May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel (38 page)
Read May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel Online
Authors: Peter Troy
Tags: #Romance, #Historical
The next morning they’ll step outside their cabins, and Mista Longley’ll have the Reverend Lattimore come and preach to them. The Reverend only preaches to coloreds, even though he’s a white man. Some say he got in trouble with a few lady members of his congregations over the years, back when he still preached to white folks, but he’s Mista Longley’s brother-in-law. So that’s how he got set up with this kinda preachin’ work, here and at a couple of other places, too. Preaching to the slaves. Sayin’ the same thing most every time. No matter what he’s readin’, always comin’ around to the same message—’bout how they should be happy in their station in life. That’s what he calls it—
station
. Like the Lord done stopped a train somewhere and said,
All right, all you colored folks get out now, this is your station—you gonna be slaves … but be happy about it!
The Reverend’ll talk about how they
got it so good to have a Massa like Massa Longley
. What with the pigs and the potato mash and the cornbread sweetened with molasses.
When plenny of white folks is practic’ly starvin’
this Christmas, ’cause of the war. And all of them slaves, prisoners in their minds much as their bodies, far as Micah can tell. They’ll just sit there and shake their heads and agree with the Reverend ’bout
how lucky they is—blessed even
. Then when he’s through, they’ll damn near knock each other over to be the first to wish him a Happy Christmas. Sayin’
God Bless ya, Rev’run
. Like the Rev’run ain’t been blessed a hundred times over already.
The fire’ll be set again, and the second pig’ll get roasted, alongside a soup and some greens flavored with what’s left of the pig from the night before. And they’ll start in on what’s left of the potato mash—the stuff the Massa let them brew for the last month all leading up to this day. Of course, with all the samplin’ and the coolin’ off and the toastin’ they done the night before, it’ll run out before all the cookin’ gets done. But there’ll be folks slipping into their cabins for a little something extra they brewed on their own, but
shhhhh don’t tell no one
. And there’ll
be six eight ten folks that got a little spare jug of their own. Only it won’t be just them six eight ten folks that got it, and it won’t be just a little bit they got. So the party’ll keep on into the night with more fiddlin’ and dancin’ and toastin’.
Then Mista Hawthorne’ll come staggering over and tell ’em,
That’s all, early start inna mornin’
. ’Til someone’ll toast Mista Hawthorne, say how lucky they is to have a overseer like him. Someone else’ll say
God Bless ya, Mista Hawthorne
, like God ain’t done that already, too. And Mista Hawthorne might say,
Haffa hour more an’ ’at’s all
. And that’ll
be
all. ’Til there’s a pig for Easter and more potato mash. Then nothin’ ’til the Massa’s birthday. And then all the way to Christmas again. Three days of jubilatin’ … all it takes to keep them blinders on tight for all the other days of the year.
But Micah won’t be stickin’ around for the Easter jubilatin’ or the Massa’s birthday either. That’s because come Christmas Eve, once they done with the samplin’ and the cornbread and stumblin’ their way back to their cabins, he’ll be gone. Out behind the sawmill, to the stretch of woods that runs most of the way to downtown. And then it’ll be a half-mile or so ’til he comes up on the two blocks more to the Kittredges’ house. And meeting Mary by the stable out back. Then it’ll be slipping past any Home Guard that might not be asleep from their own Christmas Eve jubilatin’. Then down to the James River, and the rowboat that hasn’t been moved in at least six months. Like whoever’d put it there had forgot where they left it. He’d sat in it, checked it for leaks, checked the oars even, when he had the job across the James that Mista Longley let him drive to by himself. And Micah figured out that they’d use it to go
up
the James River, the way not even the best slave-catchers would ever figure. Not with half the Yankee Navy less than a hundred miles
down
river. But they weren’t about to trust the Yankees, or Mista Lincoln’s Proclamations about emancipation. Or anybody. Except each other. Except themselves. And he’d gone over it so many times in his mind, he was sure they’d be twenty twenty-five miles away before anybody even noticed they were missin’.
