Plantation Nation (9781621352877) (20 page)

"'Scuse me, doc, don' mean a disturb you, but
you seen dat Private Edmonds anywhare?"

With little interest, Dr. Hillman turned to
the colored man. Though glad for the extra pair of hands the free
coloreds occasionally provided around the hospital, Dr. Hillman
held little regard for the race. Aside from when he gave them
orders, he rarely looked them in the eye. He could not fathom why
people, southern or not, would consent to having such creatures
work and clean in their homes.

"No, boy, Edmonds hasn't been around today.
There's no telling where he may be, but since you're here, why
don't you make yourself useful and empty the patients'
bedpans."

Dr. Hillman looked up from his writing tablet
when the young colored did not dart off with his new assignment. He
dared not to stand too close, fearing that nappy head nested ticks
and lice, but he thought he detected the scent of lye soap.

The boy looked at him pleasantly, with a
wide, foolish smile stretched across his face.

"Is there something wrong with your hearing,
boy?"

"No, sir, it be fine."

"Then run along. I gave you an order."

The boy snickered before taking off, leaving
Dr. Hillman dismayed and irritated.

****

Avoiding bedpans, the colored boy made his
way to Eleanor's house and slipped in the back door.

"Well?" Eleanor asked.

"It worked! He didn't suspect a thing." Emma
removed the wig and twirled it with her hand. "You were right about
washing it. I think that made all the difference." Emma hugged
Eleanor, and they hopped around the kitchen celebrating their
success. "We did it."

Eleanor's glee quickly faded. "Oh, I'm afraid
fooling Dr. Hillman is a small step, compared to what's ahead of
you." Worries bombarded Eleanor, but she pursed her lips together.
"Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

Emma nodded. "They're counting on me." She
hoped her voice disguised her fears as well as the tattered clothes
and nitrate solution masked her gender and ethnicity. It was too
late, she decided, to court apprehensions. "I leave tonight."

Eleanor sighed and then grinned supportively.
"In that case, we had best get you fed and ready."

Emma doubted that she could stomach anything
besides a dose of courage, but when she glimpsed the tears in
Eleanor's eyes, she knew she had to be strong for her friend's
sake.

****

As darkness settled, Emma, in full disguise
and escorted by Colonel Reed, slipped through the Union's picket
line and took off into the night. Her mission, as outlined by
General McClellan, was simple: observe every aspect of the Rebels'
fortification, deem every detail as vital.

A small knife, matches, two apples, and a
pocket of pine nuts tallied her supplies. She also tucked a bottle
of the solution inside her sock for touch ups. Without a canteen,
Emma would have to hunt for fresh water sources, but that didn't
bother her as much as leaving the Colt behind. She knew if a slave
was discovered with such a weapon, execution would precede
questions.

As a precaution, Emma had covered her entire
body with the silver nitrate. Eleanor had touched up areas around
her neck, but Emma had saturated her skin in the solution. Holes in
her shirt presented a minor threat of exposure anyway.

She headed toward the train depot outside of
Washington. To cover the hundred and fifty miles to Yorktown, she
and the colonel had decided her best option for travel was stealing
rides on the railway. Emma was petrified but convinced herself it
was the least of her worries. She hunched behind a tree as a
southbound train began to chug out of the station. When the
conductor had finished inspecting for stowaways, Emma dashed for
the train's last car. With effort, she made it. She quickly moved
through the car and onto a flatbed section of the train, where a
stack of lumber was covered with canvas. Emma ducked under the
canvas, settled herself in, and appreciated the extra cover, since
her clothing offered no defense against the chill and the light
snow that began falling. At some point, Emma even managed bits of
sleep.

****

Yorktown, Virginia

November, 1861

After successfully train jumping her way to
Fredericksburg, Bowling Green, and Coldwater, Emma knew it would be
best for her to walk the rest of the way, though she still had a
chunk of distance to cover if she hoped to reach the Rebel boarder
by early nightfall. She kept a brisk pace, avoided the main
roadways, and hid whenever she heard or suspected someone else
coming. Everyone proved a threat to Emma in her current outfit.
Soldiers, Union and Confederate alike, would seize her as a
prisoner or potential worker for their camp. Plus, there was the
possibility a deranged bandit or suspicious property owner could
shoot her on sight.

