In Freedom's Shadow, page 2
In the evenings, Scobell would sit with Wyant and some of the other soldiers around their campfire. He liked to listen to them talk, noting the different accents that men from different parts of the country carried. Having never heard anything but a Mississippi drawl or a Scottish burr for the prior 27 years of his life, the new inflections and occasional unfamiliar words were funny to him.
“How come you don’ talk like these other fellas?” Scobell asked Wyant one evening.
Wyant laughed and nodded his head toward some of the other soldiers ringed around the fire. “You mean these Bah-ston boys?” he asked, mimicking their accent. “They do kinda talk funny, don’t they?” he said, raising his voice to make sure his intended targets had heard him.
“Listen to the pie-eater,” replied one of the young men, pretending to be offended by the comment. “He wouldn’t know the inside of a schoolhouse from the inside of an outhouse, and he says we talk funny?”
The entire knot of soldiers laughed this time, including Wyant.
He turned back to Scobell and said, “These boys are with the 19th Massachusetts. They’re from way up in New England, most of ‘em city boys from Boston. I’m from Pennsylvania, over in the western part of the state. Out in the sticks, no place you ever heard of.”
“Nice there?” asked Scobell.
Wyant shrugged. “Nice as any place, I s’pose. It’s in the country, which I like. I ain’t cut out for city life.”
“Whatcha do when y’all ain’t soldierin’?” asked Scobell.
“Work at whatever I can,” said Wyant. “Fixing wagons, working at the sawmill. I got a wife and a little girl at home so I do what I can to take care of ‘em. How ‘bout you? You got any family?”
Scobell stared straight ahead into the fire. “Had me a wife for a time,” he said. “But she done got sold away.”
Scobell felt Wyant looking at him, but the black man continued to gaze into the flames. He’d closed that door years ago. He wasn’t about to reopen it now.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Wyant said at last.
When Scobell didn’t respond, the Pennsylvanian finally said, “I’d like to get me a little farm when this fight’s over. Someplace to call my own.”
“Me, too,” said Scobell, lifting from his reverie. “Like to have me a patch to work someday. Takes money, though. Man like me, don’ rightly know if that’d ever happen.”
“Money doesn’t come easy to any man,” said Wyant. “Least, none that I ever met.” He turned his gaze from the fire to look directly at Scobell. “You don’t seem afraid of work any. We get busy and win this war, you might get your chance.”
“That how it is where y’all come from?” Scobell asked. “A Negro man can have ‘is own farm?”
“Don’ know why not,” Wyant replied. “You jus’ gotta be willing to work hard enough. Like my dad says, ain’t no man ever fell up a mountain.”
“I always heard that all Negroes were lazy as sin,” piped up one of the Massachusetts soldiers. “But you don’t seem so bad.”
“Ain’t no such thing as a slave ‘fraid of hard work,” said Scobell. “You pick a couple hunnert pounds a’ cotton a day, in that hot Mississip’ sun? Ain’t no work harder’n at.”
“What if you didn’t?” asked one of the younger soldiers, with sudden interest. “Did you get whipped?”
“Doyle!” said Wyant sharply. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Doyle opened his mouth to protest, but Scobell chimed in, “Yeah, I been whipped a few times. We all been whipped. First day pickin’ cotton, that overseer’ll whip you sumpin’ awful so’s you won’t slow down. Then they know how much you can pick. Any day after that you don’ pick as much gets you another whippin’.”
Wyant looked at Scobell in silence. Doyle let out a low whistle.
“Damn,” he said. “You evah try to run off?”
Scobell nodded. “When I’s a young ‘un, yeah.”
“What happened?”
“Didn’ get far,” Scobell said. “They done caught me an’ beat me till I’s near killed.”
Another soldier, who had been quietly pulling long draws from a flask up to now, suddenly spoke up. “The way I hear it, whippin’s about the only way you can teach a nigger anything. They ain’t smart enough to learn, ‘less you beat it into ‘em. That’s why none of ‘em can read or write, ‘cause you can’t teach that with a whippin’.”
“Jesus, O’Toole!” barked Wyant. “Are you tryin’ to start a row?”
“I’m just tellin’ you what I’ve heard,” answered O’Toole, shrugging nonchalantly and taking another deep swig from his flask.
Scobell realized that the entire group awaited his response. The last thing he wanted was to start a fight here in camp, where it would be at least twenty against one. He took another tack.
“Ain’t no nigger smart ‘nuff for readin’ and writin’, you say?” Scobell asked. “You sho’ ‘bout dat?”
“Damn right,” replied O’Toole.
“Well, my good man, I’ll have you know that you’re looking at one who can read and write as well as any white man you know,” said Scobell.
Several seconds of stunned silence passed after the sudden speech transformation. Finally, Wyant, who had been gaping at Scobell with his mouth hanging open, laughed uproariously. It was instantly contagious and within seconds, the other soldiers around the fire all roared with laughter as well. Even O’Toole guffawed along with the rest.
“Well, I will be damned,” said Wyant when he finally recovered his senses. “You talk better English than any man here! And you can read and write, too?”
“Yes, I can,” said Scobell with a smile.
