Silent Thunder (19 page)

I saw Mama flinch. She stood in the parlor doorway for a long moment. She kept her back to Missy Claire. Finally, she spoke. “No, Missy Claire, I'm
not
truly free. But my mind is free, and I'm free to
make up
my mind anyways I want. So, if Mr. Lincoln's 'mancipation
comes to pass, I'll use my God-given free will to decide where freedom suits me best.”

Missy Claire was stunned to silence. She folded her arms tight in front of her. She made her way to the parlor window, parted the curtains, and stared out.

That night, when all was quiet in the quarters, I whispered soft to Cornelia, “Mama is a blooming flower, just like me.”

December 25, 1862

T
HE STINK OF ONIONS HAD
settled to my clothes, but at least the rain had stopped. Morning was cold and clear and new. Me and Clem had traveled on foot till we found the cabin with the broom on the door. When we knocked, a little white woman answered. Wasn't no more taller than I was, that woman. She had tiny teeth the color of butter, and a smile as big as the Rappahannock. Her face was bright, with straight-at-you eyes, blue like the morning sky. She seemed glad to see us. “Thank goodness!” she exclaimed. “Firewood, firewood! I prayed for firewood, and here it is on my doorstep. A Christmas wish come true.”

The little white woman hurried us inside. She was talkin' fast, like she had a lot to say at once. We couldn't get a word in, couldn't ask if we'd come to the right place. “You boys look hungry. Sit a sped—eat. And then
we'll get on with the firewood.” A small table with three chairs stood toward the back of the cabin, near the hearth. The woman slid two of the chairs away from the table. She slapped their seats, then settled herself to the third chair. “Sit now,” she said, “rest a spell.”

All kinds of brooms hung from the walls and ceiling. Clem's eyes were shifting from me to the brooms to the butter-toothed lady. Finally he asked, “Are youTalley Pembroke?” She reared back on the haunches of her chair, so far back that I thought she'd tip over and land on her head. But she had full control of her chair, even as it wavered. “I'm as Talley Pembroke as they come. Who are you?” she wanted to know. She came back to sitting on all four legs of her chair. She leaned in on one elbow and studied both of us.

“My name's—” I started to answer, but Clem raised a hand to stop me.

“Never mind who we are. Dr. Horace Bates sent us to see you.”

Now Talley Pembroke raised a hand—raised two hands—to shush Clem. “No need explaining.” She rose from her seat, rummaged through the larder, and returned with a slab of corn bread and half a boiled chicken. Me and Clem wolfed that food like tomorrow wasn't ever gonna come. Sure beat a rain-soaked ash-cake and a hunk of salt pork that had gone cold.

When the last of the chicken was gone, Talley handed Clem an ax. “There's a pile of wood out back that
needs busting. You chop”—she pointed two fingers at me—“and your friend here, he'll stack.”

Clem stood up sharply. “You got it all wrong. We're here for—”

Talley folded her hands in front of her on the table. “I know
just
why you're here. And as much as I'd like to sit and shoot the winter breeze with you two, I can't afford to. I'm suspect all over this county. Any colored who comes to me has got to give the appearance they work for me.” Talley pulled two coats off a pair of hooks in the corner and offered the coats to us. “The best show of work is
hard
work. Work nobody can question.”

So we worked. We chopped and stacked all day, taking turns with the ax. Come dusk, I thought I would drop from exhaustion. And come nightfall, I nearly did. Talley let us quit only when the sky grew too dark to see. I stoked her fire while she fixed us a supper of mashed turnips and more corn bread.

While we ate at her table, she gave us our instructions for moving on. It was all I could do to keep from sleeping right then and there. “Traveling at night is best,” Talley said. “Tonight you'll sleep by my fire for a time, then I'll wake you so you still have a solid stretch of darkness left.”

