Rachel's Choice (9 page)

“Preacher's brought the whole church to help you out, Miss Rachel,” Solomon declared.

Cora's oldest son, Pharaoh, drew the team of horses to a halt. Immediately, a bevy of squealing children in various shades and sizes spilled over the sides of the wagon and began chasing each other around the yard.

“Mary, see to that baby,” a woman called. “Step to it, girl!”

Mary, no more than eight herself, crawled under the wagon to retrieve a laughing toddler. As the little girl backed out, a chubby boy—minus a bottom front tooth—tugged at one of her many beribboned pigtails.

“Ouch!” Mary gave her tormentor a shove that sent him head over heels across the grass.

“You young'ns mind your manners,” Cora shouted. “Stay out of Miss Rachel's garden. If I see one flower broken, you'll answer to me.”

Rachel, still too full of emotion to speak a sensible word, twisted the hem of her apron and stared at Cora. “I never expected you to …”

“Of course you didn't,” Cora replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “But here we are.”

Pharaoh climbed down from the wagon seat and lifted his mother to the ground as carefully as if she'd been made of spun glass. Rachel caught sight of Pharaoh's wife, Emma, and their oldest daughter, Pauline, among the milling women unloading picnic baskets from the cart.

“We've come to put in your crop,” Cora Wright said with a twinkle in her eyes. A small woman without an extra ounce of flesh, Cora was neatly dressed in a plain gray muslin skirt and bodice with a starched white apron. Her blue-black hair, streaked with white, was drawn tightly into a coiled braid at the back of her head and partially covered by an old-fashioned mobcap.

“But this is the Sabbath,” Rachel managed.

Cora hugged her warmly, and Rachel caught a faint scent of lavender and herbs. Cora Wright was immaculate in her person but always wore a gris-gris, a tiny leather charm bag containing an assortment of magical ingredients, around her neck to ward off ghosts, witches, and evil spirits.

“Preacher moved the church here this morning,” Emma said, coming up beside her mother-in-law. Emma dwarfed Cora; the younger woman was nearly six feet tall and broad of shoulder.

Rachel had heard that Emma had once been a house slave on a great plantation on Virginia's Eastern Shore. Local rumor had it that Cora and Pharaoh had smuggled Emma north to Delaware when she was fifteen. Rachel didn't know if that was true, but she did know that Emma possessed an education far beyond her own.

Most folks in Kent County believed that Cora Wright and her son Pharaoh were ringleaders in the Underground Railroad, a secret group that assisted runaway
slaves. But no charges had ever been brought against the family because Cora Wright was too well respected. In her role of midwife, she'd delivered the children of two sheriffs, several judges, and more farmers than Rachel could count. Cora Wright might be a poor black woman, but she was an important part of the community, and even pro-slavers knew when to mind their own business.

Four husky parishioners struggled to lift a plow from the back of another wagon, and Pharaoh went to take charge. “Easy with that,” he warned. “No sense taking it down here. Roll it on out to the field, then pull it off.” He lowered his voice and glanced back at his mother. “Blockheads.”

“I don't know how to thank you,” Rachel managed.

“There's no need to make a fuss.” Cora patted Rachel's arm. “Haven't you and your grandparents gone out of your way enough times when we were needing? I don't know what's wrong with those white folks that they can't find time to help out a lone woman in need. Someone should show them the meaning of Christian charity.”

“Where do you want us to start plowing, Miss Rachel?” Pharaoh asked.

He was so tall that Rachel often wondered how a tiny woman like Cora had given birth to him. Pharaoh's muscular arms and brawny shoulders proclaimed his blacksmith's craft. His voice was deep and slow; his movements were steady. Only someone who had known Pharaoh all his life as Rachel had could guess that beneath his gentle exterior lurked the fierce spirit of an African lion.

Six years earlier, two slave catchers had come north to Delaware in search of runaways, and they'd been found
dead in the marsh chained to a tree by their own iron shackles.

Her husband, James, and Pharaoh had been friends since they were boys, and James had told her that he believed Pharaoh was responsible for the murders. James said that the black man had admitted as much to him.

