A Dream of Freedom: Southern Angels , #3

By Cheryl Zach

Slave girl Hannah grew up on the Stafford's Virginia plantation as Elizabeth's companion. She works in a Charleston shop while Elizabeth goes to boarding school and quietly aids runaway slaves via the Underground Railroad. Although Hannah vows never to marry while a slave, free man of color Joshua captures her heart. Ordered back to the plantation, Hannah is caught trying to help a child escape and is sold, despite Elizabeth's attempts to aid her. Hannah escapes, but later learns that Elizabeth is imprisoned in her own home for her efforts on Hannah's behalf. In Charleston Elizabeth once saved Hannah, is it Hannah's turn to rescue Elizabeth? And can Hannah find both freedom and true love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mawbry Press
• Release date: Mar 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524254902

Book preview

This book is dedicated, with the greatest love and respect,

to my father Smith Henry Byrd, and all his family:

his siblings: Joe, Fred, William, Jimmy, Lillian,

Billy, Kelly, and Bobby,

and their spouses, children and grandchildren.

Chapter One

Charleston, South Carolina

January 2, 1863

They were whispering about it in the marketplace when Hannah took her basket to fetch the fish fresh off the harbor boats and to buy cream for Madame Dupris' tea.  Once it had been coffee Madame sipped in the morning, but the Yankee blockade had made coffee too expensive and too rare.

Townsmen in tailored suits were talking of the latest battle near Murfreesboro, Tennessee, but around the stalls, another subject was on everyone's minds.

Did ya hear, child? an old woman whispered as she tucked the fish into Hannah's sweet grass basket. Glistening fish scales stuck to her gnarled brown fingers, and her eyes were eager.  Is't true?

The fish stall's white owner walked up to take her money, and the elderly slave fell silent at once.  He stood too close. Hannah couldn't answer.  But she smiled at the old woman, trying to put extra meaning into the curve of her lips. 

On her way back to the dressmaker's shop, Hannah looked in behind the blacksmith's.  Slaves labored over the furnace, shaping red-hot horseshoes with noisy blows.  Hannah held out her hands to warm them near the roaring fire.

The men paused for an instant to stare at her, and she murmured, barely moving her lips, It's true. Lincoln has signed it.

The men's expressions brightened.  One man, pausing to wipe the sweat off his broad forehead, begin to sing, very low,We going to heaven, now, we going to heaven.  His words were soon drowned by the clanging of the metal, but the dark-skinned blacksmith swung his mallet with new vigor.

Hannah hurried back to the street, but she had to blink hard.  It was a wondrous day for a slave in this almost two year old Confederacy, or it would be, if the Union forces won the war still raging all around them.  The northern president Abraham Lincoln had signed the Emancipation Proclamation. It freed slaves in the secession states, thus effecting the miracle Hannah had dreamed of since she was very small and had first discovered that she and her oldest friend, her light-skinned friend, Elizabeth were not the same.

Thinking of Elizabeth made her long to turn toward the girls' academy where Elizabeth lived and studied, to share a few minutes with her friend, but there wasn't time.  And could even Elizabeth, who loved her like a sister, understand what this day meant to a slave?

Freedom!

Hannah breathed more deeply, just thinking of it.  Not to have someone else tell you what to do, where to go, how you must live your life.  To be able to take a job you chose yourself, or marry the man you loved, not the one assigned you by an owner interested in children who could be sold away, never to be seen again by grieving parents. . . Hannah's stomach clenched at the thought.  Not her children—never her babies!

To be free. . .

She wanted to make one more stop at the carpenter's shop.  Hannah tried to tell herself she was only spreading the news again, but she knew it wasn't true.  Her heart lifted as she approached the shop, and her pace quickened.

Joshua worked there, worked for himself and earned his own wages.  Not like Hannah, who sewed diligently for the dressmaker,  while her wages were sent back to Virginia to William Stafford, her ‘lawful’ owner.  But she was a slave, and Joshua was a free person of color.

As she neared the carpentry shop, Hannah could hear  hammering from the rear, then silence and a muttered oath.

She slipped around the frame building and through an open door, finding the young man bent over a workbench, his back to her.  Her gaze lingered on his broad shoulders, the corded muscles in his strong arms, the thick black curly hair.  She smiled as she said, Won't the hammer behave for you?

He straightened quickly, and his intelligent brown eyes crinkled as he grinned back at her.  The hammer minds me well enough.  If only you'd do the same, girl.

Hannah made a face at him, but her anger was only feigned.  She liked the appreciation she saw in his direct gaze.  She smoothed the bright blue calico dress she wore, glad it showed off her trim figure, and touched her hair, braided neatly and pinned up to circle her head.  And why should I mind you? Hannah asked playfully.

Just because you're the prettiest, smartest, bravest girl I know, and I can't stop thinking about you, can't even hit a nail without pounding my thumb, that's all. Joshua lifted his bruised hand.  His tone was light, but his dark eyes were serious.

Hannah looked away from his gaze, reaching to touch his hand.  Poor thumb, she murmured. 

