The Edge Of Freedom

By Dana Vacca

A Civil War slave with a will to be free, a New Bedford sea captain, a Native American Lakota Sioux, shape each other's destinies in a powerful, moving and spiritual journey.

A Dangerous Quest For Freedom, A Forbidden Love, A Grueling Test Of Courage, ...A Painful Choice. The Freedom Calling Series saga.

Lee’s Confederate Army of Northern Virginia has just surrendered. Less than a week later, President Lincoln has been assassinated. While America is struggling to heal from its fresh wounds, two emancipated slaves, Daisy and Celia, begin a dangerous journey north to New Bedford. With their Native American friend, Enapay, as a guide, they venture from the protection of Virginia’s Great Dismal Swamp. Celia is fighting to return home to her sea-faring husband, whaling captain, Eben MacGregor and, after a long separation, she is hoping to regain the life she had left behind. Daisy is stepping into an unfamiliar world and newfound freedom. They are both optimistic but fearful of the unknown that lies ahead.

Roaming the countryside are bitter Confederates, including slave patrols, the Gray Ghost, John Mosby, and other rebels who, though defeated, have not given up the fight. They are not all who spell danger for the three travelers, and the obstacles they must overcome are not all found south of the Mason-Dixon line.

Over land, by wagon, and aboard a sailing ship at sea, history comes to life in this exciting historical novel full of action, adventure, and romance. The lives of Captain MacGregor, Celia, Daisy and Enapay are touchstones to humanity and re-define the meaning of freedom and liberty for all. Their journey becomes one, not only of miles, but of enlightenment. Their saga is a page-turner filled with authentic, accurate history that is wound with violent loss and strong bonds of love that plumb the depths of heart and soul.

A sailing ship, a sea captain, a whale, a journey from 1865 Virginia to New Bedford make this story of love, struggle and rebirth, an exciting adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dana Vacca
• Release date: Apr 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463822517

Dana Vacca

After retiring from teaching, Dana Vacca now spends most of her time writing short stories, poetry and novellas and restoring and selling antiques. She says unraveling the story of an intriguing antique piece is like time-traveling back to another era. Researching an old heirloom brings history to life. It feeds and inspires her writing as her imagination takes over and fills in the blanks.Having been born in the North, but living almost half her life in the South, she always found the people of the Civil War era a fascinating subject to explore. That time, packed with emotional, social and economic upheaval, is complicated to understand and its impact still influences the American present.Dana Vacca holds a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from Rhode Island School of Design and a Masters of Fine Arts degree from Vermont College. She taught visual media and design at the college level. She has illustrated children's books but equally loves to paint with words to create exciting adventure, vivid imagery and compelling characters in her creative writing and fictional works.She is now living again in coastal New England with two dogs who are her faithful companions and biggest fans.

Book preview

Chapter One

Celia

Jesus said unto them, Because of your unbelief. For most certainly I tell you, if you have faith as a grain of mustard seed, you will tell this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you.

(Matthew 17:20 WEB)

The answers to what you seek are in the journey, Little One, Enapay said. When the questions are asked, you will have the answers. They are inside you. When you hear the call to freedom, you will know how to answer. The answers will be there, just listen.

A journey begins by taking one step and then another, and seldom is it traveled in a straight line, - neither a journey to a new place, nor a journey to a new life,… and no course could be more askew than my own. Part of it imagining, part of it dreaming, part of it discovering, and part of it remembering.

What changes time has wrought! Along the way, I am constantly forced to make choices, - choices between devotion and indifference; between duty and disregard; between courage and cowardice; between life and death. Some decisions I have needed to make quickly. Some I had already made unawares, long ago. Others force me to weigh love, life and freedom on a balance scale wrought of my own tangled emotions and loyalties. These are the toughest to decide and leave me locked in a tug o’war with myself, - my heart and my head each fighting for victory. But no one understands a truth until they have battled against it, and it has been those battles that have changed me; those battles that have made me stronger.

In some ways, my passage has been like that of so many other Negro slaves who have fought their way to freedom in the shadow of the United States Civil War, but what sets my journey apart are the souls whose paths have intersected mine. The serendipitous circumstances can not be dismissed as mere chance, - like a roll of the dice. I am forced to consider they can only be explained as the work of something greater. Some, I believe, would call it divine intervention, I call it the hand of God.