“Now this I gotta see!” yelped another soldier, rushing off into the dark. In less than a minute, he returned with a Bible from his tent and handed it to Scobell. “Here, read us a passage from the Good Book. I want to hear it!”
Scobell moved closer to the fire so he could see more clearly. He thumbed through the pages for a moment, then stopped and said, “This is one of my favorites. It’s from the Book of Isaiah.”
In a clear, deep voice, he read, “The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to bring good news to the poor; he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound.”
He slowly closed the Bible and handed it back to the soldier who had retrieved it.
There were several more seconds of silence among the group. Then Wyant repeated in a barely audible voice, “Well, I will be damned.”
CHAPTER 3
The following night, Scobell lay curled on the floor of the tent. Wyant’s bunkmate, a soldier in his early twenties from Philadelphia, was snoring loud enough to shake the wooden tentpoles.
“You awake, John?” Wyant asked.
“Who could sleep with all this noise?” Scobell replied. “That boy snores louder than cannon fire.”
“Don’t I know it,” said Wyant. “We’ve been bunking together for two months now. I considered shooting him, but it turns out they frown on that sorta thing here.”
“You wouldn’t get any argument from me. Or anybody else for about a mile around.”
Wyant chuckled. “No, I don’t s’pose I would.”
After a minute of silence, Wyant said, “So how’d you end up here anyway? I mean, I know you crossed the river. But how’d you make it to there?”
“My master brought me north from the plantation in Mississippi when the war broke out. He was a captain in a volunteer unit. At first, he just had me looking after his gear, but when they asked for slaves to work on the defenses, he lent me out.”
“What did they have you doing?”
“Digging trenches, piling dirt, and stacking logs on the embankments around the camp. First, we were cooking in the heat during August and September, then freezing our asses in the wind and rains when October came.”
“How’d you get out?”
“One day, I decided I’d had enough. I’ve been slave since the day I was born.” Scobell paused, staring up at the ceiling of the tent. Out of nowhere, he could feel a wave of emotion welling inside him. A single tear leaked out of the corner of his eye and trickled across his temple.
He cleared his throat. “I once read that all men are created equal. I was going to find a place where those words mattered.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” said Wyant softly.
“The next rainy evening, I grabbed my chance. The soldiers called all of us in when it got too dark to work. I stayed at the back when the slaves formed their line.”
He paused again, considering the significance of that moment. “It was dark by then and storming pretty hard, so it was tough to see. I ducked behind a pile of logs we had stacked nearby. Then, when it was full dark, I just slipped off into the forest. It was still pouring rain, which made it easier to disappear.”
“Just like that?” Wyant asked.
“Yep, just like that. Hard to believe it was that simple, after all those years. ‘Course, escaping from Virginia to Maryland is a little easier than getting North from Mississippi.”
“Yeah, I imagine so. How’d you get all the way to the Potomac then?”
“Traveled at night, and stuck to the thickest cover I could find. I made my way out around the Rebs at Leesburg, and snuck through the woods until I made it to the Potomac.”
Both men were quiet for a moment. Even the thunderous snoring subsided when the Philadelphia soldier rolled onto his side.
“That’s a hell of a run,” Wyant said at last. “I’m glad you made it out.”
“Trust me,” said Scobell, “You’re not nearly as glad as I am.”
◆◆◆
Two days later, a sergeant from the camp commander’s staff called Scobell out of the tent.
“There’s a wagon leaving today at 10 AM,” the sergeant told him briskly. “You be on it. We have orders to move all the contrabands to Washington.”
“Yes, suh,” Scobell replied, and he hurried off to collect his things. He didn’t know how far word of his eloquence had spread, so he still relied on his slave speech when talking to most of the soldiers in camp. Being underestimated could be an advantage.
Wyant strolled up as Scobell was gathering his few newly purchased belongings from the tent. “What’s going on?” the tall Pennsylvanian asked.
“I have to go,” said Scobell, gesturing to the small bundle under his arm. “They’re shipping all the contrabands to Washington.”
“What for?” asked Wyant.
Scobell shrugged. “It’s the Army,” he said with a smile. “They didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”
Wyant looked down at his boots for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and extended his hand. “You’re a good man, John, not to mention one that’s full of surprises,” he said. “I’m gonna miss having you around.”
Scobell shook his hand. As he tried to let go, the soldier’s grip lingered for a moment. Wyant looked like he wanted to say something, but no words came out.
Wyant’s gaze shifted from Scobell to a point somewhere in the distance over Scobell’s shoulder. Before it did, Scobell thought he saw tears welling in the white man’s eyes.
The Pennsylvanian’s reaction confused Scobell. They’d shared meals and campfires and tent space for the past two weeks, but it wasn’t like they were friends. Scobell didn’t have any friends.
“Wait,” said Wyant after a moment, “I have something for you.” He ducked into his tent and emerged a few seconds later with a folded woolen blanket. It was a basic gray color, with a darker gray stripe across each end.
“It’s gettin’ colder now,” Wyant said. “I notice you don’t have much to keep you warm. This’ll help some.” Looking down at his boots again, he added, “They make ‘em up in Pennsylvania so you know they’re good.”
