Escape by Night (2 page)

“He just came in,” Tommy said.

“Then he's yonder by the pulpit.”

Tommy stuck close to Henry as they walked between the rows of cots.

“Come here, pup,” a man called.

Samson glanced the man's way but stayed near Tommy.

Then Tommy spotted the one-armed soldier on a cot near the corner. A thin stream of light poured onto him from the window above.

“Is he going to be all right?” Tommy asked.

“Only the good Lord knows for sure.”

Henry led Tommy to the man's side. Through the blood and dirt they could see his skin, pale as biscuit dough. He didn't look too old. His beard was just a light stubble.

Samson circled a few times, then settled into a ball under the cot. Mrs. Williams came out of nowhere, a basin of water balanced on her hip and a book under her arm. She served as president of the First Presbyterian Ladies Sewing Circle.

“I must have this soldier's name,” declared Mrs. Williams.

Tommy thought he saw the man's eyelid twitch. He clutched the book and watched the man closely. “He's asleep,” Tommy said.

Mrs. Williams scanned the room. “Keeping up with all these boys is downright impossible.”

“If he wakes up, I'll ask,” Tommy offered. The man's eyelid twitched again.

Mrs. Williams handed the basin to Henry. “Here's water so he can clean himself.”

After she left, Tommy knelt for a closer look. Suddenly the man's eyes popped open.

“Ha,” Tommy said. “I knew you were awake.”

 

“Where am I?” the man asked. His soft voice had an accent, but not like the German or Irish people in Augusta.

“You are in First Presbyterian Church in Augusta, Georgia,” Tommy said. “I'm Thomas McKnight, but they call me Tommy. This is Samson. He's a greyhound.”

Samson came out from under the cot at the sound of his name. He looked the man directly in the face, then stepped forward to accept a pat.

Tommy smiled. “Samson likes you. My father says a dog can tell a man's character.”

“I think your father's right.” Turning to Henry, the man asked, “Who are you?”

“Henry.”

“I'm pleased to meet you, Henry.”

Henry smiled and looked down. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

Tommy had never heard a white man use a formal greeting with a slave.

“What is your name, sir?” Tommy asked.

“Redmon. Redmon Porter. Most people call me Red.”

Red scanned the room. Samson did the same. Tommy looked too, but all he saw was a hospital full of Confederate soldiers.

“Are you looking for someone?” Tommy asked. “'Cause if you are, I could help.”

“I'm not looking for—hey, where'd you get that book?” He pointed to the book still tucked under Tommy's arm.

“It fell off the cart,” Tommy said.

“Did you read it?”

“No, sir,” Tommy said, pleased he could answer truthfully. He handed the book to Red, who pressed it to his chest. He relaxed, as if the book itself were medicine.

“It doesn't have a title,” Tommy said.

“It's my commonplace book. You write anything you want in it.”

“Read us something,” Tommy blurted out. He knew it sounded impolite. He should have asked.

“Well…” Red's hesitation made Tommy even more interested.

“Why not?” Tommy asked. “You're not going anywhere.”

“Henry, can I trust this boy?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Red. Tommy McKnight is a fine boy. His father is the pastor of this church.”

Tommy held his head high, waiting to be taken into confidence.

“Okay, I'll read you something special. It's a poem that I wrote just before the Battle of Chickamauga.”

Using his one hand, Red fumbled to find his place in the book. Henry reached to help him, but Red said, “No, I'm going to learn to manage with one hand.” He balanced the book on his chest and read:

“I only tell the stars above the longing of my soul:

To fight till death in early morn to make a nation whole.

God, can this be in your design or in your perfect plan

To place the price of victory at even one gentleman?

Fearfully and wonderfully you've made each one so brave

To fight again just one more time, though he may see the grave.

But I shall trust your sovereign hand and continue in my path

Knowing that your just reward is in the aftermath.”

Tommy was silent. He had hoped for a secret battle plan or information about a general coming to visit Augusta, maybe even General Lee. Instead he'd heard a poem. He had listened carefully to the words, just like his father taught him, and there was something unusual in the beginning.