Did I know where I was going?…. in a word, yes. Did I know how to get there? …sometimes. Did I know what I would encounter along the way? No. Was I certain of what I would find when I got there. Absolutely not, and if I were to say otherwise, I would only be fooling myself.

The War Between the States saw surrender of the South. General Lee had signed a peace agreement at Appomattox Court House.

We suspected, though, that the real battle was not yet over. It would take more than military defeat and a piece of paper for the Confederates to give up their views about the enslavement of Negroes. This meant the journey home, to New Bedford, did not promise to be an easy one,

But I had beaten outlandish odds by finding my mother, a one-in-a-million chance,… and the joy of having her returning with me to a newfound life overshadowed my apprehension about traveling north through Virginia.

It was early morning when we left the tiny camp secreted in the dense wilds of the Dismal Swamp and followed a wooded deer trail that went west by northwest. Enapay had chosen a different route than the one we had traveled to reach the camp. He said now that the war was considered to be ended, at least in Virginia, there was likely to be activity toward the east of the swamp where the ditch canal made easy passage for rebels finding their way home.

We’ve got to be careful once we reach the end of the swamplands. To avoid trouble I’ll keep us out of sight as much as possible, Enapay said. I’m sure there are a lot of unhappy Confederates who’d be quick to seize any opportunity to cause trouble, but we should be fairly safe at least in the territory between here and Stony Creek.

None of us were certain of the new status of Negroes or Indians, but Enapay surmised the risks of two Negroes and an Indian traveling together through Confederate Virginia could pose. Without provisions, the Confederates were no longer an organized army, but devotion to their cause ran deep, - circulated in the very blood that ran through the veins of their half-starved, battle-weary bodies.

They might have been forced to give up the war, Enapay added. But they won’t as easily be willing to give up the fight." It was with vigilance that Enapay guided the wagon through the Dismal Swamp.

Still deep in the swamp, at least two miles from even a cart path, I sat back against the back of the wagon seat as Traveller walked steadily along, but my mother, somewhat uneasy, sat on the edge of the plank seat, her brows furrowed. Disturbed by Enapay’s words, in silence she bit the side of her lip.

At first acquaintance, when I arrived in the Dismal, I considered the untamed, boggy marshland, choking vines and ominous black water savagely wild and threatening, but heading out of this strange and secret refuge, I appreciated its unconventional, raw beauty, - such that could not be discovered by brief acquaintance. It possessed its own kind of peaceful tranquility. The swamp charmed subtly, with the shifty, craftiness of a skilled predator and gave only brief glimpses of its mystery. This no man’s land yielded to no one. It was a world unto itself, unfettered and untouched, unspoiled; within its boundaries, a place where time was measured only by the rising and setting of the sun.

My people believe the Dismal Swamp to be ancient, Enapay said as the wagon creaked over the rough swamp trail. He gave Traveller his head, letting the old horse find his footing over the uneven ground.

And that it was created by the Great Phoenix bird they call Wakan Tanka, the immortal spirit, keeper of the fire and of thunder. The Thunderbird has eyes like hot coals and wings big enough to blot out the sun.

Thunderbird,… I’ve never heard of that word before. I said. Thinking Enapay’s change of topic was an attempt to soothe her mother’s anxiety, she hoped Enapay would continue.

The Phoenix has great power! He is ruler over life, death and rebirth of all things. He is a bird of enormous size, large enough to carry a lake on his back. Enapay kept on with his tale.

How was it supposed to have created the swamp? I asked, now curious about the myth, myself.

"According to Sioux folklore, eons ago the Phoenix burned a large hole in the ground to nest here. That is how the swamp was created. Then, he set down the lake at its center to make Lake Drummond. The great beast is believed to have lived in the cedar forests of the swamp, ever since. …When the clouds crowd close and a dark shadow covers the sky, …and you hear the flapping of great wings like the sound of rolling thunder, …you know the Phoenix approaches, he said.

That’s frightening! Daisy said. Is he good or evil?

Oh, he is good! The Sioux call him the mighty protector, …grandson of the Great Sky Spirit who created the earth. He is a miraculous shape-shifter, - and can take on any form he chooses, …and can kill with fire and lightning. He was sent to fight evil forces to keep his people safe from harm, Enapay continued.

Sounds to me that the Phoenix is an angel instead of a bird! I exclaimed, looking at my mother.

On the plantation, nearly every night at bedtime, my mother told me a Bible story. The stories about angels were remarkably similar to Enapay’s allegory about the Thunderbird.