Clem was fixed to every word Talley spoke. His eyes never left hers. “Follow the river till you come to a marshy stretch of land. You'll then be near Mount Harmony, Maryland, coming onto the Chesapeake Bay.
You can't miss the mighty Chesapeake. It's big water. When the trees start to get mossy at the roots, you'll know you're close. At daybreak—just before the sun peeks up at the horizon—a Quaker man, Wendell Hearn, will be waiting for you along the banks. He sails fugitives on his fishing boat up the bay to Baltimore.”

I was full to listening now. I took a bite of corn bread. I chewed slowly. I paid dose attention. “How will we know this Wendell Hearn?” I asked.

“Hearn makes like an owl—three single hoots— that's his secret signal. Listen for the call, and fodow it until you find him. When you get to Baltimore, there will be another boat waiting, a dinghy operated by a man who will row you toward barn lanterns with colored shades—a yellow light and blue light on shore.”

The fire in Talley's cabin was beginning to falter. The flame sputtered and hissed. Not Clem or me made a move to stoke it. We didn't want to miss one single detail from Talley.

“When you're back on land, you'll have to travel by foot. You'll be just south of Pennsylvania then. Stay low and quiet in those parts. And keep off the roads. The region is what some folks have come to cad the ‘freedom line,' the place where Maryland crosses into Pennsylvania, into freemen's country. Once you're over the line, you can travel a bit more safely, as far north as you please, to New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts.”

Talley got up to fix the fire. She kept talking as she
poked at the embers. She hoisted one of our just-cut logs into the smolder. She stood by the fireplace until the flame returned. “There's all kinds of bloodthirst in and around the freedom line,” she warned. “Bounty hunters, hungry for runaways. And hound dogs who are just plain hungry. At every turn, always remember vigilance, prudence, careful timing.”

Talley brought our haversack up from under her table. “I've packed you enough food to last you plenty. Promise me that when you reach freedom, you'll help others reach it, too. And that you'll tell them how to find Talley Pembroke.”

Clem and I nodded agreement.

We did just what Talley said. Did it to the letter. Did it with vigilance, prudence, careful timing, and a heap of luck. For nearly two days, we kept a steady pace, and didn't snag on no trouble. Wendell Hearn told us that the route we were following was one of the most foolproof of any along the Underground Railroad. Clem later swore it was the Diamond Eye that guided us safely. I thought it was all that praying I'd done in the potato hole.

We walked up on Pennsylvania at first light. It truly was a promised land, set out before us on a morning I would remember for a long time coming. Twilight spread through the trees in the same way a horn announces the arrival of greatness. The sun arched her
long fingers over a grassy crest. If I hadn't known better, I would have bet my britches that somebody had put a shine to the day with some kind of silver polish. Everywhere I looked—the trees, the leaves, the land, the sky—things seemed to glitter.

When we came to a wide-open meadow, Clem stepped ahead of me to be welcomed by its beauty. All it took was two words from Clem, and my heart was a pounding drum inside my chest.

“We's free.”

January 1, 1863

I
AIN'T NEVER SEEN
so many colored folk gathered in one place. Too many nigras to count. And these were high-hat coloreds. Free men and women, dressed fine and proper. Coloreds who had enjoyed freedom's advantages. It was as if the Almighty had assembled us for the occasion, and had set me and Clem down in the middle of the hullabaloo to revel in the gladness.

We'd been waiting inside the packed hall of Tremont Temple since sundown, when, at about ten o'clock, a messenger hurried into the hall. “It's coming! It's on the wires!” he shouted. Soon after, a telegram came—the proclamation!

Frederick Douglass himself came to hear the news. Douglass was a man of unforgettable stature. A big man. Bold and proud. It was dear he didn't shy back for nobody. His hair was a swell of cotton that haloed his
face. He was dressed proper as a white man—waistcoat, cravat, starched shirt, and shoes shiny as a lookin' glass. Clem nudged me. “That there's a colored king,” he said.

And, oh, could Douglass ever speak. It was clear he had been schooled in the ways of oration. When he addressed the crowd—when he told us that President Abraham Lincoln's signed-and-official Emancipation Proclamation would be delivered at any moment—he brought slow, deliberate music to each and every word. When the proclamation finally arrived, Douglass had to hush the excited crowd who kept interrupting the reading of the document with joyous shouts.