Recovering from his confusion, Scobell thanked him for the blanket. Then he added, “Still trying to save my life, I guess.”
“Yeah, I s’pose so,” replied Wyant. Though the taller man was now looking down at the ground, Scobell thought he’d caught another glimpse of shiny tears in his eyes.
“I hope you get that farm someday,” said Scobell.
As Scobell walked off toward the waiting wagon, Wyant said quietly, “You too.”
CHAPTER 4
A dozen black men walked side by side through the streets of Washington, D.C., led by one blue-coated solider in front and followed by one to the rear. They walked slowly, heads down, staring at the muddy footprints and hoofprints that chewed up the street ahead of them. Scobell was the only one who occasionally looked up at the busy streets, soldiers marching, and carriages hustling in all directions.
The lead soldier stopped suddenly in front of a two-story brick building on I Street, just a few blocks from the White House. He turned to his charges and said curtly, “In here,” motioning them up the stairs to the double door.
Once inside, the group walked down a long hallway lined with offices on each side. As near as Scobell could tell, most of them were empty. In fact, the building itself seemed nearly deserted and the echo of their footsteps, along with the clinking rattle of the soldiers’ uniform straps, sounded almost obscenely loud in the quiet surroundings.
At the end of the hallway, the lead soldier motioned to two wooden benches facing each other across the hallway. “Sit,” he commanded quietly.
He then stepped through a doorway near the benches, announcing in an official tone, “Contrabands here for questioning.”
“Very good,” came the reply. “How many?”
“Twelve,” the soldier answered.
“Very good,” the man in the office repeated. “Mr. Allen will be ready to see them shortly.”
The soldier returned to the hallway and took a seat next to the other soldier on a bench farther down the hall. The two of them glanced back at the group of black men occasionally, but mostly they busied themselves rolling and smoking cigarettes, and complaining about their platoon sergeant.
From his seat on the opposite side of the hallway, Scobell could glimpse the man in the office: young and thin, with pince-nez glasses perched on the end of his nose. Wearing a dark suit, definitely not a soldier. If it wasn’t an army office, then what was this place? And who was this Mr. Allen?
After about twenty minutes, the young man emerged from the office. Without expression, he pointed at the man next to Scobell and said, “Follow me, please.”
The black man, a scruffy, old runaway who had given his name as Joshua during the ride to Washington, fairly hopped out of his seat and ambled off down the hall, being careful to stay two full strides behind the white man. Force of habit, thought Scobell.
At the end of the hallway, the two men went through another double door and then turned out of sight. Scobell could hear their footsteps as they climbed an unseen set of stairs. He heard a door open and close on the second floor, but then nothing else.
He turned his attention to the rest of the group seated on the benches. They ranged from men in their teens to much older men, maybe 60 years old or more judging by their white hair and stooped posture. He wondered whether any of them were freemen or if they were all runaways who’d made it out of the Confederacy to the safety of Federal lines.
The man on the bench directly across from him began fidgeting. Barely more than a boy, perhaps 16 years old, the youngster had been wearing a bowler hat. He now held the hat between his knees, rapidly turning it in circles by the brim as he looked up and down the hallway.
When they made eye contact, the younger man couldn’t restrain himself any longer. “What you think they want wid’ us?” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to attract attention from the two soldiers conversing farther down the hall.
Scobell shook his head and shrugged slightly.
“Don’ think they gonna sen’ us back, do ya? I mean, we’s free up north heah, right?” His bowler continued to rotate in his fingers as he talked.
“Don’ rightly know,” Scobell replied.
For an instant, he worried that the younger man might panic and cause a scene, but just then they heard the door from the second floor open and close again, and more footsteps on the stairway. In a moment, Joshua and the man in the suit reappeared at the end of the hallway. They had barely been gone ten minutes, Scobell observed.
The man in the dark suit motioned for Joshua to be seated again. He then pointed to another from the group on the benches and said, “Follow me, please.” Once again, they paraded down the hall with the black man trailing behind, then disappeared around the corner and up the stairs.
The second they were out of sight, the young man with the bowler turned on Joshua. “What dey say? What dey gonna do wid us?” he asked eagerly. Every other man on both benches leaned in to hear the response.
“It were jus’ one man,” replied Joshua amiably. “He jus’ axed me a few questions, is all. Jus’ axed ol’ Joshua some questions.”
“Wha’d he ax?” quizzed the youngster. The bowler stopped rotating when Joshua spoke, starting back up again when he stopped.
“He ‘uz nice ‘nuff. Jus’ axed where I bin, where I come from an’ such,” said Joshua. “Axed how many Johnny Rebs I seen.”
“What y’all say?” asked another man. “Y’all tell ‘im what you knew?”
Joshua cackled. The sound reminded Scobell of an iron gate that needed grease.
“Why, I tol’ that feller that ol’ Joshua don’ know howta count. Don’ know howta count one bit.”
He guffawed again. “Told ‘im there were a big ol’ bunch of ‘em, though. Mebbe at least a hunnert or a thousan’.”
“Tha’s it?” asked the young man with the bowler. “Tha’s all?” Scobell could read both relief and doubt in his face.
