Patricia Rice (12 page)

Stumbling to a halt beneath one of the big oaks, Dora wiped her face against her sleeve and took a deep breath. She shouldn't have left David like that. She should have been calm and gracious and applauded his noble actions. She had not behaved well at all. But considering she had wanted to stamp her feet and pound his chest and rage at the stupidity of men, perhaps she had found some kind of compromise by just bursting into tears.

If she could pull herself together, she could escape to her room and wash her face and work back into her usual routine. She had learned to wall off unfortunate emotions many long years ago. It took a little time to seal them off completely, but the sooner she began, the sooner it would be done. David was out of her life. She knew that as certainly as she knew that leaves grew on trees. She had left other lives behind and survived.

The sound of a commotion in the back distracted Dora from her bleak thoughts. Following the noise, she trailed up the carriage drive, past the stables and kitchens, back toward the slave quarters. Screams and wails and raging voices told her the scene wouldn't be a pleasant one, and she had no business interfering. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered much at the moment.

"Marster Pace done tol' me I could! He tol' me he needed a boy. He tol' me them soldiers needs strong arms. I gots strong arms! I don' wanna be no houseboy no more."

The crack of a whip and a scream followed this outpouring of righteous rage. Dora hurried her steps. The only one who wielded a whip around here was Pace's father, and he didn't know when to stop.

"Damn you! You'll do what I tell you or I'll beat the tar out of your senseless hide. Do you know what happens to runaway niggers down in town? You ain't seein' half of what you'll get if those slave catchers find you!" The whip whined again.

In all probability, Carlson was correct. The slave catchers generally tied their victims up before beating them. Carlson preferred working out his rage by chasing them down. Dora didn't find much consolation in that difference. She cringed as she watched the whip lash through the young boy's shirt. Blood welled in the gash left behind.

She recognized the boy as one who once served as Pace's manservant. The Union army didn't discourage Kentuckians from bringing their slaves with them, but Pace had left his behind. She wondered what had prompted the boy to join him now.

The screaming and arguing continued as Dora joined the circle of frightened black faces. Despite their relative isolation, word of the outside world traveled like wildfire through the slave quarters. They knew the Union soldiers didn't discourage runaways. They knew if they could find a federal regiment, they would find protection. But they were miles from Louisville and the nearest troops, and they feared what could happen between here and there. So far, none had been desperate enough to make the attempt. Until now, apparently.

The boy whimpered on the ground as Carlson repeatedly swung the whip. His aim was off as much as on, but blood streamed from cuts on the boy's back and arms. Dora walked through the crowd and into the inner circle and bent over the child to examine his wounds. Her action effectively halted the progress of the whip.

The mask of hypocrisy always amazed her. Her bonnet and long skirt gave her a protection denied to any man. The fact that Carlson considered her a guest gave her even greater protection. No respectable gentleman would ever strike a woman, and to strike a guest was doubly reprehensible. That didn't mean Carlson wouldn't, but he managed to restrain himself in public.

"What in hell do you think you're doing, girl?" he cried in fury.

"The boy's arm needs suturing. He'll not have the use of it for a week as it is." Dora turned to one of the women in the crowd. "Fetch my bag, wilt thou?"

"Dammit, Dora! I'm not done with him yet. Get out of my way. I'm teaching him a lesson he'll never forget." The whip cracked menacingly near but hit only dirt.

Dora ignored him and looked to one of the men. "Help me get him back to his bed. I'll need soap and warm water."

When the slaves hesitated to follow her command, she glanced up and saw Charlie hurrying down the steps from the house. Charlie represented another problem entirely. She didn't feel any relief when she saw Josie hurrying behind as fast as her unwieldy pregnancy would allow. Gentle Josie had developed a shrew's tongue these last months.

"What in hell's goin' on out here?" Charlie demanded as he strode up. Thirty-plus years and too much alcohol had softened his large frame, but he was still a powerful man. He glared down at Dora stooped in the dust, then turned a questioning gaze on his father.

"Just get the blasted girl out of my way so I can finish what I was doing," Carlson answered irritably. His temper was formidable when aroused, but died just as quickly. He'd already lost interest in the whipping, but his pride needed salvaging.

