Beverly Jenkins
Authors: Night Song
Dear Reader,
Wow. Has it really been fifteen years since we first met schoolteacher Cara Lee Henson and the ever-so-handsome Sgt. Chase Jefferson?
Being able to tell this story to a whole new generation of readers is an awesome feeling. Many of my veteran readers have been longing to have this story back in print and now, thanks to Avon Books and this fifteenth anniversary edition, they can smile.
Night Song
was my first published historical romance from Avon. The year was 1994 and as a new writer I didn’t know what the heck I was doing, but with the wonderful guidance of my editor Ellen Edwards and my agent the great Vivian Stephens,
Night Song
was born. Since then editors and agents have come and gone, but what I learned remains—give the readers a story that is compelling, add characters they can laugh with, cry with, and feel the love from, then throw in a dash of well documented African-American history and you have not only an award-winning novel but one that stands the test of time.
This story is set in the 19th century, in the fictional town of Henry Adams, Kansas. Henry Adams has in many ways become a character unto itself, having been the backdrop for not only
Night Song
but for
Something Like Love, Wild Sweet Love,
and my first mainstream release
Bring on the Blessings
as well. For those of you who are new to
Night Song,
welcome. For those of you who know and love this story, welcome home. This is where it all began.
Enjoy!
B
I would like to thank some of the many people who helped me bring
Night Song
to life.
First thanks must go to Vivian Stephens, my agent. Without her my stories would still be in boxes in my basement. Her guidance and support have helped make my dreams come true. Thanks, Coach.
Ellen Edwards, my editor at Avon, saw the beauty in history, the love in the story, and said, “Yes!”
Christine Zika, Assistant Editor at Avon.
Earl Harvey and Kendall McCarthy of Creative Source Management, Philadelphia, are two of the most gracious men on the planet. I owe you two forever.
To Michigan State Police Trooper Lorenzo Veal, a modern-day member of the Tenth, thanks for taking time out of a busy day to talk with me. Thanks even more for the pictures of the Tenth’s uniforms.
Corey Thomas of Burrell Communications Group, Chicago, is a woman sent from the angels. I owe you lunch.
To the ladies at Parke-Davis, Ann Arbor, your love and encouragement brought the story to life. Special thanks to Mel and Kevin for their diligent work on the first draft.
And last, a salute to my children, who didn’t seem to mind having a madwoman for a mother during deadline time. And to Alex, my own “grand passion,” I love you.
Prologue
Georgia, 1864
T
he overhead door was heavy. Nine year old Cara Lee Henson planted her bare feet firmly on the carved step in the earth and pushed with all her might. Her grandfather, Benjamin, had hidden her down here in the underground root cellar more than an hour ago. He had expressly forbidden her to show herself until he returned. Cara knew better than to disobey, especially since he’d spoken to her so seriously, but she wanted to see what was going on.
She pushed harder. The door finally inched up enough for her to see out, and she blinked from the sting of the bright sunlight. There they were, over by the house. Cara’s tall, dark-skinned grandfather was easy to spot. He stood like a tree amidst the Bluecoats surrounding him. She could also see the men’s mouths moving, but she was too far away to hear what they were saying.
The man talking the most seemed highly agitated because his face was all red and his arms were waving around wildly. Cara supposed he must be the leader because his blue uniform looked cleaner and in better condition than the others. He was also the only one on a horse. Cara
struggled to raise the door higher, hoping to hear why the Yankees had stopped here.
Cara’s heart began to beat faster when one of the men viciously slapped her grandfather across the face. His head reeled from the sudden blow, but he stood his ground, seemingly unafraid. Another slap followed, and Cara tensed, wondering why they were doing this! Then, because the leader’s voice was raised in anger, she heard.
“Where’s the master?”
Her grandfather answered but was struck again.
“Where’s the master?”
One of the men hit him with a rifle stock, and the blow sent him to his knees. A frightened Cara began trembling with alarm. There was no master. Her grandfather had been freed at the age of twenty. He’d been deeded this small plot of land upon the old master’s death. “He’s free!” she wanted to scream at them. Her dead parents had been free, Cara herself was free, as were scores of other blacks in the South.
Crying now, she guessed the Yankees didn’t believe him. She now understood why she’d been made to hide; some of the Yankees were not the saviors people thought they would be. Her grandfather had put her down here for her safety. She wanted to run to him but froze as she heard the question shouted again.
“Where’s the master, old man?” The soldiers grabbed him roughly by the arms and forced him to stand. His head was bloodied, his eyes swollen closed. But Grandfather Benjamin had always been a proud, strong, free man, and in reply gave the only answer he could—the truth.
The soldiers dragged him away from the house. The stand of trees and the blue backs of the men momentarily blocked Cara’s view. When they
broke, what she saw froze her heart, because even at nine, she knew.