Yes, that is true! My people call him Phoenix, your Bible calls him angel…, Enapay chuckled.

Except for the particulars, the stories are nearly the same! I replied amazed at the similarity to the Bible stories my mother had recited to me as a child.

A lot of strange things happen in the swamp, …especially at night, Daisy said. I’ve seen little lights dart from behind logs, and dance in the dark as if they’re calling you to follow them. Like tiny spirits, but bright as the dickens!

"Did you go toward them, mama? I asked.

Uh-Uh! Daisy answered, shaking her head, no. Not a chance!

Will O’ the Wisp. I’ve seen it, too, Enapay interjected. I chased it many a ‘time when I lived in the swamp settlement, but it always disappeared before I got very close.

Maybe it was something catching the moonlight, …a stick or a leaf? I wondered if there could be another explanation.

I don’t think so, Daisy replied. Speaking faster with excitement, her lisp was more noticeable.

I never saw anything like it, except for here!

Enapay called them swamp fairies, wood nymphs, …that frolic in the night; sometimes at the edge the blackwater other times at the rim of a thicket, playfully peeking out then moving deeper into the overgrowth… as if beckoning the watcher to follow into the bowels of the swamp. Daisy had lived in the swamp settlement for the past year and had seen the glowing orbs of light a dozen times, and Enapay had spent many years in the swamp. He said no one had an explanation of their source.

I had only spent a short time in the swamp but it was a mysterious place, the back of the beyond; an enchanted fenland; where spirits of the air, water, earth and fire seem to slip in and out through the thin scrim between the world we see and the one we don’t. On several occasions while I was walking near the marsh at night, I had seen eerie green foxfire glowing in the distance and heard strange shrieks from the depths of the darkness that sounded almost like the crying of a baby.

I’ve heard another legend about the swamp, Enapay said, his eyes staring straight ahead. I turned toward him and noticed the corners of his mouth curl up ever so slightly. I was not sure, at all, this story was going to be a true one.

"About a young man and young woman in Dismal Town, who fell in love and decided to marry, he began.

On the morning of the wedding, the man walked into the swamp to catch a few fish for his wedding feast. The bride-to-be put on her simple, white wedding dress and waited. By mid-afternoon, the groom had not returned. When the light began to fade, a search party went out to find the man. The bride-to-be stayed in Dismal Town. By the time darkness fell she was overcome with worry, and she, too, carrying a lantern, went into the swamp to look for him.

Hours later, the search party returned; unsuccessful. On their way back, though, they had hung lanterns at intervals along the path. The bride and groom were never seen again. According to legend, they were reunited with each other in the swamp, and they died, together, trying to find their way out. Their ghosts are said to haunt the swamp trail at night. Many people see lights, like a lantern light, moving through the darkness. Enapay pulled the brim of his hat lower over his eyes.

OOOh! So you mean to say the stories are connected? The lanterns and the orbs? Daisy asked.

I glanced at Enapay with a twisted smile of suspicion.

He shrugged his shoulders and his grin broadened.

Daisy looked questioningly at Enapay.

I could not keep from chuckling.

It’s only a legend, he said, meeting her puzzled stare. But I suppose it could be! …I don’t know! He made us both laugh.

Such a beautiful and bewitching bayou. It was very possible for woodland sprites and silver haints to dart and flit about, and phantoms to appear and vanish, seen only for a moment. A twitching leaf or glimmer, here; a fleeting flash or flicker, there,… capricious pranksters playing their alchemy; ever the conjuring tricksters,… since the beginning of time. Apparitions of the wood, frolicking in both light and shadow, and keeping the face of this primeval landscape always shifting, …ever changing.

All right, so are there any factual stories about the Dismal? I chuckled.

Well, you already know, for many years it’s been a hideaway for outlaws, runaways, and fugitives,… as it was for me. Slaves, white men, Indians,… some intermarried and for generations, their families have never left,…, Enapay said.

Like Jupiter,…, Daisy added.

Yes. And others stayed for only a short while and moved on,… like I did, Enapay continued. He held the harness lines loosely in his hands and for several quiet moments seemed like he was reflecting back on his memories of the swamp.

Here’s an interesting bit that might surprise you! His eyes twinkled as he began.

When Jupiter and I were boys we hunted around the lake, often. I remember one day, we saw a young man digging around the shore. I stayed hidden out of sight, but Jupiter was curious and let himself be seen. The man spotted him and waved to him. He yelled over…, that he would pay money for whatever game Jupiter had shot. Enapay paused.