In the years he’d been with Dunmore out in Charlottesville, he’d come to know that part of the state as well as most any
white
man did. With all the jobs he did for Dunmore in every neck of the county, and
him havin’ to do most of the driving back from those jobs when Dunmore wasn’t in any condition for it, he knew those roads as well as a native, almost. And he knew he and Mary could slip through there without anyone noticing. Within a week they’d reach the Blue Ridge Mountains. And then they’d walk up the length of them all the way to Pennsylvania, where they’d be free, according to Mista Lincoln’s new law. But they wouldn’t stop there, no how. Wouldn’t stop ’til they made it to St. Catharines, all the way up in Canada. The place he once heard talked about back at
Les Roseraies
by a couple of field hands who run off followin’ the stars to get to freedom.
’Course—he would never tell Mary how folks said it snowed six eight months outta the year all the way up there. And he’d never tell her that those two field hands that run off from
Les Roseraies
didn’t make it anywhere close to freedom. How they got brought back ten days later … got forty stripes apiece. And sold off.
But it’d be different for them, Micah figured. Hadn’t they risen all this way after growin’ up working in the fields? The two of them must’ve been the smartest, most important slaves anywhere in the city, or the whole the state even. With all the money they took in. And hadn’t they got that far, climbed that high, just by their own wits and hard work?
Mmm-hmm
. He reminded himself.
Wasn’t Mary a better dress designer and seamstress than any white lady inside a hundred miles or more?
Mmm-hmm
.
Wasn’t he a better carpenter than any man, white or not—’cept for his Daddy—than he’d ever seen?
Mmm-hmm
.
And weren’t they smarter than any white folks that might come runnin’ after them? Or their own Massas even?
Mmm-hmm—for damn sure, mmm-hmm!
And wouldn’t the dogs get stopped on their trail soon as they got to the river?
Mmm-hmm
.
’Til he felt his fists clenching just a little bit. Laying there in his bed in that solitary cabin. Knowing that there would only be the matter of convincing her to come along.
’Cause this here’s a Micah and Mary thing. An’ ain’t no one gonna stop us ’til we get to where we mean to go
.
Mmm-hmm
.
M
ARY
RICHMOND
DECEMBER 14, 1862
Gertie, you there now? I just gotta tell you this, an’ I know ain’t no way it can wait ’til tomorrow mornin’ ’cause I’ll never be able to sleep ’til I tell you.
Micah come past the store in his work carriage again today. He smiles an’ takes off his hat like always, an’ when he puts it back on he taps the top of it, an’ that’s him sayin’ I love you. So I pull a little at the sleeve of my dress to say I love him back, like we worked out. But this time he points his finger ’round the corner like he wants to meet me out in the back. So I go ’round back of the store to meet him, an’ right off he says we should run away together! He says I give him a reason to want somethin’ more than just a few extra potatoes an’ meat four or five times a week, that I make him want to steal the resta his life away an’ mine too, ’steada just stealin’ moments at a time backa the store like this.
He says we can have a little home somewhere up north where they’s gonna be real freedom now, not like before, an’ he’s got the perfect plan. He told me all about it, Gertie, but my mind was swimmin’ after he told me ’bout the notion. Then he says to me, the God that’d make something beautiful as you sure didn’t mean for you to be locked up in this place like you was some sorta hothouse flower. An’ just how’m I not s’posed to love him then?
But I was so scared ’bout what might happen, ’bout how things turned out when you an’ me run off an’ how I lost you forever ’cause of that. An’ I can’t imagine not havin’ Micah now. So I tell him how I dunno, how even perfect plans got a way of not workin’ out sometimes an’ if this one don’t, that’d be the end of even these stolen
moments an’ so on. I knew it kinda hurt him, but he kiss me still, tell me he love me still, tell me he ain’t goin’ nowhere wit’out me.
Then just a little while ago, in the middle of the night it seem, I hear a tappin’ noise on my window, an’ I was scared at first an’ thought to get Mista Kittredge. But instead I lit a candle and looked outside … an’ there he was, Micah! So I blow out the candle an’ open the window a bit, an’ he says see how easy it is, an’ ain’t anyone even been jubilatin’ today, an’ Home Guard gotta be all over the place, an’ still he got all the way here no problem a’tall. An’ my heart’s so happy just to see him, an’ when he say come out the window an’ meet him behin’ the stable like we would the night we run off … I dunno, Gertie, that scaredness I had just that very afta’noon ain’t there no more.