When Charlie moved to do as told, Josie caught his arm.

"You keep your hands off her! Dora, get that poor boy out of here."

Dora felt fear well up through the emptiness, just as it had all those long years ago. She wanted to run and hide and pretend this wasn't happening, but she knew better than to pray for help. What followed wouldn't be pretty. She had seen it once too many times. Charlie didn't like being thwarted. He didn't appreciate Josie's opinion on the treatment of servants. And he most certainly didn't like having their disagreements broadcast in public.

Shivering, Dora stood up and dusted herself off, distracting Charlie from the violence forming in his clenched fist. "I thought the boy belonged to Pace," she said, forcing him to look at her and away from Josie. "I merely wanted to see that he wasn't damaged. Pardon my intrusion if I was wrong."

"It doesn't matter who he belongs to!" Josie cried. "You can't treat him like that. He's just a boy."

Dora cringed as Charlie swung his arm, carelessly shoving his wife out of the way. A gentleman might not strike a lady, but a wife belonged to a husband to do with as he wished. Another lesson Dora had learned a long time ago. She grabbed Josie's arm as, unbalanced, she staggered backward, but Josie had gone beyond reasoning now. Unlike Dora's mother, Josie hadn't learned to keep quiet. Recklessness replaced her usual timidity.

She pummeled her small fist into her husband's massive arm. "You push me around one more time like that again, you bully, and I'm going home to Mother! You can't treat me like one of your slaves. Pace warned me about you and I didn't listen! I'm listening now. You'll live to regret the day—"

Bringing Pace into this was not the wisest idea. With a growl of fury, Charlie swung around and slapped Josie full across the mouth. She gasped and fell backward into Dora's arms while the servants looked on, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

"And I'll not have a nagging bitch for wife! Get the hell out of my sight before I take the whip to you too." He grabbed the whip from his father's hand and turned to apply it on the boy, but his intended victim had had the sense to crawl out of range. One of the older men now half-carried him back through the quarters. That left only Josie to take his anger.

Dora placed herself between the shocked and trembling Josie and her irate husband while Carlson attempted to soothe his son. With whispered words, Dora got Josie moving in the direction of the house. By all rights, she should go after the boy to sew up his more serious wounds, but Josie was helpless in her pregnancy. Memories of her own mother's helplessness haunted her. If her mother had had friends to protect her, she might be alive today. It seemed wisest to see Josie safe first.

"I'm going home," Josie wept as Dora led her up the back steps. "Pace was right, I don't belong here. I thought he was a gentleman!" she wailed brokenly as they entered the house.

Dora assumed the last "he" meant Charlie, but anyone foolish enough to assume Charlie was a gentleman didn't deserve an answer. As far as that mattered, the word "gentleman" had become outmoded. If ever such a creature existed, it was extinct now.

"He's your husband. Thou canst not leave. Thou must learn to work around him," Dora suggested as they started down the hall toward the stairs. Heaven only knew, she had experience enough to know that leaving didn't solve the problem. Charlie would just go after Josie and beat her senseless. Wives didn't have any more rights than slaves; they just usually didn't end up in jail when they ran away.

"I'll tell Pace. Pace will know what to do," Josie said, straightening her shoulders and pulling from Dora's hold.

Dora groaned inwardly at this stupidity. Maybe smacking Josie was the right idea. Someone should knock a little sense into her spoiled little head. In some ways, Josie and Charlie were two of a kind. "What dost thou think Pace can do? Thou art married to his brother. Dost thou wish him to shoot Charlie? Thou dost carry a child. Pace can't take thee with him, even if thou wished to live in a tent and travel from battlefield to battlefield. This is his home, remember? He has nowhere else to take thee. Just what dost thou think he can do? Wave a magic wand?"

Josie grabbed her skirts and stalked up the broad staircase. "You're just jealous because Pace doesn't know you're alive. He'll make Charlie stop hitting me." She turned triumphantly and looked down at Dora. "You didn't even know Pace was back in town, did you? Well, he is. And before he goes, he'll make Charlie pay for what he did."