My mother and I were poised, keen for Enapay to continue.

Seeing the man was unarmed, and rather bookish and frail, Jupiter saw no reason not to oblige him. He gave Jupiter five silver dollars for the two rabbits Jupiter had hanging from a string on his belt. Jupiter asked the man what he was digging for. He said he was searching for old relics, …buried treasure.

The man was talking all the while Jupiter was skinning the rabbits. He said his father had studied North American history all of his life, and instilled, in him, a similar curiosity about the past, …particularly about the travels of a Spanish explorer named Ponce de Leon who, he said many historians believed, came to Lake Drummond, centuries ago. Enapay kept talking. He had us intrigued.

The man showed Jupiter some objects he had unearthed,… a couple of coins, pieces of brass metal he claimed were chest armor,… and a fancy sword handle.

Were you able to get a good look at them?…the items? I asked.

Enapay nodded.

I crawled on my belly into a large group of log ferns and peeked through them. I had a perfect view. The stuff looked very old and perhaps truly was what he said. Also there, on the ground beside the man, was a fancy leather satchel that held a row of glass vials, each one secured by padded leather straps. each one filled with water.

That’s a strange way to carry water! Daisy said.

That’s the same thing Jupiter said to him! Enapay said.

"The man replied, it was not just any water, not just for drinking, but it was water from the lake. The Spaniard he had mentioned had been searching for the waters of immortality, and thought he had found them here. Fountain Of Youth, the man called it."

You mean he believed the lake water would make him young and live forever? I asked.

That’s what he thought!… If you drank the water, you would be rejuvenated and could live forever, Enapay answered.

Could there be such a thing? Daisy asked.

When Daisy was a girl, she lived with an old, mountain woman who taught her the craft of herbal medicine. She had seen old Ada dose out stumpwater many times, but for pimples and warts. It never cured any other type of sickness and certainly did not restore youth!

I am not convinced of it, Enapay answered. Although, when I told Sky Eyes what the man said, he told us the Saponi thought the lake water had special healing properties.

But Sky Eyes drank from the lake whenever he was at the settlement…, had his fill of it for more than two weeks right before we left the swamp on one of our trips together. A few days later, I found him dead on his bedroll. By then, he was an old man,…that was true, …but the water did not heal him or keep him alive, he looked over at Daisy, shaking his head.

Maybe he didn’t drink it often enough. You said he only visited the settlement three or four times a year, Daisy was fascinated with the idea of water that someone, at sometime, believed had the power to heal.

Or maybe it was just someone’s foolishness! I teased with a smirk.

The water is as dark as strong tea, tastes bad, and smells like rotting eggs!

Enapay and Daisy concurred, snickering.

Healing water or not, though, Enapay continued.

…I think when your spirit is ready to leave this world for the next, nothing can stand in its way. It makes no difference if your body is sick or well. The spirit knows when that time arrives. Several moments of thoughtful silence passed.

Did you see the man again, Enapay? Daisy asked.

Just once more. We returned to the same place a few days later thinking we might make a little more money. Jupiter sold him a few of the fish we had caught that day. But the third time we returned, he was nowhere to be found. No sign of which way he went when he left, either

Hmmm, Daisy made a throaty reply. Did he tell you his name? She asked.

Enapay nodded. Williamson. Hugh Williamson. I remember. It was rare to have a visitor, …so the name stuck. Enapay removed his hat to wipe his brow. With the bright afternoon sun directly overhead, the air was hot and humid.

After he left, me and Jupiter,… we tried to dig up some relics, ourselves, …near the area he had excavated, Enapay continued.

And did you find any? I asked.

We found a few coins and bits of iron. The iron wasn’t good for anything, but the coins turned out be pure gold, Enapay said.

Gee! Real gold? I exclaimed.

During the months I had spent with Enapay, I had heard an array of his amazing stories, but except when he was clearly joking, never did she feel them to be fabrications. A colorful character, without doubt, but a clear-eyed, earnest man, - not one given to exaggeration.

He nodded. Sky Eyes took them to an assayer and sold them for twenty dollars apiece!

That must have kept you looking for more! I added.

Sure. We kept at it for a few weeks, he answered. But found nothing… Eventually we gave it up and went back to fishing and hunting.

The man,… you never saw him again after that? Daisy asked.