They’d seated him atop the leader’s horse. A rope had been tied to a thick branch above his head and the noose fashioned at the end of it lay around his neck. One of the men gave a sudden slap to the animal’s rump and sent it racing across the field, leaving her grandfather to dangle, jerk, and finally slump into death.
The Yankees next set fire to the modest, whitewashed house, totally unaware of Cara’s silent watching. With what was left of her innocence she said a prayer for her grandfather and hoped he’d be happy in heaven with her parents and grandmother.
As the fire spread to the barn and adjoining fields, she took one last look at him on the end of the rope, then she very slowly let down the door and descended into the solace of the darkness.
Henry Adams Township Graham County
Kansas, 1882
O
ver seven hundred Black people—farmers, ranchers, merchants, and craftsmen—lived in the Great Solomon Valley, and it seemed to Cara that every single one of them had turned out this day for the parade honoring the Tenth Cavalry. Making her way through the jostling throng was almost as difficult as it had been to keep her students under control that morning. The children were so excited about the festivities that they’d been impossible to teach, and Cara was pleased just to have been able to keep them inside the schoolhouse until dismissal time.
She grimaced, then laughed at herself. She wasn’t quite old enough yet that she could play the disapproving spinster schoolteacher. But she did wish that the town elders could have spent just a little of the money they’d put into refurbishing Main Street toward purchasing urgently needed books, pencils, paper, and maps for her students. Still, secretly, she did share the wish to have Henry Adams Township steal some of the thunder of the rival town of Nicodemus by doing a bang-up job hosting this event.
Nicodemus was famous as the largest Black settlement in the country; it put its smaller sister towns in the shade, and Black people in Graham, Marion, Barton, and Rice counties, as well as those in the colony down in Cherokee County, established by Benjamin “Pap” Singleton and his Tennessee followers, justifiably wanted their day in the sun. And a fine day in the sun this was, too.
The succulent scents of whole pigs and sides of beef cooking on spits over the newly dug pit behind Handy Reed’s blacksmith shop were making Cara’s mouth water. Red, white, and blue bunting proudly draped the buildings; American flags flew on poles erected at six-foot intervals along the new, half-mile length of wooden walk. All the colors and movement infected Cara with a sense of gaiety. And the fresh-baked pies, cookies, cakes, and lemonade being sold at a booth by the ladies of the A.M.E. Church made her look forward to a fattening treat at the end of the day.
Pushing her way through the throng. Cara at last was able to see her boardinghouse, such a short distance from school and so clearly visible at the end of the street on any normal day. Finally, she made it to the crowded front yard. The owner and operator of the house, Sophie Reynolds, had foregone the parade activities in order to personally supervise preparations for the dinner that night in honor of the Tenth. Cara sighed. In the two years she’d lived in this house, every good thing she’d heard about Sophie from the wagon drivers who’d brought her to the Valley had been confirmed. Known for her good sense, her good heart, and the quality of her establishment, Sophie had won over Cara at once and become a friend; before half a year had passed, Cara had begun to think of Sophie as a second mother.
Suddenly shouts and cheers erupted from the crowd at the far end of the street, and the people around Cara echoed their cries. This was the moment everyone had been waiting for—the arrival of the twenty-four Black members of the Tenth Cavalry. Eager to see them, the men and women in front of the boardinghouse surged forward, capturing Cara in their midst like a fly in amber and sweeping her along with them.
The cheers greeting the mounted troopers slowly making their way along the street deafened Cara. People on the route fell in behind them, tears of pride shining in their eyes. They knew from their own struggles what these men and their brethren in the Ninth Cavalry must have faced as they tried to prove themselves worthy of wearing the uniform of United States Cavalry.
As Cara had told her class that morning, the men of the Tenth were also known as Buffalo Soldiers, a term of honor bestowed upon them by the Plains Indians. These men were legendary. Despite being given used and worn-out equipment, harsh punishments, and an area to patrol and enforce that stretched from the Canadian border to the Rio Grande, the men had succeeded. They were highly decorated and were known as fierce fighters. They had the fewest court-martials and the lowest desertion rate in the frontier army. Yes, the people of the Valley were proud; the Black soldiers were their own, and outstanding examples of what members of the race could achieve in the face of limited opportunity and hardship.
Cara smiled, watching some of the women, dressed in their Sunday best, shower the uniformed men with streamers, flowers, and hair ribbons. A few of the women, caught up in the excitement, ran up to the horses to hand the men
wildflowers. Mae Dexter, daughter of the mayor, offered a bunch to the handsome mustached man leading the column. He graciously took the blooms, raised them to his lips, and handed them back with a dazzling smile. Cara seriously thought the girl would swoon right there in the road.
“Isn’t he gorgeous?” a woman exclaimed. Cara had to agree. He sat the big horse with ease, and the way he’d brought Mae’s blooms to his mustached lips—a shock of recognition tore through Cara. It couldn’t be! Chase Jefferson! The man she’d been waxing over was none other than the soldier with whom she’d had the run-in two years back?