“Will you read the beginning again?” Tommy asked.

“I only tell the stars above the longing of my soul: To fight till death in early morn to make a nation whole—”

“Wait,” Tommy said. “Make a nation
whole
? We are fighting to be a separate nation.”

“Some are fighting to keep the nation whole,” Red said. He turned to Henry. “What do you think?”

“Don't know much about poems, but it sounded mighty fine to me. And I like that beginning!”

Tommy stared at Henry as if he'd said he was going to be president.

“I place a great trust in those to whom I read,” Red said.

“You can trust us,” Henry said. He stepped forward. “Let's get you cleaned up, Mr. Red. You got dirt on you from all across Georgia and parts beyond.”

Red closed the book and stuck it under his leg.

 

Tommy watched as Henry removed Red's jacket and put it under the cot.

“Your jacket's too big,” Tommy said.

“It's all they had,” Red replied.

Henry wet the washcloth in the basin and handed it to Red, who worked quickly. The water turned dark as he washed.

“Does that hurt?” Tommy asked.

“The wound doesn't hurt, but I feel pains in my arm, even though my arm's not there. It hurts like the dickens.”

“Henry, I need you over here,” called Dr. Harold.

“Comin'.” Henry handed the basin to Tommy.

“When you come back, we'll talk,” Red said as Henry left.

Red was almost finished and looking much better when Big Steve rang.

“That's Big Steve, our fire bell,” Tommy said. “It rings every day at noon to remind us to pray. It rang one hundred times when South Carolina … What is that word for leaving the Union?”

“Secede,” Red said.

“That's it. It rang one hundred times when South Carolina seceded. And it rang all day when Georgia seceded!”

“I guess everybody was pleased,” Red said.

“Yes, but not anymore,” Tommy said.

Red lifted the washcloth from the basin and let the bloody water drip off. “War is not as pretty as people thought.” He tossed the dirty washcloth into the bowl and lay back. “Tell me about Henry.”

“He belongs to Mr. Barrett,” Tommy said.

“He's not a free Negro?”

“No. There are free Negroes in Augusta, but not Henry.”

“Do you think Henry wants to be free?” Red asked.

“Yes,” Tommy said, without hesitation. “Henry has someone telling him what to do all the time. I hate it when my sisters tell me what to do.”

The last ringing faded away. They were so engrossed in the soothing sounds that they did not notice Tommy's father's arrival.

“I'm Reverend McKnight,” he said, extending his hand to Red.

Red's hand seemed to disappear in Reverend McKnight's large hand. They shook, but Red remained silent.

“Can you talk, son?”

Red shook his head no.

“He was talking a minute ago,” Tommy said.

“Tommy, our young men go through a lot. If they don't want to talk, they don't have to.”

Reverend McKnight looked thoughtfully at Red, then stooped down and pulled Red's jacket from underneath the cot. He ran his fingers over the buttons.

“I noticed the buttons are Mississippi. I met some Mississippi soldiers this summer.”

Red shifted nervously.

“Father, I thought you were with Georgia soldiers.”

“I served as chaplain for the Confederate States of America, not just Georgia. I ministered to whomever the Lord God brought across my path.”

Red was silent.

“Let me pray for you, son.” Reverend McKnight closed his eyes. His facial expression indicated that he was discussing the most important situation in the world with God. He placed his hand on Red's shoulder.

“Father God, we ask your healing hand on this, our brave brother. May he cast his cares upon you and find comfort in your arms…”

As Tommy listened, he wondered about Red. Why wouldn't Red talk to his father? Tommy did not know a single person who did not like his father. And Red treated Henry differently, not like a slave. And that line in the poem about making a nation whole? What did that mean?

No doubt about it, there was something different about Red. But Tommy liked him anyway. He liked that he treated Henry well. Mr. Barrett certainly didn't. He liked Red's poetry too, in spite of that odd line.