Hannah. . .  His voice was husky.  Joshua leaned closer, touched her cheek with his other hand. 

Hannah felt his touch all the way to her bones.  She shivered, wanting nothing more than to lift her face to meet the kiss she knew he wanted to give.  But she held back.

As if he could read her thoughts, Joshua said soberly, I'm saving every penny I make, Hannah.  When I have enough, I'll buy your freedom!  Then won't nobody tell you what to do. 

Touched by his words, Hannah blinked hard.  But that will take years, she murmured.  Maybe we won't have to wait that long.  Mr. Lincoln's issued the proclamation, just as the rumors told us.

Joshua's somber expression lightened.  He did!

Hannah nodded.  I sneaked a look at the newspapers when Madame wasn't looking, and I heard more from a slave who works on the docks.  He heard it from a deckhand on a blockade runner just out of New York.

Hallelujah. Joshua said it softly, like a prayer.  Course, they've still got to win the war first, don't they, or it won't mean much.

Hannah's smile faded.  The Union forces have to win—they just have to!  And in the meantime, we'll keep up our work.

Joshua shook his head.  I wish you'd lay off for a while, Hannah.  I thought sure we'd be caught last time, and when I think of what they could do to you—it makes me weak inside.

But we got a whole family away north, to freedom, Hannah’s tone was proud, though even here she whispered.  If anyone discovered that Hannah was part of the Underground Railroad, spiriting runaway slaves north to the free states, Hannah could be hanged.  Her owner, William Stafford, was a quick-tempered man and harsh in his punishments.  She knew that she risked her life with every midnight journey.  But it was for freedom. 

Joshua pressed her hands together before he released her.  Be careful, Hannah.  I'm—

Hannah bit her lip.  She knew Joshua wanted to tell her how much he cared for her, but she wouldn't allow herself to give him more than her friendship, not as a slave, not when she couldn't control her own fate.  I will, Hannah interrupted, not wanting to hear what he might say next.  She looked at the sun rising higher in the sky.  I have to get back, I've been away from the shop too long.  Grabbing her basket and picking up her skirts, she hurried through the streets, more crowded now as Charleston began its day.

She was breathless by the time she reached the dressmaking shop and ran around to go in the back door.  Maizie was in the back, brewing tea.

'Bout time you got back.  Should have let me go to the market if you we're going to flap your jaws all morning.  Madame wants her tea. She wants to see you, too, Maizie said, her tone ominous.

Hannah frowned.  She didn't want to upset her employer.  It was true that the wages she earned went to William Stafford, not to Hannah herself—it was a common enough practice to hire out slaves an owner had no immediate use for—or she could be saving her own hard-earned money to buy her freedom.  But Hannah liked her work as a seamstress, enjoyed all the new skills in dress design she had learned since she'd come to work in the Charleston shop, a long way from her Virginia birthplace.  One day, she might be able to use her skills for her own profit, if she were free.  If only. . .

Hoping to placate her mistress, Hannah picked up the bodice of a new gown she was stitching and took it along when she went to the front of the shop.  Madame Dupris sat in her favorite chair, watching the street through the front window. 

There you are at last, Madame Dupris said.  Why were you so long, Hannah?

I'm sorry, Madame, Hannah said.  The stalls were crowded this morning.

They must be the only ones in town busy, then, the modiste said, her tone fretful.  Behind them, Maizie came in with the tea tray and sat it on the small table beside Madame's chair.  The modiste poured herself a cup of tea, added sugar and cream, and stirred slowly, as if she were reluctant to go on with the conversation.

Hannah's anxiety sharpened.  Madame Dupris had never been a harsh mistress, and life here had been much better than on the planation, but still, when you were a slave, the possibility of whipping was always present.  Hoping to change the direction of her employer's thoughts, Hannah held up the half-finished bodice.

The new dress for Mrs. Whitfield is coming along nicely.  Would you like to see it, Madame?

To Hannah's chagrin, Madame barely glanced at the garment.

You always do nice work, Hannah.  That's the only gown you're sewing just now, isn't it?

Hannah nodded.  Usually she had three or four outfits in various stages of design, but the shop had fewer customers in the past months. 

The war is taking its toll on Charleston purses.  Madame Dupris seemed to have followed Hannah's thoughts.  The blockade keeps out trade goods.  Besides, few can afford to pay a dressmaker just now, even if they had fabric or thread to use for new dresses.  So, Madame finished slowly,  I'm afraid I can't afford to keep you another year, Hannah.  I've sent word to Mr. Stafford that I'll be sending you back to Virginia.

Hannah felt the room spin around her, and she had to put her hand against the window frame to steady herself.  Leave Charleston?  Leave Joshua, all her friends, Elizabeth so close by, the sewing that she enjoyed, and return to Virginia?  On the isolated plantation, she'd be just another slave doing menial work in the big house, or worse, sent out to labor in the fields. And would she ever see Joshua again?

She could hardly speak. When—when will I leave? she asked, her voice sounding strange to her own ears.