Dora didn't follow her any farther. The gap inside her grew a little more empty, and she took the black bag the silent servant handed her without question, turning back the way she came. Pace was home. She should have known it. The world exploded in chaos all around her. Who else but Pace could be the cause?

She made her way back through the now silent yard. Carlson and Charlie had disappeared about their chores. The slaves had scattered. A mockingbird sang its foolish head off at the top of the barn, but that was the only joyful note heard on this lovely spring day. Dora wondered where Pace was and what he was doing here. She didn't think his regiment had been in that dreadful battle at Shiloh last month. His name hadn't been listed in the casualties. They would have heard by now.

One of the house servants was trying to clean the open wounds on the boy's back when Dora arrived. The slave respectfully stepped out of the way when Dora took over.

"Why didst thou not ask Mr. Payson to take thee with him instead of running?" she asked the boy in puzzlement as she cleansed the gashes and pulled out her thread to mend the worst.

"He wouldn't take me," the boy answered sullenly. "He said I'd slow him up."

From the sounds of it, the army traveled slower than molasses in January, but Dora didn't mention that fact.

Knowing Pace, he didn't travel with the array in any normal way. He was too impatient to take orders, too hotheaded to sit and wait with the enemy near. He belonged in the cavalry, but there hadn't been a regiment formed when he joined. The Union army had difficulty enough figuring out what to do with their rebellious Kentucky troops. She couldn't imagine what they would do with Pace.

"Thou must be patient. I will talk with him, but I make no promises. Friend Nicholls is right. If the slave catchers find thee, they'll beat thee far worse than this. The time is coming when thou wilt be free. That time is not now."

Even in his pain, the boy growled angrily. "I don' wanna wait until I'm old and gray."

Dora sighed. The boy had learned too well from Pace. "Let me talk to Friend Payson before thou doth anything rash."

A shadow blocked the sunlight pouring through the open doorway of the small cabin. Dora didn't need to look up or hear his words to know who the shadow preceded. Pace.

"What does my holy bluebird wish to talk to me about?" he asked gruffly, coming into the tiny, crowded room and filling it with his bulk.

Dora told herself that Pace was not a large man. He stood a head shorter than his brother and possessed half his weight. Yet his presence occupied the room so thoroughly that she thought she might suffocate. He cast a long shadow. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of his blue uniform and shining buttons. He was bare-headed, and the sun glinted in his auburn hair. New crinkles had formed around his eyes from too much sun. Realizing she held her breath, she expelled it.

"This foolish young man," she answered sternly. "He thought to follow thee into war."

Pace gazed over her shoulder to the defiant youth in the bed. "Well, Solly, you've stirred up a fine hornet's nest. I hope you made your mama proud."

The boy glared at him but didn't say a word. Dora didn't blame him. She'd like to kick the man herself. She continued spreading salve on the less serious injuries.

"Dost thou think thy father might hire Solly out to me?" she asked carefully. "Jackson will have need of another worker."

She felt Pace's piercing gaze on the back of her head, but she didn't turn to meet it. Knowing Pace, he'd been the one who recruited David. He had probably known about David's decision before she did. At least he didn't have the hypocrisy to ask why she needed another worker.

"He'll still be a slave," he reminded her.

"Thou hast a better suggestion?" she snapped. Her patience had worn to fine threads this day. She had some difficulty in maintaining her cultivated calm.

"I can't take you with me, Solly," he said to the youth in the bed. "I don't stay in one place long and I travel fast. If I talk my father into hiring you out, will you stay and help Miss Dora? At least that way, you'll earn a little money until the time comes when you're legally free."

"Will I earn enough to buy my freedom if the rebs win?" the boy asked belligerently.

"The rebs aren't going to win," Pace answered firmly. "And even if you could buy your freedom now, you couldn't live free here. It's against the law. You'd have to move up North somewhere, and leave your mother behind. Is that what you want?"

The boy couldn't be much more than fourteen or fifteen. Dora knew he had a passel of younger brothers and sisters and a mother who worked too hard doing sewing for others as well as her own chores at the house. Money for his family was as important as his freedom. One didn't necessarily lead to another.