Finally, the audience setded. We grew as quiet as the winter air, letting true delight settle upon us. When the part of Lincoln's pronouncement that said “. . . I do order and declare that all persons held as slaves . . . are, and henceforward shall be, free . . .” was read, the crowd broke into another wild cheer. Whoops and hollers rang through all of Boston. Menfolk threw their hats high in the air. Women did the same—they let loose their bonnets. People were hugging and happy and giddy and dancing. Even grown men cried at the wonder of it all.

But there was more to Lincoln's proclamation. A provision that, judging by the thankful grin crossing Frederick Douglass's face, pleased him greatly. The document said that henceforth freed slaves “. . . of suitable condition . . .” would be “. . . received into the
armed service of the United States to garrison forts, positions, stations, and other places, and to man vessels of all sorts in said service.”

Even though the Union had allowed colored men to enlist in their army before this day, hearing these words from our president made it all more official, somehow. Frederick Douglass, our colored king, led us in singing “Blow Ye the Trumpet, Blow!” and he told the crowd that any man among us would have his full and complete assistance in enlisting for military duty.

Clem locked me in the crook of his elbow. He hugged me to him. “Glory be!” I shouted. “Praise freedom's name! Coloreds to arms!”

Clem raised both his fists. “To arms, to arms!” he called.

All of us nigras gathered on this day—men, women, young'uns, and old folk—had finally come to freedom. Some had been born to freedom. Others had bought their way free. Many had escaped, like Clem and me, who'd come to freedom by way of “Old Chariot,” the kindness of white folks, the Diamond Eye, and the Almighty's good grace.

I
AM AN AFRICAN AMERICAN
. That means the branches of my family tree spread back to a time when slavery was an institution in the United States. It means I have grown up with a distinguished legacy of men and women who have spent their lives fighting for freedom, and whose names, though not officially logged on the pages of history, are integral to the shaping of America.

One of the many blessings of this rich cultural heritage is that I grew up hearing the same message over and over again:
Search. Study. Find. Know the history of your people.
As a result, I have become an avid history buff, reading all I can about American history as it relates to black people.

Silent Thunder: A Civil War Story
began just this way. Sometime around the spring of 1996,1 happened on a photograph of a black boy named Jackson, a slave, who became a drummer with the United States Colored Troops. I was immediately struck by the intensity of
young Jackson's gaze. That child—he appeared to be no more than thirteen—looked proud to be part of the Civil War effort. (The photograph came from the Massachusetts Commandery Military Order of the Loyal Legion and the US. Army Military History Institute.)

Years prior, I had discovered a similar vintage photograph of an unidentified girl, seated near a woodpile, embracing a handmade doll. Her expression—she looked directly at the viewer—held the same intrigue as the photograph of Jackson. This girl had a spark of eager inquisitiveness in her eyes. And, it was clear that she loved her dolly.

Both images stayed with me. Who were these children? I wondered What kinds of lives did they lead? How did they express their deepest desires? Whatever became of them?

There was only one way to answer these questions for myself: turn these bright-eyed children into characters I could shape and come to know better.

Jackson became Rosco Parnell. The anonymous girl became his sister, Summer. There was no question that I would set
Silent Thunder
during the Civil War and during the time period when the Underground Radroad was running at its peak. What better backdrop to build a story, with these two characters at its very center?

In 1861, when the first shots of the Civil War were fired, one of the most fascinating periods in America's history began. The war that came to be called “the War between the States” was fought between eleven Southern states that
had seceded from the United States of America—the Confederacy—and the Northern Union States, those states that stayed in the Union. Like any war, the Civil War was a war about differences. The South fought to preserve its agricultural economy, which depended on maintaining slavery. The North sought to industrialize, which depended on wage labor. And, many Northerners felt that slavery was inherently wrong, and wanted to end it.