As soon as I can find a safe conveyance for you, and someone to accompany you, Madame Dupris said matter-of-factly, but her glance was sympathetic.  You can finish the bodice before you leave. I'll miss your deft touch with the needle, Hannah.

Yes, Madame, Hannah whispered.  She hurried back to the workroom, dropped the dresspiece and reached into her apron pocket for her handkerchief.  Tears overflowed now, and she sobbed very quietly.  Oh, how can I bear it?

Chapter Two

Hannah?  Fanny, Madame Corday's house servant, swung the back door open, her chocolate-colored face drawn into a frown.  What you doing here this time of day, girl?  Something wrong?

Everything wrong, Hannah told her, trying not to sob. 

Your eyes look like puddles of lard—you been crying?  That dressmaker lady—she whip you?

Hannah, who had cried silently all morning until she couldn't see to sew, tears running down to spot the dress material in her lap, shook her head.  It's worse than that, Fanny.  They're sending me back to Virginia.

Lord help you, Fanny murmured. 

Hannah nodded glumly.  I love it in the city, she told her friend.  We're less restricted, less isolated.  You're so lucky that Madame Corday freed you long before the war started.

Shush, we don't talk none about it, Fanny reminded her. If the folks round here knew Madame believed like those Northern abolitionists, she'd have no students t'all.  But I'm sorry to hear your news, girl.

Hannah looked away from Fanny's pitying gaze.  I waited till Madame Dupris went upstairs for her afternoon nap, then I slipped out.  Is Elizabeth in the classroom?

Fanny grinned, though her eyes were still worried as she motioned Hannah inside the warm house.  Miss Elizabeth plays hooky any chance she gets.  Besides, we don't do much schooling any more.  Most of the girls gone home 'cause of the war.  Last I saw, she was in the small study, dusting.

Fanny took Hannah down the quiet hall. Hannah glanced around her into empty rooms.  The school no longer shone from the gleam of furniture polish and hours of scrubbing—Madame couldn't afford as many house servants now that the war had reduced her teaching income.  And Fanny couldn't do it all, as devoted as she was to the employer she'd lived with for so many years.

They found Elizabeth in a small room lined with books.  A brown apron protected the bodice and hoopskirts of her dark green day dress. A feather duster lay on the nearest table, but she had abandoned her dusting chores for a more interesting pursuit.  Just now she sat on a wooden chair, absorbed in the creased pages of a letter.  Fanny nodded a farewell to Hannah, then went back to her own work.

Oh, Hannah, how nice to see you.  Listen to this, Elizabeth said, barely glancing up.  I've finally heard from Victorine.  She's really married—can you believe it?

She read aloud from the scribbled page, narrowing her eyes to decipher the tiny script.

Dearest Elizabeth:

I continue to work beside my darling doctor every day, tending 

battlefield wounds as well as the endless fevers and agues that

plague the Mississippi countryside.  With winter here, the fevers

are less, but poor food and long hours of marching wear down the men,

so ailing soldiers are ever with  us.  But I'm no longer just

Brent's nurse and assistant, now I am his wife—what a wonderful

word!

We were married quietly before my father returned to New Orleans,

and though I had no Paris gown or fancy reception, I've found marriage

to be all that I dreamed it might be.  To lie in Brent's arms at night, sharing

the same tiny tent, to wake and find his smiling blue eyes

the first sight that greets me in the morning, most of all, never

to leave him again. . .I am so happy.

Elizabeth paused to swallow hard.  Hannah guessed that her friend was thinking of the Yankee lieutenant she had loved so briefly and then lost in the whirlwind of war.  Hannah had heard the story, had consoled Elizabeth often during the last year when Elizabeth despaired of ever finding Adam Cranfield again.  But this time Hannah had her own anguish to deal with.  A sob surprised her, and Hannah put one hand to her mouth.  Elizabeth  looked up.

Hannah, what is it?  My dear, what's wrong?

The tears came again, and Hannah couldn't speak.  She wept wildly, for the first time having the luxury to sob aloud.  Even in the dressmaking shop, she'd dreaded Madame Dupris hearing her and becoming angry.  At least with Elizabeth, it was safe to cry.

Elizabeth jumped up and put her arms around Hannah, holding her tightly while the torrent of grief overcame her.  Has someone died? Elizabeth asked, her tone worried. 

Even Elizabeth didn't seem to realize that slavery itself was worse than death, Hannah thought, bitterness darkening her thoughts.  Then she saw the genuine concern in her old friend's

expression, and she sighed.  Elizabeth pulled a clean handkerchief from her apron pocket and pressed it into Hannah's hand.  Hannah wiped her eyes and cheeks, trying to calm herself.    Shall I go make you a cup of tea?  Elizabeth guided her to a hard wooden chair beside the table. 

No, don't go, Hannah whispered.  I came to tell you, Madame Dupris is sending me back, back to the plantation.

Elizabeth's eyes widened.  Why?  I know she values your work, Hannah.  You're the best seamstress I've ever seen.

She can't afford to pay the wages to your father, Hannah explained, gulping. "There's no money in Charleston for dress-making, she says.  The war has been too hard on residents, that and the great fire