“Stop exaggerating, Margaret. It hasn’t been hours.” Elizabeth’s words came back with fury. “Besides, it’s none of your business where I’ve been.”
“Well, it may not be Margaret’s business, but it certainly is mine, young lady,” Mama said.
Papa stood strong behind her.
“Yes, ma’am.” Elizabeth shrank at Mama’s stern words and her bottom lip quivered as tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Where have you been?”
“I went over to Mr. and Mrs. Milton’s place to check if they had any eggs for sale. I was just trying to help out, Mama.”
“How were you going to get eggs without any money?” Margaret asked.
“I thought I’d see if they had some before I asked you for money.” Elizabeth glared at Margaret before turning back to Mama.
“Well, did they have any?” Mama asked.
“I…I…no! They didn’t have any extras today.” She wrung her hands.
“I think I know where you were, and it wasn’t at the Miltons’ getting eggs. Now…”
June appeared with Jeremiah in tow. She tugged on Mama’s skirt. “See, Mama, I told you Lizbeth was up to no good, and I was right.”
“Mama?” Elizabeth stood with her arms opened wide.
Margaret wanted to laugh at June’s comment, but it wasn’t the right time.
Papa intervened, taking June by the hand. “Come on, girl. You’re right in the line of fire.” He picked Jeremiah up and then led June into the kitchen.
“Elizabeth, you’ve lied to me and your papa one too many times. I suggest you suck up those alligator tears, march yourself into your room, and do some serious business with the Lord. I’ll be in later to issue your punishment.”
“But, Mama—”
“Not another word.”
Elizabeth clenched her fists and stomped off.
“What has gotten into her?” Margaret asked.
Mama didn’t answer. She smoothed her hair back and released another long breath of air before heading to the kitchen.
Papa sat at the table with both of the little ones perched on his knees.
“Mama, I’m hungry.” June fiddled with one of the potatoes still waiting to be peeled.
Mama looked heavenward. She slid the paring knife out of the little girl’s reach. “June, it’s been a while since I’ve heard any cannon fire. Can you take Jeremiah out on the front porch to play?”
The little girl slid off Papa’s knee. “I guess so.” She helped the baby down and led him toward the door. “Come on, Jer’miah. Mama wants us out of here so she can talk to Papa about what Lizbeth did.”
Margaret met Papa’s gaze. He burst into laughter, causing her to giggle.
“All right, you two. The last thing she needs is you encouraging her.” Mama sat down to finish peeling the potatoes.
Margaret put her hand over her mouth, not wanting to anger Mama any further. Papa picked up his coffee mug. He placed it in the sink and moved behind Mama. He bent over and put his arms around her. He whispered something in her ear.
Mama laid her head over on his arm. “I love you too. I just don’t understand why things have to be so hard. Can’t there be one good thing come out of this old war? I don’t know how to deal with Elizabeth. Why is she acting this way?”
“I don’t know, honey, but I think we ought to pray about it before we talk to her.”
“I agree.” She resumed peeling when Papa released her.
“Margaret, you can start the work Papa gave you.”
“Yes, Mama.” Margaret was deep in thought as she walked outside.
What did Papa mean? “She’s acting just like Emma.” Who on earth was Emma? And what was her condition they spoke of?
She knew it hadn’t been right to listen to what Mama and Papa were saying, especially after Papa’s remark about Elizabeth’s eavesdropping, but now that she had, she had plenty to ponder. She reached the small garden plot and what she saw made fiery anger well up inside her.
8
"What do you think you're doing in our garden?" Margaret hiked up her skirt and climbed over the short chicken-wire fence, placed there to protect the garden from small pests, including a few displaced sand crabs. Her leg brushed against a sharp edge, cutting into her knee. She winced in pain and grabbed the wound, spilling her apronful of seeds in the process. She gritted her teeth, unable to determine if she was angrier at the seeds falling or at Thomas Murphy standing in their garden.
Thomas leaned against the hoe.
"You should not be here, Mr. Murphy. You need to return to your bedroom before someone sees you."
"It looks like ye might have hurt your leg, lass. Would ye like for me to take a look at it?" Thomas ignored her angry tone.
Margaret gasped and clapped her hands down onto her skirt. "You'll do no such thing."
