Candle in the Darkness

  Esther, who had hurried outside when she spotted her husband, wrapped her arms around his waist to console him as he struggled with his emotions. “They mostly all poor women and little girls who work in there,” he said. “I seen them crawling out, trying to jump in the river cause they all on fire. Children . . . they just little children . . . I tried to go help but everybody in the city down there helping. They sent me home.”

  Later, the newspapers would give the details of the disaster at the Confederate States Laboratory on Brown’s Island. Nearly half of the forty-five people who died were younger than sixteen years of age, the youngest little girl only nine. But for now, if what Eli said was true and everyone in Richmond had gone down to help, this could be Robert’s chance to escape from the city.

  “Go borrow that horse, Eli, and get the carriage ready. It’s time for Robert to leave.”

  Gilbert bent down and removed his shoes and socks, presenting them to me like a gift. “He gonna be doing a lot of walking, he gonna need these,” Gilbert said. I had tears in my eyes as he padded off to the carriage house, barefoot, to help Eli.

  Ruby and Tessie dressed Robert in his disguise. We’d made the gown large enough so he could wear his shirt and trousers beneath it. With the hat and mourning veil covering his face, he looked like so many other women on the streets of Richmond, swathed in black from head to toe.

  “For goodness’ sake, keep your feet tucked under your skirts,” Tessie warned. “Ain’t no lady in the world has feet that big or shoes that ugly.”

  Esther packed Robert’s suit coat and some food in a small satchel. We were ready to leave less than an hour later.

  “I don’t know how to thank all of you,” Robert said as the servants came out to the carriage house to see him off.

  “Go win this war,” Tessie said. “That’s how you can thank us. Then maybe I get my boy back.”

  No one said much as Eli drove the three of us north to the Mechanicsville Turnpike, each of us lost in his own private thoughts. We were stopped only once at the picket lines near the perimeter of the city, but the soldiers seemed more interested in hearing the news of the munitions explosion than in us. They never asked for our travel permit. We skirted around Hilltop, then stopped in a wooded place near a creek about a half-hour’s drive beyond the plantation. It was as far as we dared travel if we hoped to make it home before dark.

  Robert quickly took off the hat and skirt, and I helped him out of the bodice before we climbed down from the carriage. “Guess you on your own from here,” Eli said as Robert shook hands with him. “God bless you.”

  “Thank you, Eli.” It was all Robert could say as his voice choked with emotion.

  Eli led the horses down to the creek, leaving Robert and me alone beside the road. As we studied each other, I felt my own emotions welling inside me. “I’m going to miss you,” I told him. The discovery stunned me. He had been part of my life for the last ten months.

  “I’ll miss you, too.” His eyes turned soft, the steel in them gone as the poet’s sadness returned.

  “Do you know which way to go from here? I never asked you about your plans.”

  “I’ll just keep heading north, cross a couple of rivers. Once I get across the Potomac I’ll be in Federal territory.” He finally looked away. “Someone will contact you, Caroline. We have agents in Richmond. Any information you can give us will help— what the Rebels are thinking, what they’re planning, how many troops they have, artillery, gun emplacements, troop movements. Even if it doesn’t seem like much, it will help.”

  “I’ll try, Robert. That’s all I can promise.” I knew that with Mr. St. John angry with me, Major Turner suspicious of me, and Helen Taylor spreading rumors about me, I wasn’t likely to be invited into the Confederates’ social circles.

  “I’ll never be able to thank you for all you’ve done for me,” he said. Then, before I could reply, Robert suddenly pulled me into his arms. He held me tightly, yet tenderly. I could hear his heart beating, feel his breath in my hair.

  “I’ve longed to hold you like this since the first day you walked into the prison,” he whispered. “I love you, Caroline. I always will.”

  He bent and kissed my cheek. Then, as suddenly as he had reached for me, Robert let me go. He turned and jogged off into the woods beside the road, his footsteps muffled by the soft spring earth.