Enapay shook his head. His long, silver hair glinted in the sunshine. Never, he answered.

Traveller braced against the harness and pulled the wagon over layers of shed leaves and rotting branches that were woven into a thick blanket of mouldering peat. Patches of ground had already sprouted with virginal green. Robust trees, bursting with vigor and in their prime, grew among broken stumps and dead trunks, aged and silver. Against the bright sky, the crumbling, limbless remains of their ancestors stood like totems, stark and erect monuments marking their own deaths and the passing of time. Age and youth, side by side, attested to the swamp’s endless incarnations.

The circle of life, in this wild land, loops again and again, unbridled, free. Predators prey, multiply and perish. Plants flourish, go to seed and wither. The swamp seeming always the same, and yet never the same. The changes, never conspicuous, and always continuous, abide the will of the Almighty, as His never-ending story of life, death and renewal unfolds.

We descended the hummock to a lowland and forded a dark pool of swampwater that at first glance shimmered like a mirror and the next, resembled a black, gaping hole that might swallow us, rig and all. The ground between us and the next knoll looked flat but soggy. Enapay harnessed Beau and hitched him in front of Traveller to help the old horse manage through the soft, slippery muck. Beau, not seasoned to the harness, tended to be skittish. Enapay led him by the bridle while mama and I walked on either side of the wagon. Several times, the mud nearly sucked off my shoes, but wallowing through watery sludge felt good around my legs and ankles and drained the heat from my burning feet. Beau set steadily to his task, and the two horses, working together, kept the wagon from miring in the quag as we slowly crossed the marsh.

The land rose, and we took our places on the seat of the wagon. Traveller, again, leading, we weaved our way north through the bracken.

We’ll be out of the swamp in less than a mile, Enapay announced.

Mama and I acknowledged Enapay but said nothing more.

This wilderness that had initially seemed so harsh, eerie, and forbidding, I now think of as an oasis, a safe haven. The swamp had revealed its nurturing, maternal side. It had provided refuge for my mother and many like her. During the War Between The States, and for decades previous, the swamp had been a place of safety and protection. Like an earth mother, she took in foundlings and orphans and shielded them from the outside world. Life within its boundaries was governed by her law, only.

I’ll miss Jupiter and Jake, Daisy said. But Naywallee most of all. She was a good friend.

She was, and I could tell she loved you, too, …but she was scared to leave the swamp, I said.

It was the only safe place she had ever known, Daisy answered, thinking of her Indian friend.

She cocked her head to the side and added, I guess I can understand that.

I looked at my mother and nodded.

The maroons lived undetected and unharried in the secrecy of the great swamp, poling their rafts up and downstream as a quick and easy way to travel within it and moving through its sheltering undergrowth at will.

Early in the war the southern egress had been blown up by the Union who thought the Confederacy might use the waterway to shuttle provisions to the Southern army. The river’s outlet into Albemarle Sound had been completely blocked. But within the Dismal, the otherwise little-used river remained open, for the twenty-two miles north to its other outlet in the Chesapeake.

Even now, after the South’s surrender, the Dismal would likely still be a sanctuary, - for newly-freed slaves, as well as the former runaways, mulattos, Indians and half-breeds who would be reluctant to leave the region they called home for so long, …for those with nowhere else to go, - no place they could call their own, like the maroons Daisy had lived with for more than a year, for her friends, …Jupiter, Big Jake, Naywallee.

Despite its harsh conditions in the swamp, the maroons did not want to leave it. In the desolate refuge, they were insulated from the world, - separate from a world that would judge them, dictate to them, restrict them. Life in the swamp was uncomplicated and simple and offered a kind of freedom they would not find anywhere else.

Naywallee would be scared to death to lay eyes on a white man, Enapay interjected.

The young Indian girl, Naywallee, and the others, would be safe in the swamp, for now, but for how long could they live their lives here, unmolested? Big Jake had been an occasional day-laborer for a big lumber company that harvested trees from the swamp. With its miles of valuable timber, how long would it be before legal rights to the land would be claimed, and trespassers banished?

Maybe one day she might decide to come north, too, I added, hoping that, somewhere, the gentle Naywallee, a young maiden who was most pure of heart and gentle of spirit, would find a home where she could live life on her own terms; - but knowing more likely her life would soon change for worst, perhaps forever.

