaninnies?” That’s what he’d heard one private tell another when he returned from Social Circle.

  It sickened Caleb the way some soldiers mocked his people, making them sound so ignorant. Like the lieutenant who told of happening upon a toothless old man, shouting, “I is off to Glory!”

  Back when they marched through Milledgeville there was the colonel who had several soldiers in stitches with his tale of
encountering a group of “greasy black wenches” living in boxcars.

  The darkies this. The darkies that. Caleb couldn’t count the times when, while repairing a wheel, shoeing a horse, or packing a wagon he had to bite his tongue, keep his head down, pretend to be nothing but a simple darkie himself.

  If Captain Galloway, Sergeant Hoffmann, or a few other Yankees who treated him like a man wrote about the march, Caleb knew his people wouldn’t be presented as beasts and buffoons. But if they didn’t, the world would never know how much the colored on the march endured, never know the brains and brawn they gave to the march—all their labors, all the intelligence on treasure hiding places, Rebel militiamen, geography. The more Caleb thought about it, the more he truly wanted to make his diary the basis of a book. For that, he’d need to write in more detail about everything.

  On the night of December 3, he wrote about the shock the Yankees got when they reached Camp Lawton, right outside Millen. “Yankees hoped to liberate about 8,000 Union men from that prison camp. When they got there they found the place deserted. Sgt. H. said there were corpses strewn about aboveground and hundreds buried in a mass grave. The hovels prisoners were forced to live in weren’t fit for a dog, he said. Gen. W.T.S. ordered Gen. F.B. to make Millen a wasteland. Sgt. H. said all that is left of Millen, from its depot to its hotel, are ashes. Yankees also burned Camp Lawton. Capt. G. told me he fears that too many Union soldiers are taking too lusty a relish in destruction.”

  Caleb gave his pencil a shaving. Then he recorded what happened at Buckhead Creek.

  He had crossed earlier in the day to be on hand for repairs as wagons reached the other side. When he heard about the bridge being pulled up before all the colored crossed, he hurried to their rescue. “About a dozen Yanks, Pvts. S. & D. among them, also helped. Miss C. lost some of her herbs. Z. his cap. Mord. his hat. After I helped at the crossing I kept clear of M. and the rest. Camped at Lumpkin Station.”

  TEXAS

  Mariah awoke in a sweat, breathing hard. Scraps of a nightmare drifted around her mind. When she came clear—saw she wasn’t back at the Chaney place but in the tent—she breathed a sigh of relief. A few seconds later—panic.

  “What happened?” Chloe rubbed sleep from her eyes.