  While Robert had been digging his tunnel throughout the month of February, Charles and Jonathan and one-quarter of the Army of Northern Virginia had crossed the James River with General Longstreet and marched to the south and east of Richmond, camping near Suffolk. Part of their mission was to besiege Suffolk and discourage the Yankees from marching inland. But their greater task was to forage for food for their starving army.

  Eli’s son, Josiah, has been most helpful in this regard, Charles wrote in his letter later that March. He and Jonathan have returned to the days of their boyhood, it seems—roaming the woods for game and fishing in the river. Not being much of a hunter myself, I’ve been detailed to gather sassafras buds and pokeweed greens, since many of the men have contracted scurvy from our meager winter diet. I’m willing to do what I can, but I’d much rather be fighting. Now that winter is over and the mud is drying, we can finally get back to the war. Let’s hope we can finish it for good this year.

  My father has written to me about the prison break. I must be honest with you and admit that for your safety’s sake, I’m glad you’re not going to the prison anymore. I don’t know what I would do if anything ever happened to you. But Father also told me that the commandant insists you were involved in the escape. I made it very clear to Father that since you deny any involvement, he must put an end to the rumors and allegations. I know you to be an honest, God-fearing woman whose word can be trusted. If you swear you were not involved, then you weren’t.

  I’m so sorry that you’re being put through this ordeal—especially since my own father is questioning your integrity. Believe me, I’m doing every-thing in my power to get a furlough so I can come home and straighten things out. In the meantime, please try to be patient with him. He’s under a great deal of strain right now, and he isn’t well.

  The realization that I hadn’t been completely honest, and that Charles still upheld my integrity, devastated me. I didn’t know how I would live with what I’d done, nor how I would ever face Charles when he returned. He trusted me, defended me—and I was guilty.

  “What am I going to do?” I asked Eli.

  We sat across from each other at the kitchen table, watching the flames dance in the fireplace. The aroma of fish, baking in a cast-iron roasting oven, filled the room.

  “Sometime, probably when this war is over, you gonna have to tell Massa Charles the truth,” Eli said. “Tell him what you done. And why. But it ain’t fair for him or anyone else to judge the right and wrong of things until we get to the end of the matter.”

  “Are you saying the end justifies the means?”

  “No, I’m saying right now you’re trying to obey God—and God ain’t finished with this whole mess yet. Maybe by the time the war is over, God gonna explain it all to Massa Charles, and he’ll be able to understand the truth when you finally tell him.”

  A log shifted and fell in a flurry of sparks as Esther poked the fire.

  “And what if Charles doesn’t understand? What if he can’t forgive me?”

  Eli sighed. “All I know is, you can trust God. When Massa sell my son, Josiah, to Hilltop, I didn’t see any good coming from that. But I know I can trust God. Even when bad things happen, He can use them for good.”

  On the first day of April, Gilbert opened the front door—and there was Daddy. “I’m home, Sugar,” he called. As I ran into the foyer to greet him, I thanked God that Robert was already gone.

  Daddy had traveled overland by train, and the wagon he’d hired at the train station was heaped with presents—crates and barrels and boxes of presents. The servants and I followed him out to the curb where the wa
gon was parked, and Daddy ordered Gilbert to open one of the crates and show me what was inside. There was a new bonnet from Europe, a bolt of cloth for a new dress, bags of coffee and tea—and a large sack of sugar for Esther. She cried when she saw it, then hefted it to her shoulder and carried it around back to the kitchen to start baking Daddy a pie.

  “Where did all these things come from?” I asked. “I know what the prices of these goods are here in Richmond . . . all this must have cost a fortune.”

  “We have a fortune, Caroline. We’re quite rich.”

  He paid the wagon driver, adding a generous tip. “Bring this box and this box into my library,” he told Gilbert, pointing them out. Then he went back into the house and left Gilbert and Eli to finish unloading.

  I felt uneasy as I followed my father inside. I’d heard people cursing the speculators who had gotten rich by buying goods from blockade-runners, then raising the prices to exorbitant amounts— while needy people were starving.

