Candle in the Darkness (45 page)

“I’ll try, Robert. That’s all I can promise.” I knew that with Mr. St. John angry with me, Major Turner suspicious of me, and Helen Taylor spreading rumors about me, I wasn’t likely to be invited into the Confederates’ social circles.

“I’ll never be able to thank you for all you’ve done for me,” he said. Then, before I could reply, Robert suddenly pulled me into his arms. He held me tightly, yet tenderly. I could hear his heart beating, feel his breath in my hair.

“I’ve longed to hold you like this since the first day you walked into the prison,” he whispered. “I love you, Caroline. I always will.”

He bent and kissed my cheek. Then, as suddenly as he had reached for me, Robert let me go. He turned and jogged off into the woods beside the road, his footsteps muffled by the soft spring earth.

While Robert had been digging his tunnel throughout the month of February, Charles and Jonathan and one-quarter of the Army of Northern Virginia had crossed the James River with General Longstreet and marched to the south and east of Richmond, camping near Suffolk. Part of their mission was to besiege Suffolk and discourage the Yankees from marching inland. But their greater task was to forage for food for their starving army.

Eli’s son, Josiah, has been most helpful in this regard,
Charles wrote in his letter later that March.
He and Jonathan have returned to the days of their boyhood, it seems—roaming the woods for game and fishing in the river. Not being much of a hunter myself, I’ve been detailed to gather sassafras buds and pokeweed greens, since many of the men have contracted scurvy from our meager winter diet. I’m willing to do what I can, but I’d much rather be fighting. Now that winter is over and the mud is drying, we can finally get back to the war. Let’s hope we can finish it for good this year.

My father has written to me about the prison break. I must be honest with you and admit that for your safety’s sake, I’m glad you’re not going to the prison anymore. I don’t know what I would do if anything ever happened to you. But Father also told me that the commandant insists you were involved in the escape. I made it very clear to Father that since you deny any involvement, he must put an end to the rumors and allegations. I know you to be an honest, God-fearing woman whose word can be trusted. If you swear you were not involved, then you weren’t.

I’m so sorry that you’re being put through this ordeal—especially since my own father is questioning your integrity. Believe me, I’m doing every-
thing in my power to get a furlough so I can come home and straighten things out. In the meantime, please try to be patient with him. He’s under a great deal of strain right now, and he isn’t well
.

The realization that I hadn’t been completely honest, and that Charles still upheld my integrity, devastated me. I didn’t know how I would live with what I’d done, nor how I would ever face Charles when he returned. He trusted me, defended me—and I was guilty.

“What am I going to do?” I asked Eli.

We sat across from each other at the kitchen table, watching the flames dance in the fireplace. The aroma of fish, baking in a cast-iron roasting oven, filled the room.

“Sometime, probably when this war is over, you gonna have to tell Massa Charles the truth,” Eli said. “Tell him what you done. And why. But it ain’t fair for him or anyone else to judge the right and wrong of things until we get to the end of the matter.”

“Are you saying the end justifies the means?”

“No, I’m saying right now you’re trying to obey God—and God ain’t finished with this whole mess yet. Maybe by the time the war is over, God gonna explain it all to Massa Charles, and he’ll be able to understand the truth when you finally tell him.”

A log shifted and fell in a flurry of sparks as Esther poked the fire.

“And what if Charles doesn’t understand? What if he can’t forgive me?”

Eli sighed. “All I know is, you can trust God. When Massa sell my son, Josiah, to Hilltop, I didn’t see any good coming from that. But I know I can trust God. Even when bad things happen, He can use them for good.”

On the first day of April, Gilbert opened the front door—and there was Daddy. “I’m home, Sugar,” he called. As I ran into the foyer to greet him, I thanked God that Robert was already gone.

Daddy had traveled overland by train, and the wagon he’d hired at the train station was heaped with presents—crates and barrels and boxes of presents. The servants and I followed him out to the curb where the wagon was parked, and Daddy ordered Gilbert to open one of the crates and show me what was inside. There was a new bonnet from Europe, a bolt of cloth for a new dress, bags of coffee and tea—and a large sack of sugar for Esther. She cried when she saw it, then hefted it to her shoulder and carried it around back to the kitchen to start baking Daddy a pie.

“Where did all these things come from?” I asked. “I know what the prices of these goods are here in Richmond . . . all this must have cost a fortune.”

“We have a fortune, Caroline. We’re quite rich.”

He paid the wagon driver, adding a generous tip. “Bring this box and this box into my library,” he told Gilbert, pointing them out. Then he went back into the house and left Gilbert and Eli to finish unloading.

I felt uneasy as I followed my father inside. I’d heard people cursing the speculators who had gotten rich by buying goods from blockade-runners, then raising the prices to exorbitant amounts— while needy people were starving.

“What’s wrong, Sugar? Why the long face?” he asked as he sank into his favorite armchair. I had followed him into the library, but I didn’t sit.