The dense, moist jungle slowly gave way to sparsely-treed forest and plains dominated by old-growth pines and oaks; and drier, firmer ground. As the last of the marsh grass faded from view behind us, and I slowly became re-acquainted with the outside world. I, too, in just a brief time, found I had grown accustomed to the constant closeness and security of the swamp’s lush, green veil of undergrowth that had wrapped me like a second skin. Now, suddenly, I felt naked and exposed, expelled from the comfort of my chrysalis. It was with a bit of reluctance that I silently bid it the swamp farewell.

As I pivoted to face forward, my eyes quickly searched my mother’s face before my gaze fixed on the view between Traveller’s lolling ears.

Her attention turned inward. She sat in silence beside me. She gazed at nothing, but I was certain she was seeing something, staring back. I believe my mother’s desire to join me in New Bedford is genuine and true. She was different from the others, Naywallee, Jupiter,… and did have a place she could belong,… with me, in New Bedford. But for the first time, I realized how unsettling leaving the swamp might be for her. I could not help wondering if the ties she had made in the swamp settlement were tugging at her heart. Was she considering herself the lucky one who got to leave this place for something better? Maybe she was praying for a similar blessing for the friends she left behind?… Or was it apprehension about the long journey ahead,… to a strange new home,… to weather another emotional upheaval? I placed my hand over hers as if touching her would give me the answer. Her fingers were tightly curled and stiff; her fingernails pressed hard into the palm of her hand.

By abandoning Eben to search for my mother, I may have likely put my marriage in serious jeopardy. In plain truth, Eben might not accept me back. I readied myself for the unknown and proceeded into a future clouded by haze. I wanted to comfort my mother, but I am unable to promise her much, …except for the indelible fact that we will face, together, whatever lies before us,… and we will be free.

She broke from her brooding and gave me a close-lipped grin which I returned with a smile of deep affection. I felt her fingers relax and the tenseness of her hand ease. It will take a while for her to adjust after leaving the swamp, and I am willing to give her all the time she needs.

I had been comfortable in the swamp, but now that we had left it, I felt like a skittish dog; expecting trouble at every turn. My eyes darted to every turning leaf, every sudden tap or creak startled me and raised the hair on the back of my neck. Now that I had found my mother, I wanted to be rid of this part of the South, and the sooner I got to Washington, the happier I would be.

Do you think there’ll be telegraph service closer than Arlington, Enapay? Maybe in Stony Creek? I was hoping to find a way to wire my husband as soon as it’s possible, I said.

Not likely, he answered. I doubt the lines have been repaired yet, and even if they have, …it might be risky for any of us to go into a telegraph office this far south.

I suppose you’re right. But I must let Eben know where I am. He was to sail for England this week, I said, concerned that by now Mister Eben MacGregor would be very worried and possibly very angry with me, as well. He may have already left on the Lady Grey. I hoped not.

I have a friend who has a small farm in Yale, a little southeast of Stony Creek. He’s a Cheroenhaka Nottoway, but lives as a white man now, Enapay said. Besides raising hogs, he does a lot of hunting and trapping. I always stop at his place to trade with him for some hides. He should be savvy to the situation in Stony Creek, - about the telegraph at the depot, and whether it’s safe to venture into town, there. We should make it to his place by mid-day tomorrow, Enapay said confidently.

But Celia, what if Eben’s already gone to sea and you don’t get a reply? My mother asked.

If Eben doesn’t reply, I’ll send a collect telegram to Emma to ask her to wire money for our train tickets, I answered. All the spending money Eben had given me was stolen near Arlington.

Daisy looked concerned. Her eyes squinted and she knitted her brow.

Don’t worry, Enapay said. I have enough to cover your tickets.

We couldn’t accept that, Daisy answered. You’ve done so much for us, already!

He smiled. The only purpose of money is to bring happiness. Otherwise it’s just useless junk you’ve got to tote around and keep track of.

Thank you, Enapay, I said. Hopefully, we won’t need to take you up on that offer! I looked at Enapay. My mother’s tense expression disappeared and she grinned.

Near dark, we made camp on a spot of dry, grassy ground. Under a brilliant, red-orange sky, Mama and I laid our bedrolls between the wagon wheels. Enapay settled in the open, close to the horses. Before falling asleep, mama prayed like she did every night, - for the Lord to keep us safe. But I also overheard her thanking God for sending Enapay to us.

