Freeman (64 page)

“I shall stay here and keep an eye on him,” said the white woman.

“All right, then. Come on, gal,” she told Tilda. And Tilda had no choice but to follow the little woman back out into the night.

“Who are you?” she asked as they cleared the house. “Who is that white woman? How do you know Sam?”

“He ain’t told you?” mused the little woman. And then, softly, answering her own question: “No, I expect he wouldn’t. My name Ginny Campbell. Used to slave down here, but I been free for years. Got the manumission papers from my marse before the war. That white woman, she Prudence Kent. Rich girl lived up North in Boston. Her daddy taught her to hate slavery and when the war ended, she come down here to start a school for colored. Run into trouble with the white folks here. They killed people, they tried to burn her school. So now she goin’ back to Boston.”

She regarded Tilda with an expression Tilda couldn’t read. “That’s who we is. Now, as to how we knows Sam: it was just like tonight. We found him in that alley yonder, face down in the dirt, more dead than alive. Bunch of white men had set on him, stabbed him, beat him near ’bout to death. Prudence nursed him back to health. He was here a few weeks.”

“Was that when he lost his arm?”

“No. That was already gone when we met him. Got it shot off him in Tennessee, he said.”

“He has been through a lot,” said Tilda.

“Yes, he has. Still goin’ through it, I expect. What happened?”

“My former master did not want to let me go. He came after us and shot Sam from ambush.”

“Come after you?” She was opening the picket gate of a house. “Ain’t he knowed the war over? Slavery done.”

“He was not the type to care about such things,” said Tilda.

“What happened to him? Your old marse?”

“There was a gun in this little bag Sam carried.”

“I know. Prudence give it to him.”

“I shot him with it. Killed him.”

A sharp nod of satisfaction. “Good,” Miss Ginny said.

They followed a brick path around to the back door. Miss Ginny knocked and after a moment, a white man appeared, rail thin and with a halo of silver hair flying in all directions. “Ginny?” he asked. He was hooking his spectacles over his ears.

“Dr. Brown, we need help,” said Ginny. “They’s a man at my house. A gang tried to rob him as he were ridin’ into town. They done shot him up bad.”

The doctor’s eyes widened as they fell upon Tilda’s blood-soaked dress. “Let me get my bag,” he said.

Fifteen minutes later, the doctor shooed Prudence, Ginny, and Tilda out of the tiny room where Sam lay breathing heavily and closed the door behind him.

The three women stood together in the hallway in a moment swollen with awkwardness, looking at one another. Then, without a word, Tilda walked away. She went outside and sat on the back porch of the house, her knees drawn up to her chin. No one came to join her, and for this she was glad. She was blood-soaked, filthy, and exhausted, her mind aching from trying to think a hundred things at once. Tilda drew in a deep breath, released it slowly, made herself watch and think nothing as heaven circled slowly above.

She did not know how long it was—an hour, maybe—before the door opened behind her. The white woman—Prudence, she reminded herself—was standing there. “The doctor is still in with him,” she said. “I drew you a bath. It’s in Ginny’s room.”

She closed the door without awaiting a response. Tilda sat there a moment longer. Then she got up and went inside. There was no one in the kitchen; the two women were in the front parlor, and the door to Prudence’s room was still closed.

The door to the next room, however, was open, and when Tilda peeked around, she found the metal tub at the foot of the bed, steam drifting lazily from the water. A scrub brush, a towel, and a bar of soap sat on a table. A dress—it was pale blue and so crisp she thought it might never have been worn—had been laid out on the bed.

Tilda stripped gratefully out of the filthy dress that was the only thing she had worn, day and night, for five months. It fell from her in a heap, like a blood-caked, sweat-stained, mud-spattered old skin. Her body itself felt not much cleaner, felt as if it were crusted with all that had happened to her, all the agony she had seen and felt, all the terrible things that had been done to her and that she had done, the life she had endured for these past five years.

Absently, Tilda wiped a tear that slid down her cheek. She stepped carefully into the steaming water, lowered herself slowly. It was like walking into the embrace of God. Gratefully, Tilda leaned her head back. She closed her eyes.

“The doctor just left.”

At the sound of the voice, Tilda’s eyes came open. At first, she thought only a moment had passed, but then she realized the water was cool. She had drifted. Now she twisted around. Prudence was standing in the doorway.

“He got the bullet out,” Prudence said. “He said it is a miracle Sam survived.” A tiny, private smile. “He is still sleeping, but I thought you would like to spend the night in the room with him. I made a pallet for you on the floor.” She indicated the dress on the bed with her chin. “That belonged to my friend. It should be about your size. I thought you could fit it. What would you like me to do with your other dress?”

Tilda glanced at the dirty old skin lying on the floor behind her. “It is fit only for burning,” she said.

Prudence nodded with a smile. “I was hoping you would say that,” she said. She picked up the dirty thing and took it with her. As the door closed behind her, Tilda came up out of the water. She dried and dressed herself quickly and went into the room where Sam lay. The other two women were there, standing at the side of the bed. They turned when they heard Tilda
behind them. “I think he gon’ be all right,” said Miss Ginny. She squeezed Tilda’s shoulder as she stepped out of the room so Tilda could enter.

