And Forever Be Free – Chapter Two

General Nathan Bedford Forrest CSA

“Get there firstest with the mostest.”

AND FOREVER BE FREE

By Rich Trzupek

Copyright 2009 Richard J. Trzupek

Chapter Two

The war didn’t make much of an impact on the Danhurst’s slaves.  For most of them, the idea of freedom was but a distant dream, too precious to ever take seriously.  The victories of the Southern armies in battle after battle only served to confirm the wisdom of their pessimism.  It was a “don’t get your hopes up” philosophy, designed to protect them from the bitterness of disappointment.

Jacob was an exception.  He was in his middle twenties, tall, full of lean strength and sinew.  His eyes often seemed to be wildly searching – for something that no one could identify – as he worked.  Sara would often notice him muttering to himself as he went about his chores, engaging in long, often heated discourses with the wind that were disturbing to witness.

It was behavior that did not go unnoticed by many.  Mr. Crampton, the burly overseer from the deep south, trusted Jacob even less than he trusted the rest of the slaves in his charge.  That was saying a lot.  Mr. Crampton trusted no one, but his contempt for the negro race was profound.  He believed that white people were superior to all others and that the people of other colors – be it black or brown or yellow or red – were not far removed from animals.  They were inferior, and their existence was something only to be suffered if they could be “trained” to serve the white man in some useful way.  There was not much difference between a slave and a plow horse in Mr. Crampton’s world.  Each could be useful in “its” own way, but once “its” usefulness has ended, each should be either sold or shot.

From time to time, Sara would see Mr. Crampton with a whip in hand, leading one of the slaves to corner of the farm.  She knew, of course, what happened there and occasionally she heard the crackling song of the whip and the screams to follow, but she never had attempted to watch the event.  Largely, she tried not to think about it.

She wondered if Lucinda was ever whipped.  Lucinda was about her age, the youngest daughter of a kindly married couple who had been in Uncle William’s service for over twenty years: old Henry and “Auntie” Tala.  Sara would see Lucinda quite often, usually helping to serve the evening’s dinner or assisting her mother in mending some clothes or the like.  Lucinda avoided Sara’s eyes, performing her duties with eyes downcast and head bowed, as a good slave was supposed to.  Once or twice, Sara caught Lucinda stealing a glance at her.  The event would last but an instant, and Lucinda’s doe-like eyes would quickly flash back to the floor the moment she realized she had been caught.

It was entirely natural that Sara would be curious about young slave.  A part of Sara longed to talk with her.  Here was a child of her own age – a child she should be playing with and figuring out life with.  At least that is what her instincts said.  Yet, the lessons of her elders told her something else; slaves are meant to serve, not to be friends.  Lucinda’s life was so very different than hers; always at work, the shoulders of her wisp-like body always stooped under some load.  When, Sara wondered, did Lucinda get a chance to play?  Did she ever play?  It didn’t seem like she could ever have the chance.

On the other hand, Uncle William’s children, Claire and Catherine, led a life of leisure and ease.  Catherine, as she approached adulthood, had become ever more aware of her status in life and took the greatest pleasure in lording the stature she perceived for herself over everyone she was able – especially over Sara.  She was a spoiled child, spending ever more hours priming and preening and admiring herself in her newest dresses.

Claire, being the younger sister, seemed unsure whether she wanted to be exactly like her older sibling or exactly the opposite.  Most times she seemed more inclined to imitation.  Yet, she was also a sensitive girl.  She seemed to understand other peoples’ feelings by instinct – at least when she chose to do so.  There were times when Sara and Claire would laugh and play and dream.  These were usually the times when Sara and Claire were alone.  Yet, the next moment, when Catherine would make her grand entrance, Claire would change course 180 degrees, suddenly becoming distant and treating Sara little better than she might a servant.

It was an Indian summer day in the beginning of September 1862 when Claire and Sara were playing alone down by the creek that ran through the Danhurst farm.  They were lying on the soft grass and watching the clouds roll over their heads.

“You’re lucky,” Claire was saying.

“What do you mean?” Sara said.

“You don’t have a mother and father telling you what to do all the time.”

“Aunt Jean tells me what to do,” Sara insisted.

“Oh, Aunt Jean is nice,” Claire replied “she never yells.”

“No,” Sara agreed “not too much.”

They were both quiet for a moment, feeling the sunlight pour onto their faces.

“I miss my parents,” Sara said quietly.

“At least your father is in the war,” Claire replied with some jealously.  She felt a little ashamed that her own father hadn’t joined the army.  She knew he was really too old to be a soldier, but still – well it just felt funny somehow.  It really didn’t matter to her which side he was on, just as long as he was a part of it.  It was all terribly exciting to Claire.

“I wonder where he is right now,” Sara mused.  She was afraid for her father, of course.  The memories of that when John Brown raided the armory would always be too close to her heart.  Yet, time had softened that pain. The drawings in the papers – romantic, glorious pictures with columns of blue marching in perfect order with battle-flags waving above – became more and more her own vision.  She imagined her father, charging across a field, sword drawn, face shining, dodging every bullet and shell.

“He’s running with the rest of the Yankees,” said a new voice with a shrill laugh.

It was Catherine.

“My father doesn’t run – Cath-er-ine,” Sara replied, biting off each syllable of her name.

“All the Yankees are running. They’re running just like rabbits!” Catherine taunted.

“Just like rabbits!” Claire squealed with delight, suddenly changing sides once more.

“Oh yes sister,” Catherine continued as Sara squirmed and seethed.  “They’re all running.  They’re running from General Lee and they’re all running from Stonewall.”

Stonewall.  It was a name that brought fear into Sara’s heart, as it did for every Northerner.  More than Robert E. Lee.  More than even John Brown.

Few had ever heard of Thomas E. “Stonewall” Jackson before the war.  Then he had appeared from out of nowhere like a terrible, avenging demon.  The armies he led were unstoppable.  Union armies more than five times smaller fled from his troops, screaming and charging across the battlefields.  His men marched longer and farther than any human should have been able.  They were unstoppable, or so it seemed.

Stonewall was rumored to be a giant of a man, almost seven feet tall, with giant leather boots and a great beard hanging to his belt.  It was said that in battle, his eyes shone with a blue fire and that when the Confederate soldiers saw that blue fire they could not be stopped.  Everything northern fled or fell before them.  Not even a child was left alive where Stonewall marched, it was said – if that child happened to be a Yankee.

Sara shuddered.  She said nothing.  She got up and started to walk away.

“You better run, Sara-scardy,” Catherine taunted again.  “Stonewall’s coming for you!”

“Is he going to eat us?” Claire asked a bit nervously.

“Oh, he won’t eat us,” Catherine said.  “He won’t hurt any Southern girls, but those Yankee girls…”

“Shut up Catherine!” Sara yelled.  “Stonewall’s not going to eat anybody.”

“Oh, haven’t heard?” Catherine asked.

“Heard what?” replied Sara.

“It’s all over town.  General Stonewall is headed this way – General Stonewall and General Lee both.  General Lee is going to capture Washington and General Stonewall is going to capture Harper’s Ferry – after he takes care of Martinsburg.”

“You’re a liar, Catherine Danhurst,” Sara said.

Cathrine just laughed. Sara could not help but wonder and she felt her body shake as if a cold wind had just blown through it…

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