“Times have been hard while you were gone, Daddy. People resent the speculators who’ve gotten rich—”

“I’m not a speculator,” he said, frowning. “I made my money on the high seas, raiding commercial ships that were trading with our enemies. I’ve given my required ten percent to the Confederacy— in fact, I’ve given much more than that. One of the ships I stopped was carrying medicine, and I donated the entire cargo to our soldiers.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you. It’s just that speculators aren’t very popular around town.”

“You needn’t worry about my popularity. I have a lot of friends in top government positions now. They’re well aware of the work I’m doing for the Confederacy.”

A shiver went through me at his words. With my father’s political connections, it might be easier than I thought to gather the kind of information Robert had asked for. But could I do it? Could I exploit my own father in order to aid his enemies?

Gilbert walked into the library just then, carrying one of my father’s boxes. Sweat rolled down his forehead and formed dark crescents beneath his armpits. “Where you want this, Massa Fletcher?” he asked.

“Right over there by the bookshelf. And pry off the cover for me, would you?”

As I watched Gilbert work, I remembered why I had entangled myself in this confusing business of betrayal and deceit—it was for him and for Eli and Tessie and the millions of other slaves who had the right to be free men and women.

The crate opened with a hideous, creaking sound of bending nails and splintering wood. My father sent Gilbert back for the second box.

“Daddy . . . have you ever thought about giving Gilbert and the others their freedom?” I asked.

“Heavens, no! Why on earth would I do that?” He walked over to the open crate and began removing books from it, piling them on the floor.

“Well . . . they’ve worked so hard for us. They’ve been so faithful while you were gone . . . and so good to me.”

“That’s because it’s expected of them. Listen, you may not like hearing this, but the truth is, they are children. They’ve been dependent on us all their lives. They wouldn’t know how to handle their freedom if I did give it to them. Believe me, they’re better off in our care.”

The books appeared to be a set, bound in dark leather covers and tooled in gold. Daddy removed them one by one, scanning the titles as if searching for a particular one. When he found it, he motioned to me.

“Come over here, Sugar. I want to show you something. . . . Open it,” he said. He handed me the book. It was surprisingly light.

I lifted the cover and saw that the book was hollow inside. Daddy reached into the inner pocket of his coat and removed a bulging drawstring bag. He poured the contents of it into the hollowed-out space. It was filled with gold coins.

“If anything happens to me, I want you to know where to find this money. You can live the rest of your life on this gold. And it’s legal tender in any state—north or south.” He removed a brass cigar box and a Chinese vase from one of the shelves and began arranging the books in their place, beginning with the phony, gold-filled one.

“I can do that for you, Massa Fletcher,” Gilbert said as he returned with the second box.

“Very good. But open the box you’re carrying first.” Daddy dusted off his hands and returned to his chair, watching as Gilbert pried open the second box. A dozen bottles, filled with ambercolored liquid, nestled beneath layers of wood shavings. “Ah . . . I see they all made it safely,” Daddy said. “Uncork one of them, Gilbert, and pour me a glass.”

As I watched Gilbert scurry around the room waiting on Daddy, I realized that my father would never change. He couldn’t change. His attitudes toward Negroes had been born and bred into him, hardening and solidifying year after year until they had turned to stone. He would carry them to his grave. So many of the people he lived with and worked with carried the same attitudes that no one even questioned them anymore. If the South won the war, nothing would change for the Negroes. Slavery would continue the way it had for centuries. And if Tessie and Josiah gave birth to another child, Daddy wouldn’t even think twice about selling him, just as he’d sold Grady.

Many people would say I was wrong to think about deceiving my father, taking advantage of his friendship with Confederate leaders in order to help his enemies. They would say I was wrong to mislead Charles and his father about what I did at Libby Prison. But those who’ve been through a war will understand how right and wrong, truth and lies, can sometimes get confused in the smoke and mayhem of conflict. They certainly were no longer clear to me. What was clear, though, was that in God’s eyes, my father was wrong to own people as his slaves.

“Are you home to stay this time?” I asked him.

“For a few months, anyway.”

“I think we should throw a welcome-home party for you. We can invite all your friends, share some of these treats you’ve brought.”

“That’s a good idea, Sugar. I’m glad you thought of it. Thank you, Gilbert,” he said as the servant finally handed him his drink. Then Daddy happened to glance down and notice Robert’s old shoes on Gilbert’s feet. “Good heavens! Why are you wearing such a disgraceful pair of shoes in my house?”

“They all I got, Massa Fletcher.”

“Well, what on earth have you done to wear them out that way—walk to Texas and back?”

“They were probably poorly made to begin with,” I said. “I couldn’t afford to buy him new ones. Shoes are very expensive these days.”

My father fished another gold piece out of his pants pocket and tossed it to me. “Here . . . catch. Take him downtown tomorrow and buy him a new pair. Buy yourself a new pair, too, if you’d like.”