The next day we followed a forest trail through wooded groves of black locust, oak and blooming paper mulberry. The morning was pleasant, even when our route bent away from broad expanses of dark shade from the trees. The wagon rolled smoothly over the level ground and travel was easier. But as the day wore on, it became uncomfortably hot, with nothing in shadow. The sun high in the sky, there was nowhere to hide from its blistering rays.

We reached the Nottoway River well before sunset and welcomed the cool draft of air wafting up from the banks of the creek as it flowed down from the mountain streams, from the northwest. I unhitched the thirsty horses and led them to drink their fill in the shallows at the water’s edge while mama and Enapay made camp on an open spot of ground just above the sandy shore. The Nottoway was broad, but not very deep. It glided lazily by gnarly bald cypress that leaned out over the bank and clung to it with finger-like roots that curled down into the stained water. One very large cypress that had dared to take root in the middle of the dark river, stood tall and erect like a solitary sentinel on perpetual watch. The river eddied around its great, buttressed base that anchored it solidly in the mud bottom of the creekbed. The silver bark of its trunk was fissured with lines and creases like the face of a very old man, and gray Spanish moss decorated its outstretched limbs like Christmas garland.

I tied the horses near the wagon where they could eat the tops of the tall grass. Mama and I foraged the shore for crawdads, and Enapay waded into the river with his bow and quiver to shoot some fish for our dinner. After he had gotten five herring he called to me.

You try, now, Celia. He handed me the bow and an arrow.

I looked into the water and saw a good-sized silver herring poised motionless beside a sunken log. Slowly and carefully I took aim. - and released the arrow. I did it, Enapay! I shouted, glowing with glee. I did it! I held up the arrow with the fish impaled on its point.

See there! You’re improving! he replied. It just takes practice. Mama and Enapay shared my pride.

Mama pan-fried the fish in some salted lard and added a bit of wild ramps. The wild onions were strong-tasting but a perfect seasoning for the herring.

The meal was delicious, Daisy, Enapay said. You two are going to have me spoiled with food that good! I don’t know what I’ll do when I have to go back to eating my own cooking!

You don’t have to worry about that for a little while, at least! my mother said.

Chapter Two

Celia

Let all things be done decently and in order.

(1Corinthians 14:40 WEB)

The spring night was peaceful filled with the soothing sounds of crickets, peep toads and night owls, and sleep came quickly. I was roused at dawn by the muffled whinnies and stomping hooves of the horses restless for their feed, but I awoke refreshed. In the morning mist that hung low over the dew-glittered ground, we readied the wagon and set out toward Yale. Enapay hoped to reach his friend’s cabin before dusk.

Early in the afternoon we crossed a narrow creek, and Enapay turned the wagon north onto a well-worn, rutted trail.

My friend, Henry,… Henry Turner, lives about a mile in. Enapay said eagerly. So near to Henry’s place and looking forward to the visit, he was surprisingly revitalized, even after the long and tiring ride. Traveller seemed to step more smartly, too, anticipating a comfortable and familiar place where his day’s toil would end.

The path became a carpet of russet; thick and soft, - covered in a mat of pine needles that had been shed over many seasons. The old bay horse had likely been to Henry’s farm many times before. He seemed to know the way. He turned left at a break in the brush without any visible signal from Enapay.

A white-washed, shingled house humbly sat at the edge of a clearing beyond the trees. It was dwarfed by a large, red barn that ran lengthwise to the right. Enapay stopped the wagon by the house and called out to Henry. He got no reply.

I’ll check the barn, he said.

As he walked toward the shaded doorway and called again, a tall, bronze-skinned man appeared, carrying a long rifle. He studied us cautiously, defensively for a brief moment, as if expecting trouble, but his taut face almost immediately softened in recognition.

Enapay! The man called out. He set the gun against the barn boards and the two men embraced. I didn’t think we’d be seeing you for a while yet!

Yes, I’m a little early. I have two friends I’m taking north. They walked toward the wagon side by side.

This is Celia and her mother, Daisy. We exchanged greetings, and mama and I shook hands with Henry. His eyes lingered briefly on the S brand on mama’s cheek, before they rested again on Enapay.

Can you stay a while? Henry asked, sincerely hopeful the answer would be yes.

Just overnight this time. Celia and Daisy need to get to Arlington as soon as possible, Enapay replied, leaving out any specifics.

I understand. That’s a long trip. Anyway, we’ve got room enough to bed you all down for the night. Maybe I’ll even get Enapay to trade me a few tools and a good knife for some hides before you go, he said good-naturedly, looking at mama and me.