Rachel drew in a ragged breath and tried not to look at the barn. If Pharaoh discovered Chance hiding there, she wouldn't have to worry about being arrested. Pharaoh would drive a pitchfork through Chance's heart and throw his body in the swamp. Pharaoh Wright hated slavers, and he considered every Confederate soldier his sworn enemy. The only thing that had kept him out of the army was that he refused to be bound by any authority other than his mother.

“Miss Rachel?” Pharaoh interrupted her thoughts. “Where do you want us to start?”

“Oh.” She tried to hide her nervousness. “In the west field,” she stammered. “I had corn there last year and—”

“You plow up the garden plot first,” Cora ordered. “The ladies mean to put Miss Rachel's garden to rights before dinner. You put one man to plowing and those boys to working up the soil. Emma can mark the rows. Have you got string, Miss Rachel? Lord knows if these addle-brained girls have brought—”

“I've got string,” Rachel assured her. “I've some seed but—”

“We brought plenty of seed,” Cora replied. “Sweet corn, butter beans, string beans, beets, onion sets, collards, carrots, squash. It's late for cabbage, but—”

“I've cabbage and greens already in,” Rachel supplied.

“Addie's got some nice tomato plants,” Cora said. “We'll set them in the shade by the well until we're
ready. They sun-scorch easy, you know. Can't be too careful with them roots.” She patted Rachel's hand again. “Don't you worry about a thing. We brought enough food to feed Grant's army. We'll spread blankets under the trees and set out our—”

“You're welcome in my house, Cora Wright, you and all your friends. You know that. When did I ever ask you to eat outside?” Rachel said. “We can—”

“No need to say another word, child. You can't help the color of your skin. This world being what it is, and people—even my people—being what they are. Lord knows, some of these girls can't know a scrap of nothing without telling it to the whole world. We'll spread our dinner cloths outside for a real Sunday eating-on-the-ground. You just sit down with us and none will be the wiser. I'm not too proud to eat on the ground, and any what is should look to their own salvation.” She gave a small sniff and glanced around. “Where is Preacher George? That man will be late to his own funeral.”

“He's coming, Mother Wright,” Emma said. “He's bringing two families from down the Neck. And those Freeman boys, Jack and Gideon. They're bringing the second plow and another pair of oxen.”

A smiling mulatto woman, trailed by three bright-eyed little boys, joined the group around Rachel. “Mornin', Miz Rachel,” she said. “You lookin' pert. When that little'n comin'?”

“Good morning, Janetta,” Rachel said. “I can't thank you all enough for giving up your Sunday to come and help me this way. I never expected—”

Janetta grinned wider, exposing a gold front tooth. “The Lord provides, Miss Rachel. When Miss Cora got up in front of the congregation last Sunday and told us
how you was tryin' to farm this place all alone and your little'n a-comin', well, there weren't a dry eye in that church, I can tell you.”

She shifted a fussing light-skinned infant from her hip to the crook of her arm and covered herself modestly with a bright shawl as she began to nurse the babe.

“Don't tell me you and Joe have had a new arrival,” Rachel teased. “I saw you at Easter and you were as slim as—”

“Lord, save us! No!” Janetta protested. “This ain't my chile. With my Joe away guardin' them rebs? You know better than that, Miss Rachel. This is Mrs. Thomas's boy, Jacob Lemuel. Mr. Lemuel Thomas got my Joe a good job in the kitchen at Fort Delaware.” She laughed again. “My babe? With skin like clabbered milk? You know I wet-nursed young Mrs. Thomas's last two young'ns. She don't want to chance ruinin' her figure with young'ns pullin' on her teats.”

Rachel nodded. “He did look light for one of your boys, Janetta. I didn't think you'd be steppin' out on Joe.”

Janetta squirmed with delight. “And me a deaconess of the church? Bless my soul, Miss Rachel. Don't you be sayin' such around Milford. My Joe would be home from Pea Patch in two shakes of a dog's tail.”

“You and you, come with me!” Pharaoh commanded as he stripped off his Sunday-go-to-meeting coat and white shirt. “And you, Zeus, you start plowing the garden patch.”

Other men began to shed their church clothes. Muscular arms and shoulders in every shade from ebony to toffee gleamed in the sunlight. Teenage girls giggled and whispered to each other as they spread out blankets under
the trees and placed wicker and split-oak food baskets in the deep shade. Rachel caught whiffs of fried chicken and sweet potatoes and fresh-baked apple pies.