"Yer papa gave me permission to work in the garden...said it would be a great help to him."
Margaret turned, irritated at how calm he appeared when she was madder than a wet hen. She dropped to the ground where the seeds had fallen.
Thomas knelt down beside her and helped gather them.
Margaret arose from the ground and dumped the seeds out onto Papa’s makeshift wooden table and began sorting, grudgingly acknowledging in her mind that he’d been most helpful, even though she still didn’t like him and had made that plain to him. She paused for a moment and glanced up.
Thomas had worked the soil, his hoed rows perfectly even. His tall, broad shoulders barely fit in one of Papa’s shirts. His dark hair was tied back with a string, accentuating his jawline. He was the epitome of manliness, not embarrassed to work the soil, as if firm in the conviction of where God placed him on this earth. He looked confident…the way a good husband should.
She turned back to the seed table, ashamed of gawking with the brazen desire of still wanting a husband, despite her Jeffrey now lying in the cold ground. Anger welled up against the object of her yearning. “Mr. Murphy…I rue the day I ever set eyes on you.” She didn’t raise her head from the pile of seeds.
Thomas stopped working the ground to rub his injured shoulder. The action of hoeing must be causing a great amount of pain.
“Does your shoulder hurt?” She looked at him. “I hope those soldiers’ bullets hurt you like your people have hurt our southern way of life.” She huffed out a breath. “You’re probably one of those fool Yankees who think the war is about freeing the slaves. For heaven’s sake, what’s it to you if a few southerners own slaves to help out with their farms?” Margaret completely abandoned the seeds and turned to face the man.
“Miss Margaret, I’ve felt my fair share of pain because of this war, but you know what, I’d do it all over again if it would help to free the slaves. Now there’s a people who have suffered a great deal more than you and I will ever know. Ye might know that if ye’d ever taken the chance to talk to one of them.”
Margaret felt her cheeks warm. “Do you really think those Negroes care one way or another? Besides, if they
were
given their freedom, they would probably run back to their masters lickety-split because they wouldn’t even know how to survive on their own.”
Thomas gave her a look of disdain and shook his head. “I know you only speak from ignorance, but if ye knew the truth about the Negro people, you would be telling a far different story, to be sure, lass.”
“If anyone around here is ignorant, it would be you, Mr. Murphy! If you had any sense at all, you would know that the North doesn’t care one bit about the Negroes. All they want is to lord their power over the South!” She clenched her fists on the seed table. “If anything, the North is using the slaves as an excuse to cover up their real agenda…tyranny.”
“Aye, yer Papa had much of the same opinions about the war. But no matter what ye think is the cause behind it, you’ve got to admit that owning another human being is not the Christian thing to do, lass.” Thomas’s eyes softened.
Margaret whipped her head back in astonishment that this man, a stranger, a foreigner…a Yankee, would dare question her Christian values. “Well. Why don’t you tell me, Mr. Murphy, if slavery is so bad, then why is it talked about between the pages of the Bible?”
Thomas paused. “Have ye ever sang the song ‘Amazing Grace’?”
“Of course I have! Before we moved to this godforsaken peninsula, my family belonged to one of the most respected Christian churches in New Orleans.”
“Did ye know the song was written by the captain of a slave ship?”
“No, I did not. But that just proves my point. Anyone who could write a song like ‘Amazing Grace’ had to be an upstanding Christian man.”
“Aye, he was, but not at the beginning. He was once a cruel, vile man who treated no one with respect, especially not the slaves in his care. The song tells a bit about his harrowing experience in a fierce storm and how God saw fit to deliver him through it. The verse says,
‘
Through many dangers, toils, and snares I have already come; ’tis grace that brought me safe thus far and grace will lead me home.’”
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say. It sounds to me as if this great man of faith had no problem with the slave trade.”
“Well, lass, I don’t know why he didn’t immediately quit what he was doing, but I do know that many years after his conversion, he admitted to how sorry he was, and he supported the abolition of slavery in Great Britain.”
“That’s all well and good, but you still haven’t answered my question. If it was OK for the people in the Bible to own slaves, why is it wrong for the South to own them today?”