Thank you, Henry. And sure, you can take a look at whatever I’ve got in the wagon! Enapay answered.

Ok. Well, let’s get your horses settled. Onekah has just about got supper ready. I’m sure we can add three more places at the table! Henry was anxious to make us feel welcome.

She making three sisters stew with pickled pork! Mmm-Mmm! He said licking his lips with hungry anticipation.

Henry and I unharnessed Traveller, and we led both horses to a small grassy enclosure beside the barn. Beyond, in a larger pasture, two coarse-boned horses stood dozing in the shade of a live oak. As we approached, the chestnut started toward the fence, but the pale grey horse raised his head with momentary interest then drowsily lowered it down again - too comfortable where he was, to move.

Henry’s long black hair was streaked with grey, but his youthful face made him out to be considerably younger than Enapay. Bared below the rolled-up sleeves of his homespun shirt, his thick forearms bulged with muscle. With one strong heave Henry moved the heavy wagon, and, with ease, his lean but powerful body pushed it beneath the cover of the barn overhang.

Come inside, Henry grabbed his rifle and waved us on toward the porch.

Behind the house were four pens with sides built of vertical logs driven into the ground. Each sty held a dozen or more pigs of various colors and sizes, and each had a low lean-to shed for shelter. Farther back, beyond the fence, were cultivated acres of leafy, green cornstalks that were already waist-high, and in another section were rows of various vegetable plants that were recently started.

We followed Henry onto the little porch and into the house. His wife, Onekah, was tending two steaming pots suspended just above the flaming logs in the fireplace. She beamed when she saw Enapay and her full lips broadened into a wide smile. Henry introduced mama and me to Onekah. She was slender, but sturdy, - not beautiful in the dainty, feminine sense, but an unusually striking woman. Her face was round; her black hair, coarse and salted with gray, her nose sharp and prominent, and her brow a bit heavy, but her dark, clear eyes were soulful. Behind them was a kind, gentle spirit, but one endowed with great strength, strong will and fervid allegiance to her own inner truth. She welcomed us graciously and motioned us to one of the log benches that served as seating for the rough-sawn pine table in the kitchen. She took notice of Daisy’s scar, but her reaction to it was puzzling. Instead of quickly averting her attention elsewhere, she smiled.

You must be hungry! Sit, please,.. There’s plenty enough to go around, Onekah offered. Without waiting for an answer, she took four bowls from a wooden shelf by the table and ladled out the medley of squash, corn and beans and added a small chunk of meat to each dish.

It smells wonderful, I said. But we’re intruding.

No, no! We’re used to Enapay stopping in! And he knows he is welcome, anytime! She looked at Enapay with affection then she turned to me. And any friends of his are friends of ours. Her wholesome smile expressed sincere kindness.

Henry explained that, due to the war, the South suffered shortages of everything, and in most places food was in short supply. But he, together with the other Nottoway men whose land adjoined his, produced plenty to eat with the crops they grew and the animals they raised. Henry was thankful for the abundance of food, though they had had some hogs and chickens stolen, recently. Henry and the others were taking turns riding between the farms at night to keep watch.

The Turner’s house was tiny, rustic, not fancy, but very inviting with wood-planked walls and floor, and hand-hewn logs for beams and supports. A fieldstone hearth took up most of one wall in the sitting area beside the kitchen, and a black bearskin rug was spread out on the floorboards. On a hook near the door hung a leather knife sheath with nearly its entire surface decorated with a mosaic of hand-stitched, glass beads of every color. The leather-wrapped knife handle poked out of the top opening. Hanging opposite was a satchel made of hide and brightly-painted with geometric designs and patterns. I touched the surface. The leather was soft and supple.

It’s called a parfleche; a gathering sack. I made it from a deer skin, Onekah said proudly.

It’s lovely! I said looking closely at the handiwork. The seams of the bag were neatly laced with sinew.

I have others out in the barn. I’ll give one to you, Onekah said.

We sat together at the table and began eating.

This stew is delicious! Daisy said to Onekah. Thank you for sharing it with us!

Enapay and I emphatically agreed.

I’m glad you like it, Onekah replied. "The squash and corn are last season’s - dried and stored in the root cellar, but the beans were just picked. The pork was pickled last slaughter time. I cure some of the meat, for ham and bacon, …then pickle the rest so it will keep ’till