  “What’s wrong, Sugar? Why the long face?” he asked as he sank into his favorite armchair. I had followed him into the library, but I didn’t sit.

  “Times have been hard while you were gone, Daddy. People resent the speculators who’ve gotten rich—”

  “I’m not a speculator,” he said, frowning. “I made my money on the high seas, raiding commercial ships that were trading with our enemies. I’ve given my required ten percent to the Confederacy— in fact, I’ve given much more than that. One of the ships I stopped was carrying medicine, and I donated the entire cargo to our soldiers.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you. It’s just that speculators aren’t very popular around town.”

  “You needn’t worry about my popularity. I have a lot of friends in top government positions now. They’re well aware of the work I’m doing for the Confederacy.”

  A shiver went through me at his words. With my father’s political connections, it might be easier than I thought to gather the kind of information Robert had asked for. But could I do it? Could I exploit my own father in order to aid his enemies?

  Gilbert walked into the library just then, carrying one of my father’s boxes. Sweat rolled down his forehead and formed dark crescents beneath his armpits. “Where you want this, Massa Fletcher?” he asked.

  “Right over there by the bookshelf. And pry off the cover for me, would you?”

  As I watched Gilbert work, I remembered why I had entangled myself in this confusing business of betrayal and deceit—it was for him and for Eli and Tessie and the millions of other slaves who had the right to be free men and women.

  The crate opened with a hideous, creaking sound of bending nails and splintering wood. My father sent Gilbert back for the second box.

  “Daddy . . . have you ever thought about giving Gilbert and the others their freedom?” I asked.

  “Heavens, no! Why on earth would I do that?” He walked over to the open crate and began removing books from it, piling them on the floor.

  “Well . . . they’ve worked so hard for us. They’ve been so faithful while you were gone . . . and so good to me.”

  “That’s because it’s expected of them. Listen, you may not like hearing this, but the truth is, they are children. They’ve been dependent on us all their lives. They wouldn’t know how to handle their freedom if I did give it to them. Believe me, they’re better off in our care.”

  The books appeared to be a set, bound in dark leather covers and tooled in gold. Daddy removed them one by one, scanning the titles as if searching for a particular one. When he found it, he motioned to me.

  “Come over here, Sugar. I want to show you something. . . . Open it,” he said. He handed me the book. It was surprisingly light.

  I lifted the cover and saw that the book was hollow inside. Daddy reached into the inner pocket of his coat and removed a bulging drawstring bag. He poured the contents of it into the hollowed-out space. It was filled with gold coins.

  “If anything happens to me, I want you to know where to find this money. You can live the rest of your life on this gold. And it’s legal tender in any state—north or south.” He removed a brass cigar box and a Chinese vase from one of the shelves and began arranging the books in their place, beginning with the phony, gold-filled one.

  “I can do that for you, Massa Fletcher,” Gilbert said as he returned with the second box.

  “Very good. But open the box you’re carrying first.” Daddy dusted off his hands and returned to his chair, watching as Gilbert pried open the second box. A dozen bottles, filled with ambercolored liquid, nestled beneath layers of wood shavings. “Ah . . . I see they all made it safely,” Daddy said. “Uncork one of them, Gilbert, and pour me a glass.”

  As I watched Gilbert scurry around the room waiting on Daddy, I realized that my father would never change. He couldn’t change. His attitudes toward Negroes had been born and bred into him, hardening and solidifying year after year until they had turned to stone. He would carry them to his grave. So many of the people he lived with and worked with carried the same attitudes that no one even questioned them anymore. If the South won the war, nothing would change for the Negroes. Slavery would continue the way it had for centuries. And if Tessie and Josiah gave birth to another child, Daddy wouldn’t even think twice about selling him, just as he’d sold Grady.