“I'll never be able to repay you all,” she murmured to Cora.

The older woman chuckled. “Just keep doing what you've been doing all your life,” she answered. “Treat us with respect.”

“How could I do any less?” Rachel hugged her warmly.

“Preacher's coming,” Emma called. She pointed to an approaching wagon driven by a stout man dressed all in black and wearing a wide-brimmed felt hat.

“Praise God!” Janetta shouted. “Brother George!”

“Amen!” chimed an older man with snow-white hair.

Preacher George reined in his team and stood up. “Are you ready to work?” he demanded. “Are you ready to do His work?”

“Yessuh!” cried a young boy.

“We are!” boomed Pharaoh.

Affirmation rolled from every throat. “Yes!”

“We ready!”

“Then, let's do it!” Preacher George declared. “For the Lord and Mr. Lincoln!”

As the men and boys turned toward the fields, Rachel glanced at the barn and offered a silent prayer of her own for these good friends and for Chance—that he would have the good sense to stay where he was. Then Cora called her name, and she hurried to direct the boys in where to start planting the tomatoes in her kitchen garden.

* * *

Chance burrowed under the mound of salt-marsh hay and tried to ignore the scurry of tiny feet as mice fled that corner of the loft. Below, in the open walkway, Chance could hear the murmur of voices and a woman's husky laughter.

“They'll miss us.”

“No, they won't,” a deeper male voice answered.

Chance rubbed the itch on the side of his nose and hoped he wouldn't get the urge to sneeze. He'd been hiding here for hours. The sunshine coming through the louvered barn window had lessened in intensity, but the loft was still close and overwarm.

He'd feared at first that a troop of soldiers had come to arrest him. He didn't like the helpless feeling of being trapped with nowhere to run. When he'd heard children's voices—black voices—he'd been relieved but puzzled. Why had so many people come to Rachel's isolated farm if they weren't searching for him? What did they want?

Finally, when he could stand the suspense no longer, he'd crept to a crack in the horizontal boards and peered out. Seeing teams of horses and oxen working Rachel's fields had stunned him and deepened the mystery.

Chance had remained hidden throughout the day despite his thirst and the keen hunger he felt when the smells of food drifted up to tempt him. He tried to remember if the door to his room was closed below. If anyone saw the made-up bed or his spare shirt, they'd know Rachel had a man here. But he couldn't worry about that. Going down the ladder to check would put them both in more danger.

Several times children had entered the barn. Once a boy had climbed to the loft. Chance had been afraid that
the child and his companions would discover him, but a woman had called the lad outside.

The hours had passed slowly. Chance had never considered himself a patient man, but he'd had a lot of practice since his capture at Gettysburg.

He wondered what had become of his friends in the Powhatan Guards since he'd last seen them charging up that wooded slope. He didn't think many had been taken prisoner. Travis had given him the names of three men who'd died, but counting himself and Travis, he knew of only seven who'd been captured in the skirmish.

Of those seven, only Dave Pointer and Travis had been alive when he'd fled Pea Patch Island. William Adams died of his wounds before they'd reached Fort Delaware. Red Bailey had coughed out his life in the next cell inside the prison, and Charley Pritchett had expired after they'd taken off his leg at the hip.

Young Jeremy Stewart …

Chance closed his eyes, trying to erase the memories of Jeremy's blackened and contorted face. The boy had run away from Greenview Military Academy and lied about his age to join the Fourth Virginia after his father was killed at the Battle of Kelly's Ford. His mother's only child, Jeremy was the best rider Chance had ever seen, but still too young to shave … and too damned young to die by his own hand.

Icy hatred rose from the pit of Chance's gut and pressed against his chest like a dead weight. He'd witnessed a lot of bad things since he'd signed on with the Powhatan Guards in the spring of '62, but nothing had torn at him like Jeremy's senseless death.

He hadn't been there in time to save Jeremy that night,
but the one thing he could do for the boy was to kill Sergeant Coblentz.

Chance had never considered himself a vengeful man, or one that could cold-bloodedly plan another's murder. But putting Coblentz in his grave would be no different than shooting a rat. At least he hoped it wouldn't.