So I throw on my coat an’ shoes an’ slip outta the window just three or four feet to the ground an’ then run ’cross the field to the stable. There ain’t but less than half a moon, but the sky’s all full of colors, streaks of white an’ pink an’ orange dancin’ their way ’cross the heavens. An’ maybe it’s the sorta thing that shoulda made me scared, somethin’ I ain’t never seen before. But Micah say they somethin’ called the Northern Lights, say he hearda them once from folks that talked ’bout the place St. Catharines way up in Canada. He say they must be there all the time if they called the Northern Lights, an’ won’t it be somethin’ to sit out on the porch an’ look up at them any night we wants to. An’ he kiss me again, sayin’ how he knows it’s gonna be just so, an’ ain’t this God tellin’ them not to worry the way he’s sendin’ those lights all the way down here where they ain’t never been befo’.
But still I knew I hadta tell him ’bout Mista Grant befo’ I get too excited ’bout runnin’ off wit’ him, since maybe that’ll make him change his mind the way the men in Juss’s books sometimes do when they find out certain things about the ladies they wanna marry. But he just shook his head like it didn’t matter none to him. An’ when I started cryin’, sayin’ how can it not matter?—well, he took off his jacket and opened up his shirt an’ turned ’round an’ dropped it down to his waist, showin’ me the skin all wrinkled an’ gray where his last Massa had him whipped half a dozen times for no reason a’tall. An’ I’m cryin’ some more at the sight of it, ’course, with these long gray scars
lit up by the orange an’ pink an’ white lights dancin’ in the sky. ’Til he turns back ’round, fixin’ his shirt, an’ says … “So we both got scars.”
An’ at a moment like that, how’m I s’posed to say no? How’m I s’posed to try an’ think of anything that ain’t him an’ me together all the time? Forever. An’ the lights dancin’ in the sky like they there just for us …
E
THAN
FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA
DECEMBER 13, 1862
Finny’s always restless the night before a battle, and he seems deep in thought as he pokes a three-foot stick back and forth into the fire beneath the three pots of water hanging from a rack. It’s still nothin’ but dark in the sky, but Ethan makes just enough of a rustle as he approaches that Finny turns and sees him coming. Neither man says anything at first, but Ethan takes a seat not far from him, stretching out his wounded leg toward the fire.
The leg actin’ up on you? Finny asks.
No, it just takes a little longer to get goin’ on cold mornings, Ethan replies.
He rubs his thigh with both hands, mostly for show, not wanting to hear from Finny how he shouldn’t get anywhere near the battlefield today. He’s heard it plenty already.
Couldn’t sleep, Fin? he asks, by way of changing the subject.
Nope—never do when we’re getting ready to go in, Finny answers. I was just runnin’ through their faces in my head, Perfessor. All nine of ’em.
Nine what? Ethan asks.
Finny turns to Ethan and looks at him strangely, as if he expected him to know something straight off and is surprised he didn’t.
How many men you kill? he asks. I mean, not from forty yards away in formation, but up close, so you knew they were dead … an’ that you was th’one who done it.
I don’t know, Fin, Ethan lies.
What about Malvern Hill?
Ethan shrugs his shoulders and looks away from Finny, into the fire, uncomfortable now, preferring to talk about his leg and how he should stay away from the battlefield, instead of this.
I don’t remember much about Malvern Hill, Fin, he answers.
Finny seems disappointed in him, almost angry. That true? he asks.
Ethan shrugs again. I don’t know, Finny.
Nine
fer me, Finny says, matter-of-factly. I remember all their faces, too. Th’sounds they made goin’ down. Th’looks they give me like they’re sayin’
Now why’d you go an’ do that?
Ethan looks over at him in a dash, then looks away, startled to hear that Finny’d figured their faces said the same thing to him. I know Fin, he says.
Y’do Perfessor? Finny asks with unusual irritation in his voice. I mean, I never been shot like you, or went through The Hunger, so I don’t know what that’s like … and I’d never say I did. But … well … don’t say ya know about the killin’ unless ya really know fer sure.
Okay, Fin … three, Ethan says. Three fer sure.
Where? Finny asks.
Two at Malvern Hill, like you said, Fin. Shot one from maybe twenty feet … through th’heart. Saw him buckle and drop. Saw that same look you described. An’ he fell with his legs all bent under him, like the way they put Ais— … like the way they put my sister in the coffin. An’ there wasn’t even the time to … then it was just a few seconds after that … by Harry … the one I stuck a coupla times with th’bayonet—same place I’d just shot th’other one.