  Many people would say I was wrong to think about deceiving my father, taking advantage of his friendship with Confederate leaders in order to help his enemies. They would say I was wrong to mislead Charles and his father about what I did at Libby Prison. But those who’ve been through a war will understand how right and wrong, truth and lies, can sometimes get confused in the smoke and mayhem of conflict. They certainly were no longer clear to me. What was clear, though, was that in God’s eyes, my father was wrong to own people as his slaves.

  “Are you home to stay this time?” I asked him.

  “For a few months, anyway.”

  “I think we should throw a welcome-home party for you. We can invite all your friends, share some of these treats you’ve brought.”

  “That’s a good idea, Sugar. I’m glad you thought of it. Thank you, Gilbert,” he said as the servant finally handed him his drink. Then Daddy happened to glance down and notice Robert’s old shoes on Gilbert’s feet. “Good heavens! Why are you wearing such a disgraceful pair of shoes in my house?”

  “They all I got, Massa Fletcher.”

  “Well, what on earth have you done to wear them out that way—walk to Texas and back?”

  “They were probably poorly made to begin with,” I said. “I couldn’t afford to buy him new ones. Shoes are very expensive these days.”

  My father fished another gold piece out of his pants pocket and tossed it to me. “Here . . . catch. Take him downtown tomorrow and buy him a new pair. Buy yourself a new pair, too, if you’d like.”

  Gilbert and I didn’t notice anything unusual the next morning as we headed downtown to a store on Main Street to buy his shoes. We caused enough of a stir all by ourselves, outfitting a slave with new shoes costing twenty-five dollars a pair. Slaves usually wore their master’s castoffs, whether they fit him or not.

  Had we driven past the capitol, we might have noticed the huge crowd of people milling in the square, armed with knives and axes and pistols. But we drove down Main Street, not Franklin, and we had no idea of the danger we were in until the mob poured down the hill into the commercial shopping district, clamoring for food. As they streamed past the window of the store we were in, shouting for bread to feed their starving families, the alarm bell in the square started to ring. I saw that the mob was mostly women—poor and ragged, some as thin as skeletons. Many carried ragamuffin children in their arms. The woman at the head of them was as tall as a man, wearing a hat with a long white feather in it and armed with a six-shooter. The women surged into bakeries and grocery stores, grabbing food off the shelves.

  “What’s going on?” one of the other customers asked as we
crowded near the store window to watch.

  The proprietor quickly locked the door. “I think you’d better stay inside where it’s safe, ladies. Those people look like rabble . . . and they’re out of control.”

  I watched in astonishment as the crowd flooded through the shopping district, looting the stores, grabbing bread and hams, loading their arms with butter and bacon and sacks of cornmeal. More people came running from their homes to join the band of women, including dozens of men who didn’t look half-starved at all. They began plundering more than food, stealing shoes and tools and bolts of cloth.

  I stood frozen in front of the window, watching as the rioters rushed toward the store where Gilbert and I had taken refuge. When they discovered that the door was locked, they picked up bricks and homemade bats to smash the window. Gilbert perceived their intentions a moment before I did, and he grabbed me around the waist, whirling me away from the window, shielding me with his own body as the window shattered in a hail of shards. The proprietor was struck by a brick, several of the others cut by flying glass, but thanks to Gilbert, I was unharmed. Then he stood in front of me, brandishing a cobbler’s mallet as looters poured into the store through the broken window, snatching all the merchandise they could carry.

  Outside, firemen turned their hoses on the rioters, but that only seemed to make them more violent, and they turned their weapons against the volunteers. Then the Home Guard came running to the scene, alerted by the ringing alarm bell, armed with rifles and bayonets.

  “Better look away, Miss Caroline, in case this get ugly,” Gilbert warned. I stepped back from the window a few more paces, but I didn’t want to believe that the guards would actually use their bayonets or open fire on civilian women and children.

  There was a louder shout above the chaos, and the crowd parted right outside our store to let Governor Letcher pass through. “What is the governor saying?” someone asked the store owner. He had stepped cautiously toward the window to listen, holding a bloodied handkerchief to his head.