When darkness fell, though, Emma had not
reached the enemy line. Wary of continuing her approach at night,
she made a small fire to warm her hands. With a deliberate
slowness, she ate her last apple. Afterward, she huddled under a
bush and covered herself with branches torn from an evergreen. The
branches served well for protection and added warmth. Hunger lulled
her to a disquieting sleep and prayers were her only comfort.

At dawn, she gradually resumed her pace,
having to work out the stiffness in her muscles. Bright sunshine
made the patches of snow sparkle. Lightheartedness struck Emma,
since she'd made it through the night, but a sudden clamor sent her
ducking into the trees. Peeking from around a tree trunk, she saw a
Confederate officer on horseback. Emma took it as an indication
that she was close to the Rebel camp.

She continued a cautious advance, until a
musket barrel in her face stopped her cold.

"Where do you think you're sneaking off to,
coon?"

Emma threw up her hands. "No-nowheres. I's
jus
—
" Well aware of how the slaves
on her family's plantation spoke, Emma was careful to pattern her
speech in a similar dialect.

"Get back with the others. Now!" The
Confederate soldier used the end of his gun like a prod and shoved
Emma in the chest.

Emma fell but scrambled back to her feet.
Several yards ahead, she caught sight of a small group of colored
men carrying buckets and wads of cloth. She deduced that she must
have crossed into Rebel territory. As Emma neared the men, they
turned and greeted her with amused, curious faces. One man, the
tallest and largest of them all, pushed through the others. An
angry scowl covered his face.

"Who de hell are you?"

Taken aback by the address, Emma felt
painfully self-conscious of her masquerade.

"Name's Cuff," she replied. "I's headin'
north, but dem Rebs got me. I's shore need some food."

The man came and stood toe-to-toe with her.
He was twice as broad as Emma and close to six inches taller. His
shirt was too small and missing buttons. Long, lean muscles covered
his body, as did an offensive odor.

"Ain't no food here for you, jigaboo."

His baritone voice made Emma's insides
clench. "I's can work."

"Don' look to me like you can drag a
shovel."

Emma avoided the man's eyes. She had known
fear and faced danger, but the man in front of her made her quake
more than a charging Rebel or a tomahawk-wielding Indian. Back on
the plantation, she'd never heard of or seen such aggression
displayed among the slaves.

"Put me to work," Emma said. "I's show
you."

"Oh, you gonna work." He pointed in Emma's
face. "But you even think of scootin' off, I'll come 'n crack you
in the head."

Without another word, and with stolen glances
from his cohorts, the man took the lead of the group and set a
quick pace. Emma drifted toward the back, unsure what the others
were thinking of her
—
and
pondered whether or not it would be best to abort the mission. If
this man was already set against her, Emma knew having an evil eye
watch over her would only increase the likelihood for trouble.

"Dat's Big Sam," whispered one of the men
from the group. "Stay outta his way if you can."

"Yeah, I's knowed dat's right." Emma checked
to see if Big Sam had heard her. "Why he so mean?"

Emma's new friend shrugged. "Dunno. He been
through a lot, I'spect. Don' want dem soljas down on him. Deys beat
him twice since wes been here."

"Where's yous from?"

"Alabamy. Bunch of us ran 'way when wes heard
'bout de fightin', but it ain't no good."

"Whut ain't?"

"Bein' free. Been pickin' cotton my 'hole
life, don' knowed nothin' else."

The admission hit Emma much the same way as
Tilda's words had several months ago. With Tilda, Emma could not
understand her willingness to stay in a situation that compromised
her freedom
—
and that had cost
her a son. Now, after living a life far different from what she
knew, Emma understood the fear of uncertainty. Change was daunting
and demanding, but she still believed the transition would be worth
the turmoil, once the war was over.

Big Sam led the men to an area of the camp
under construction, where more black men were already assembled and
working. The amount of activity astounded Emma. Through the slaves'
efforts, a mound of earth had been shaped into a parapet to provide
soldiers protection from incoming fire. Presently, the men worked
feverishly, digging trenches and gun pits, preparations for a
lengthy battle.