“Miss Margaret, surely ye remember the story of Moses delivering the children of Israel from the hands of the Egyptian pharaoh. God commanded him to do it because He’d heard the anguished cries of His people. They were sorely oppressed slaves under their masters and begged for deliverance. Don’t ye think the Negroes feel the same way?” Thomas’s words were spoken with peace.
Margaret was drawn into his way of thinking, to what he said. But she couldn’t give in quite yet. “But, that’s different! Those were God’s chosen people, and they didn’t deserve to be slaves to the pharaoh.”
“So yer saying the African people deserve to be slaves?”
“Why don’t you just mind your own business and go back inside the house before some foot soldier sees you and drags your Yankee tail end to the fort!”
Thomas put his hand over hers.
Margaret wanted to yank it away, but his touch was much too wonderful to resist.
“Miss Margaret, yer papa told me all the horrible things you’ve been through. I know all about how ye had to up and leave yer home in New Orleans. And I know about ye losing yer fiancé. I…I just want to tell you how very sorry I am for the pain my presence must be causin’ ye. I would do anything to ease yer burden.”
His lovely, lyrical voice, the way he spoke those words, was like a soothing balm to her heart and yet they also burned like salt in a fresh wound. Part of her wanted to fall into his warm embrace and sob for all she’d lost. But he was a Yankee, the cause of her loss. She jerked her hand away. “Mr. Murphy, you’ve never felt pain like I have.” Her voice sounded bitter, even to her.
“Aye, but I’ve felt plenty of pain in my life and…”
Tears welled up. Giving him the pleasure of seeing her cry wasn’t something she would allow. “I don’t want to hear anything more you have to say!” She hiked up her skirt and leapt over the fence, running down the long trail toward the bay.
“Miss Margaret, wait. I’m sorry. Please don’t run away!”
The sounds of the bay and a long walk would help soothe her bitter soul. She only hoped there weren’t any more injured Union soldiers to run into on her way. And he wouldn’t dare take the chance of following after her.
9
Margaret’s heart pounded. The farther she ran from Thomas Murphy, the better she felt. The wind stung her cheeks, which already burned with the anger inside her.
Whitecaps bounced on the bay in tune with the swaying breeze, unaware of her bruised ego. Her bare feet sank into soft sand at the edge of the dunes. The roof of the Stoltze place came into view. She slowed her pace. Her cheeks were wet from the tears she’d shed. Pulling the apron to her face, she wiped them away.
Stupid Yankee! What could he possibly know about my pain…or about the slaves…or why the South went to war in the first place? He doesn’t know anything.
“O Lord, how can I hate someone so much and at the same time want him to hold me in his arms and protect me? Father God, why have You done this to me? Haven’t I been through enough?”
She covered her face with her betraying hands that had loved his touch. Her embittered weeping was interrupted by a sweet sound floating over the dunes. She got back on her feet and wiped away the tears. Someone was singing.
“
Roll, Jerdan, roll. Roll, Jerdan, roll.
I want’ta go to heav’n when I die, to hear ol’ Jerdan roll!
O brethren,
Roll, Jerdan, roll. Roll, Jerdan, roll.
I want’ta go to heav’n when I die, to hear ol’ Jerdan roll!
Sing it ova now…!”
Beautiful, dark-skinned Necie, the Stoltzes’ slave girl, sat on a short wooden stool, hunched over a washtub. She scrubbed her master’s clothes with the smooth side of a seashell.
Thomas had said she’d never taken the time to talk to a Negro.
Rubbish! I’ve waved and said hello to Necie at least a dozen times.
Margaret smoothed down her skirt and apron and walked toward the young woman. Unlike the other times she’d seen Necie, she decided not to just wave hello and go on. This time, she’d take notice.
The girl was around her own age. The cotton blouse and skirt Necie wore hadn’t known their original color for some time.
Margaret stepped on a stick and broke it underfoot, making her presence known.
Necie’s song came to a halt. Her gaze darted around before landing on Margaret. “Miss Margaret? What you doin’ wanderin’ round out here on the beach? You done scared me half to death! You know it ain’t safe for a purdy girl like you to be out here alone.”
Margaret’s cheeks warmed. “Hello, Necie.”
“You all right, Miss Margaret? Looks like you been crying.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Tell me, how’s Mrs. Stoltze doing these days?” Margaret covered her embarrassment with questions.