Something in her chest unclenched when she saw her husband. Color was returning to his cheeks and the bandage around his chest was clean and dry. His face was relaxed, no longer pinched by pain. “He looks peaceful,” Prudence said.

“You nursed him to health once before,” said Tilda. She didn’t bother making it a question.

Prudence glanced at her. “Ginny told you about that? Yes. We found him down the block lying in the alley. He had been set upon.” A pause. “That dress is very pretty on you,” she said.

Tilda looked down, admiring the blue fabric that swirled around her ankles. “Thank you for letting me use it,” she said.

“You can have it,” said Prudence. “There are some other things I would like to give you as well.”

“But your friend…”

“My friend…” Prudence paused. “My friend passed away,” she said, “but I know she would join me in wanting you to have her things.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes,” said Prudence. “In fact, you would honor us if you took them.”

“Thank you, again, then.”

Prudence touched Tilda’s shoulder, moved past her to the door. “Get some sleep,” she said. “It is after midnight.”

Tilda spoke without looking at her. “You are fond of Sam,” she said.

The white woman paused at the door. “Yes, very fond,” she confirmed. “I nursed him back to health so he could go and find you.”

Tilda’s gaze lifted upon an expression she could not read. She was exhausted. “Good night,” she said.

“Good night,” said Prudence. And the door closed behind her.

Alone in the dark, Tilda stripped out of the clean blue dress and lowered herself to the pallet. She pulled the rough cover up to her chin. There was something reassuring about the sound of Sam snoring lightly above her. She found Sam’s hand and held it.

The sun was high in the sky when Tilda awoke. It took her a moment to know where she was. The smell of bacon and eggs cooking in the hearth was so tempting she could almost have wept for joy and for a moment, she thought this was what had awakened her. Then she realized: it was Sam.

“M’thirsty,” he mumbled, again.

She stood up where he could see her, took his hand in hers. Sam turned his head and to her joy, she saw him recognize her. “Tilda,” he said. And then, “What happened?”

“You got shot.”

“Again?” The distress in his face was almost comical.

“Yes,” she said. “I brought you here to your friends, Miss Ginny and that white woman.”

“Prudence?”

“Yes, I believe that to be her name,” said Tilda. “They were very kind. They got you a doctor. He got the bullet out.”

“McFarland?”

“He will not be bothering us again, Sam.”

His brow creased with the effort to recall. Then he said, “I remember. You saved my life.”

“No, Sam,” she said. “You saved mine.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

There was a pitcher of water on a table by the bed, and Tilda poured him a glass, then helped him sit up to sip it. When he asked for the slop jar, she held it for him so he could empty his bladder. As she was helping him back into the bed, there came a soft knock at the door.

“Just a minute,” called Tilda. When she had her husband comfortably situated, she went to the door.

Prudence was there. “We have bacon and eggs,” she said.

“Sam is awake,” Tilda told her.

“He is?” Prudence’s drawn countenance rose like Jesus on Easter.

“I think he is going to recover,” said Tilda.

“Oh, thank God,” Prudence whispered. And to Tilda’s surprise, the white woman hugged her. To Tilda’s surprise, she hugged back.

“May I see him?”

In response, Tilda only stood aside.

Prudence needed no further invitation. She went to stand at Sam’s bedside. “We were afraid we were going to lose you,” she told him. “How are you feeling?”

“My side hurts.”

“That is probably to be expected,” she said.

“Yes, it probably is,” he agreed.

Silence. There was a hesitation between them Tilda couldn’t quite place.

Finally, Sam cleared his throat. “Is everything on schedule?” he asked.

“Yes. We have just a few more days. Everything is in readiness.”

“Readiness for what?” asked Tilda.

Prudence turned, showing the surprise on her face to Tilda, but speaking to Sam. “You have not told her?” she said.

“I did not expect to come back this way,” said Sam.

The tightening around Prudence’s eyes was barely perceptible, but it was there. “I see,” she said.

“Readiness for
what
?” Tilda repeated.

Prudence told her. When she was finished, Tilda laughed. “My goodness,” she said, “are you seriously doing that? I cannot even imagine how much money an enterprise like that would cost. But then, Ginny told me your family was wealthy.”

A smile. “Well, yes,” said Prudence, “though I fear we are significantly less wealthy than we were before this little adventure. It has, indeed, been costly.”

“Speaking of which,” said Sam, “I know I have not the right to ask you this, but have you room for two late arrivals?”

“Of course, Sam. You know you have only to ask.” And then, brightly and abruptly: “Well, if you will both excuse me, I must send a telegram to Memphis. I need to confirm the arrival of those wagons.”

A nod to Tilda, and she was gone. Tilda thought something seemed hurried in her step. As the door closed quietly and they were alone again, Tilda contemplated her husband, lying there in the sheets of this other woman’s bed. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “She told me she was quite fond of you.”

Sam’s gaze held her. “We are fond of each other,” he said.

“Oh.” She thought of other things she could say, questions she could ask. Instead she said, “Let me change the dressing on that wound.”

And she knelt over the bed and pulled the dressing away. It was stained, she saw, with blood and a tacky pus the color of an egg yolk. The surgeon had left the wound open. The skin around it was swollen, angry, and red.

“I do not like the way this looks,” she said.

“It will be fine,” he said. “Just change the dressing.” His voice was clipped. She looked up at him. She did as he said.