"Spook!" called Big Sam to Emma. "You over
dere." He pointed to a group of men shoveling and filling a
wheelbarrow with gravel. Once the wheelbarrow was full, a man
maneuvered it up an incline and dumped the ballast between stakes
in the ground. Confederate soldiers, cradling their rifles, amused
themselves by insulting the workers. If a man appeared tired or
slow, a soldier was quick to ping the man in the head with a
rock.

Emma had to ignore her anger toward both Big
Sam and the soldiers. She found a shovel and joined the men without
questions or further instruction. Neither the men nor the soldiers
paid any attention to the addition of another darkie. Emma
considered her infiltration a minor success. Soon, the day carved
out a difficult pattern that involved her shoveling gravel into a
wheelbarrow and forcing the load up the incline. Once, when others
were not paying attention, Big Sam yanked the side of the
wheelbarrow, causing it to fall over the side of the inclined
plank.

"Watch what you're doing!" one of the
soldiers shouted at Emma.

She darted a perturbed scowl at Big Sam, who
enjoyed a muffled laugh.

****

Late that night, worries burdened Emma.
Having worked the entire day at the construction area, she had not
been able to learn much about the Rebel encampment. Now, her every
muscle throbbed in painful exhaustion, and broken blisters covered
her hands. She wouldn't be able to put in another day of such
brutal labor, and with Big Sam sneaking in his irksome jabs, Emma
again considered the notion of abandoning her assignment.

Sitting on the cold ground with the other
slaves and huddled next to a weak campfire, supper made its rounds.
Gruel, dried beef, and acorn coffee. When it was Emma's turn to
receive a bowl, Big Sam intervened.

"Don' waste no food on dat coon." He slapped
the bowl away. Gruel splattered onto Emma, but most was lost to the
ground. Big Sam enjoyed another chortle at her expense.

Emma reacted. She snapped a kick into Big
Sam's gut, causing him to bend at the waist. She followed up by
bringing Big Sam's face to her knee. Blood appeared. At the sight
of his own blood Big Sam retaliated. He grabbed Emma and slammed
her onto her back. Shock and pain radiated through her. Air left
her and she feared she couldn't move. Big Sam reached down and took
a handful of Emma's shirt. Attempting to hoist her up, Big Sam
caused the shirt to rip apart. Most of the material ended up in Big
Sam's fist while Emma thumped to the ground and landed on her
stomach.

The linen wrap she kept around her chest had
fallen loose. Emma clasped her arms over her front and wobbled to
her feet. Hunched forward, she considered dashing for the woods but
felt too weak. This was it. The end. She was about to be exposed as
a woman. There would be no more Cuff. No Tom. No escape now. Even
at the hands of contraband slaves, Emma expected no mercy. But when
she checked the faces of the gathered crowd, Emma felt as
astonished as they looked. Solemn, sympathetic countenances stared
back at her. Even Big Sam suddenly appeared sober.

Emma didn't know what was going on. Had the
scuffle rubbed off some of the solution? She peeked over her
shoulder at her torn shirt. In the flickering firelight, she
realized her scars from the George Napier beating were exposed.

A colored woman came through the crowd and
stood in front of Big Sam.

"Dat's enuff!" she said.

Big Sam shifted his eyes from the woman to
Emma. He smeared the blood from his lip and looked down at it. His
eyes darted back to Emma then to the staring colored men and women.
Big Sam cast an expression of indifference at Emma before he walked
away.

****

Fog hugged the ground early the next morning,
and Emma sat under a tree, groggy from a fitful night of poor
sleep, and examined her hands. Red, swollen, and dotted with broken
blisters, she could hardly move them. Last night, after confronting
Big Sam, the woman who had stepped forward aided Emma. After giving
Emma a new shirt, she made strips out of the torn shirt, dipped the
strips in cool water and gently wrapped Emma's hands. Her kindness
reminded Emma of Tilda, but she was disappointed to find minimal
improvement to her hands.